There’s one thing hanging in the massive walk-in closet, a black silk dress with a deep V that looks like it’ll barely cover my boobs. Slits run up both sides to the hip. I look around for matching lingerie, but there’s nothing. I check every drawer in the center island, but they’re all empty. So, basically, he expects me to look like a classy slut for dinner. Great.

Something gold catches my eye as it dangles from the hanger of the dress. A gold chain with a single charm in the shape of a tiny, delicate lock. A symbol of my captivity? Like I need the reminder.

When I pull the dress from the hanger, a note floats to the floor, and I reach down to pick it up.

---

---

The arrogance of his voice rings through my head as I read his scrawled words.

Go fuck yourself is the first thought that follows. Right now, I’m nursing my hand and a buzz, and I’m not willing to fall into line like everyone else in Mount’s life. Maybe it’s the champagne making me bold, but I like to think it’s not, because I’m definitely not drunk. If I were drunk, I’d be numb from the pain.

And not just the pain in my hand. Temperance telling me what Brett tried to get her to do shredded me.

My eyes sting with tears as I lean against the center island to hold myself up. I’m tempted to crumple in the closet and give in to them. Only one thing stops me. Or I should say one man.

“Are you incapable of following simple directions? Because I thought you were smarter than that.”

I jerk my head up to see Mount standing in the doorway that leads to the bathroom, once again making one of his stupid silent entrances.

“How do you do that? And why?” Frustrated, I let out a huff. “You know what? Don’t answer. I don’t care. Tonight, I’m not in the mood to deal with your brand of arrogant bullshit. I am fresh out of fucks to give.”

With each word I speak, his expression darkens with malevolence, telling me I’ve crossed into dangerous territory.

“What did you fucking say to me?”

Fight or die trying. Isn’t that what I vowed to do?

“I said, I’m not in the mood.”

He takes a step into the closet and shuts the door behind him. I don’t know if it’s a power play or what, but instantly the room seems to shrink to a tenth of its size.

“Say it again,” he orders.

I stand straight and meet his black glare. “I’m not in the fucking mood to deal with another asshole tonight. Okay?” I throw my hands into the air like I’m completely at a loss of how to deal with him. Which I truly am.

Mount’s expression transforms from anger to rage in the space of a single heartbeat, and his voice drops to a low, raspy whisper. “Who fucking touched you? Heads will roll, and I’ll swing the goddamned ax myself.”

Before I know what’s happening, he reaches out with lightning speed and his hand cuffs the wrist of my injured palm.

I’m struggling to keep up with his threats and movements, and definitely regretting the champagne. “What? No one. Well, no one other than you. And I guess Scar when he carries me around like I’m incapable of walking.”

“Then what the fuck is this?” He jerks my hand between us, staring down at the gauze and tape.

“Nothing,” I say, my voice shaking even though I fight the tremor.

I watch him while he stares at the evidence of my first-aid skills before lifting his gaze to mine. Assessing. Calculating. Judging.

He releases my wrist as quickly as he grabbed it. “Bend over and show me your cunt.”

My mouth drops open at his rapid change.

“Now.” The word echoes in the closet.

I’ve never been given a more implacable order in my life, and I’ve also never quite regretted a decision so much as I do the one I made only minutes ago when I decided not to reinsert the toy.

Determined, I swallow my fear. I was willing to accept my punishment only minutes ago, and I’m not going to lose my nerve now.

Giving him my back, I bend over, lifting my skirt at the same time. It takes him less than a second to see what’s missing.

“I gave you an order, a simple fucking order, and you won’t even comply with that.” He yanks down my skirt. “Stand up.”

I do and spin around to face him, not trusting him at my back. “I’m sorry slashing my hand open while I was on my way to follow your damn orders stopped me from playing your little fucking games with my life!”

His expression goes blank as he grabs my wrist again, holding it palm out. “You said it was nothing.”

“To you, it’s not. That would probably take a severed limb. Or maybe decapitation?”

He drags me by the wrist as he yanks open the closet door and pulls me into the bathroom. He doesn’t release me as he digs through the drawers.

“Let go.” I jerk my hand, but his grip is like a shackle.

“Not until I see if you’re lying to me.”

Mount finally produces what look like nail scissors and cuts through the tape and gauze on the back side of my hand. He then peels the bandage free before flipping my hand palm-side up.

His nostrils flare as he surveys the cut, and I have no idea what to expect from him when his dark gaze meets mine.

“How did this happen? No bullshit, Keira. I want the truth.”

Saliva pools in my mouth and I swallow it before I explain. “I knocked over the champagne bottle my assistant brought to celebrate our new contract, and it broke on the bathroom floor. When I went to pick it up, I sliced myself on the edge.”

His grip on my wrist loosens, and he tilts my hand from side to side in the light. “It doesn’t need stitches.”

I open my mouth to tell him I already know that, but snap it shut when he runs the pad of his thumb along the same angle as the cut, but a half inch away, careful not to touch it.

“It might leave a scar, though.”

I feel his touch like it’s bathed in fire, leaving a scorching trail in its wake. My fingers curl inward instinctively, but he stops the motion by covering them with his own.

“Don’t. You’ll start the bleeding again. Hold still.”

When he releases my wrist, I’m confused enough to actually obey. He crouches down and pulls a first aid kit from beneath the sink.

“Just like my father. Always prepared.” The words pop out of their own volition.

Mount rises slowly, his dark gaze pinning me in place. “Don’t assume I’m anything like your father. You couldn’t be any more wrong if you tried.”

As he pulls something from the first aid kit, my response flies from my lips. “You’re right. My father is a good man, and as far as I can tell, there’s not a damn good thing about you.”

“Now you’re catching on,” he says, his wicked smirk intact.

And then something burns like actual fire along my cut, and I try to yank my wrist out of his grip. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he uses his free hand to fan the searing cut.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

“Calm down. It’s liquid Band-Aid. It’s more effective on your palm than your hack job with the gauze and tape. It’ll stop burning in a second.” He continues directing air toward the cut to soothe the pain.

“You could’ve warned me! That shit hurts!”

Mount’s expression goes blank. “I’ve given you more warnings than I have anyone before. It doesn’t seem to be working, though, because you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. And if you think that hurts, you’ve never known real pain.”

He releases my wrist and replaces the first aid kit while the burning subsides to a manageable sting.

Do I thank him? I’m pondering the question when he rises to his full height, dwarfing me by nearly a foot, something I hadn’t noticed until we were forced into such close proximity.

“Get dressed. You’re making us late for dinner.” He strides from the bathroom, but doesn’t leave the bedroom before tossing his parting words over his shoulder. “And don’t forget the toy, or I’ll take it as a direct invitation to bend you over the dining room table and fuck your tight little cunt while they serve the first course.”