Pretty Sinner (The Oligarchs)

“I just watched you nearly beat a man to death. I don’t know what you’re capable of.”

He took a deep breath and composed himself. “I won’t ever hit you, Penny.”

“But you will keep me captive, pull my hair, and kill people if they talk to me. You’re such a great person.”

His expression hardened as he looked over his shoulder back toward where Scott still lay on the concrete patio.

“You have to understand my position. I can’t bring you with me every day. It’s too dangerous. But if I leave you here, these men—”

“These men, what? You think I’m so bored and sad and angry that I’ll throw myself at them? You think I’m looking to get fucked by your bodyguards while you’re away?”

His hands curled into fists. “No, I don’t.”

“Then don’t beat someone to death for talking to me.”

“I beat him to death for wanting you. You think I haven’t noticed the way he looks at you? He saved you the night your brother attacked, and ever since then he’s been mooning over you like a pathetic teenager. You don’t notice because you’re not used to that sort of attention, but that dumb fuck deserved what he got.”

I paced across the kitchen, fuming. “You’re such a bastard. You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” I hated that he was right. Scott all but admitted it outside.

And even still, Kaspar shouldn’t have beaten him like that.

So why did I feel a strange attraction pulling at my stomach, twisting it into knots?

9

Penny

Present Day

Rome, Italy

Watching Kaspar beat Scott nearly to death taught me two things.

First, Kaspar was truly a monster. He was possessive, controlling, and easily jealous, and if I wanted to survive for long, I had to find a way to handle him.

After Scott’s savage punishment, none of the other guards would so much as look me in the eye. They talked around me like I wasn’t there and acted as though I were a piece of furniture. They responded to direct requests—they’d bring me something if I asked for it, for example—but they kept all interactions as short and polite as possible.

I was even more alone.

But the other lesson I learned was much more interesting.

It was something Kaspar either didn’t want me to know or didn’t realize himself. But speaking with Scott for that very brief moment showed me just how vulnerable my captor could be.

His men weren’t loyal.

Oh, they took his money. Scott even seemed willing to kill and die for Kaspar.

But that didn’t mean they’d do everything he asked.

The Servant men were unwavering. Darren was ruthless about that. He expected perfect obedience, but he rewarded them handsomely, and treated them like family.

Kaspar treated his men like employees, and it showed.

I wouldn’t be able to flirt my way out of this, not after what happened to Scott. Any halfway sane person wouldn’t come within spitting distance of me, not when Kaspar was likely to do something worse to them later on.

But maybe there was something I could exploit.

I hated myself for thinking this way, but I couldn’t help it. I was trained as a Servant, even if I was never destined for a leadership position. My parents made sure that I knew how to fight and manipulate people, and though I’d never put those skills to good use, I suddenly realized that this was my chance to prove myself.

I had purpose. I could be helpful. I could be useful.

I wasn’t just some trophy for Kaspar to parade around.

Scott never rejoined the guards. Maybe he really was dead—I couldn’t be sure, and I didn’t bother asking.

Nobody would tell me the truth.

I felt guilty. I dreamed about him that night. I saw his face kicked to a pulp, his eyes pleading and accusatory, and I tried to explain that it wasn’t my fault, I was just looking for a friend, but he said I used him, I used him, and I got him killed, just like I got everyone killed.

I woke up in a sticky, cold sweat, and took a long, hot shower before I felt well enough to face the day.

The other guards, they were harder to read than Scott, but they were still human. There was Bumbles, a big guy with ham hands and a loud, goofy laugh, and Skinny Jim, a whip-thin man with an evil smirk and a short temper. But my favorite of the group was Cards—an older gentleman with a gut and kind blue eyes. He was constantly badgering the others into playing cards with him, and always made them bet real money. He was stingy with his winnings and angry when he lost, and I couldn’t help but spot the opportunity.

Only I had to figure out a way to maneuver myself into the right position.

That afternoon I sat down in the quiet living room and watched out the front window. Skinny Jim was on duty and he lingered near the kitchen, doing his best to watch me without actually watching me. In one of the back rooms, I heard Cards roaring with delight as he presumably won another hand.