I pulled to the right so I could stand broadside against the wrought iron. When I killed the engine, a heavy silence fell.
“Mr. Rousseau. Nice to see you.”
He peered through the bars and vines, his eyes red and watery. There was nothing to see. Only me.
“Let her go.” His wavering voice made me sick.
“No.”
“You, motherfucker!” A younger man leapt from the car and rushed over. “Bring her out or we’re coming in.”
I laughed. “That’s adorable. If there’s nothing else, I’d best be going. Pressing matters and all.”
He gripped the bars and tried to shake them. Nothing. This fence could withstand a lot more than some prep school prick in lacrosse gear.
“Dylan, stop. We can’t win that way.”
“Listen to the old man, Dylan.” I let the venom that had welled up inside me over the past twenty-four hours infect my words.
“Please.” It was a teary plea from Mr. Rousseau. “Just let her go. I-I’ll go to prison willingly if you’ll just let her go.”
Pathetic. “Too late. The deal’s done. If that’s all the business you have to transact, I’m sorry to say you wasted your trip. Goodbye, Mr. Rousseau.”
Dylan erupted in yells and a respectable amount of profanity.
I cut off his cries with the fire of my engine, and left them standing at the gate as I screamed along the smooth road toward the house.
They were fools.
She was mine. No one could take her from me. Not even her own blood.
Chapter Nine
Stella
I stayed in my room for the rest of the day. There was nowhere I could run, nothing to do. I took a long, hot shower. While I’d been out for breakfast—and the run across the lawn, and the nude exhibition—someone had come in and put luxurious shampoos, soaps, and other thoughtful amenities in my bathroom. The mental image of Farns daintily stacking tampon boxes actually pulled a laugh from me. So, that was something.
After my shower I lay on my bed, cooling off, wearing just a towel around my hair. I clicked on the overhead fan with the remote from the bedside table, letting the cool air waft down over me. The quilts along the walls ruffled with the breeze.
I was warm, relatively well fed, and had a modicum of safety in this room. It didn’t erase my unease as much as I would have liked. I was still caught in a web, even if the silken threads that bound me were soft and beautiful.
My eyelids drooped, the heat from the shower and the run from the morning pulling me downward into sleep. But I wouldn’t go. Whenever my eyes finally closed, I saw Vinemont’s face. His anger. And something else, too. The heat when he’d been on top of me in the grass, his hand between my thighs.
I knew it was a transgression. I shouldn’t have wanted it. His voice was a subtle poison, creeping into my system, luring me deeper into his hell. My nipples pearled as I remembered the feel of his hard shaft against my thigh. What would it feel like inside me?
I tried to swat the thought out of my mind, but my fingers crept down to my still damp pussy. I teased my hard clit with the tip of my finger, sending a jolt of need pulsing through my body. I tried to pull my fingers away, hating the image of Vinemont in my mind, looming over me, his mouth cruel and sensual.
How much of him was covered in the vine tattoos? How low did the ink go?
My finger disobeyed, dipping lower, swirling around my aching clit. My hips rocked up to meet each stroke, the tension rising like someone slowly pulling a string taut. My breaths came in quick pants as I continued working myself, visions of Vinemont’s face between my legs driving me wild with the need for release. When I imagined his eyes lit with desire for me and only me, I couldn’t hold back the wave of pleasure. I bit my cheek to keep from crying out, though I still made some high-pitched noises that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.
Something slammed somewhere nearby in the house, like a heavy book falling from a high shelf. Embarrassment and worry cooled my brief, blissful high. I whipped the blanket over my body. After a few moments, my breathing returned to normal. I wasn’t sated exactly, but I had cleared my head enough to remember that Vinemont was my enemy, nothing more.
I began to drift into sleep when there was a knock at my door. I sat up and glanced to the closet where my few clothes were hanging.
“It’s just me, miss.” A woman’s voice.
“Oh, come in?” I didn’t know who ‘me’ was, but she sounded harmless enough.
She entered, a middle aged woman in an understated maid’s uniform, black except for the white Peter Pan collar. Her hair was strikingly dark, cascading down her back in a shiny mane. If there were any grays, I couldn’t see them. She could have been no older than 45.