It’s not until I’m hooded in the backseat of the car driven by Scar that my purse begins buzzing. As soon as it does, my stomach drops at the memory of what Mount told me this morning.

“This better be in your pussy when you’re delivered to me.”

The incident with the champagne bottle, and field dressing the resulting wound, totally made me forget why I walked into the bathroom to begin with. I have a feeling he won’t believe my story.

Shit. I consider my options as the car heads who knows where.

I can reach into my purse, blinded by the hood, and try to maneuver this thing into myself one-handed while Scar no doubt watches me in the rearview mirror. Or I can face Mount knowing I disobeyed a direct order and own up to it.

I’m tempted to flash my goods in the car. I really am. I reach into my purse with my uninjured hand and wrap it around the toy that’s continually pulsing and vibrating.

That asshole wants me writhing in the back of his driver’s car? Guaranteed he’s expecting me to be on the brink when I’m delivered. Maybe he thinks it’ll make me more compliant.

He doesn’t know me at all. That seals my decision—I’m not doing it. I won’t sacrifice my dignity to follow his order and shove a sex toy into myself while someone else is watching. Not happening.

The drive seems to take forever, but I think it’s the hood messing with me. Stealing my sense of sight screws with my head, which I’m sure Mount intends. Unless he’s just that secretive about where he lives that no one else can know. Which means he’s either a manipulative son of a bitch, a paranoid one, or both.

Before I can decide, Scar comes to a complete stop, and I recognize the sound of the car shifting into park before he kills the engine.

The driver’s door opens, and just like all the other times, mine is opened as well. I’m lifted into his arms, and this time, my purse comes with me.

I have to wonder about Scar’s daily workout routine if he carries me all over like I weigh nothing, which certainly isn’t the case. Tits and ass and drinking more than a little whiskey add extra pounds on a girl, but I couldn’t care less.

Magnolia’s words come back to me.

“You got tits, ass, and that gorgeous red hair that makes a man think he’s gonna find fire when he gets you under him . . . And what’s more, you’re totally and completely oblivious to it.”

As I’m carried up, down, and all over hell and back, I realize Mount said something similar.

“You’re totally fucking clueless about what men think when they look at you. Except today. Today, you felt it.”

It’s true that I don’t spend an inordinate amount of time staring at my reflection in a mirror. Mostly because I’m too damn busy working. I never got into the whole selfies and social media thing, and don’t take them unless someone forces me into a picture for some work-related reason.

I didn’t place much stock in what Magnolia said. I know my friend wouldn’t lie to me, but she saw me through the lens of friendship, and that adds beauty you may not otherwise see to a person.

But what Mount said earlier today? That got through to me. Normally, I was clueless. I didn’t expect or notice stares from men. That was more Jury’s territory. Or even Imogen, with her perfect features and undeniably classic beauty.

I was the one following my dad to work, learning about the variations in flavors we could create by aging the whiskey in different kinds of barrels, or which grain suppliers were preferable and why.

Except today . . . today, Mount was right. I felt every stare as those men basically conducted our entire business meeting with my nipples instead of my eyes. It was humiliating, not gratifying.

Another sin to lay at his feet. Which is probably where he’ll crush me tonight when he learns I didn’t follow his orders.

My musings are cut short when I’m placed on my stilettos, and the sound of a door shutting and locking invades my brain. Like last time, I rip the hood off my head and am poised to attack as I absorb my surroundings. It’s like wondering if you’re going to be left in a room with a ravenous tiger or a meek housecat.

The analogy holds way too much truth for me to contemplate as I swivel and take in the same sitting room I left this morning. It looks the same, minus the silver-dome-covered trays that I left untouched. I barely touched my lunch either, except for the whiskey.

Both of those things explain why that champagne went to my head even faster than normal.

I walk into the bedroom, again on guard, waiting and wondering from which direction Mount is going to pounce, but a search of each room turns up nothing.

He may be watching me, but he’s not doing it from inside this room. When I set my purse down on the nightstand, I’m reminded of the toy inside it rather than inside me, where it’s supposed to be.

I have a decision to make. Comply or rebel.

Magnolia’s advice was not to let him walk all over me. Right now, my hand aches like a bitch, and the last thing I want to do is touch that thing. So, screw it. What’s the worst he can do to me?

Actually, I don’t want to know the answer to that question.

Still, so far, all I’ve been subjected to is the loss of my freedom, which royally pisses me off, but he hasn’t caused me any physical harm. I’ve even had a couple of orgasms.

Maybe I can go toe-to-toe with Mount and come out unscathed.

It doesn’t take long before I realize I’m dead wrong.