Chapter Twenty
When I wake up, I’m alone.
I know it before I open my eyes, before I run my hand over the cool sheets behind me. It’s in the air, a stillness. A loneliness that I was so used to it barely registered. Daddy tried to make space for me, but I still spent most of my time alone. And then after he was attacked, after I had to sell all the furniture, the house was achingly empty.
Even then I wouldn’t have complained. It helped to smile when he was awake, to say that everything would be okay. Maybe I’d gotten so good at lying I was able to lie to myself, telling myself that I didn’t really mind. That things would get better.
I could have kept on believing it except for those brief moments in Gabriel Miller’s arms, those short and unexplainable moments when he’d held me.
No sex. No ulterior motives.
Not even money bound us together then. We were two people clinging together on a raft, the entire ocean spanning in every direction.
Then he woke up and left the raft, leaving me here.
I ignore the sense of disappointment, of loss, and step out of bed. The weather turned crisp in the past few weeks, but the floors of his house are heated. I curl my cold toes against the hand-scraped wood, seeking warmth. Always seeking warmth.
I don’t bother to shower or tame my hair. I only throw on a shirt and some yoga pants, a complete morning mess. This is what he made me. And I have this urgent need to see him, to confirm that last night wasn’t only a dream.
He’s sitting at a desk, as if this is an ordinary morning. As if my axis didn’t shift last night. As if his hands and his mouth and his cock didn’t make me a woman.
He looks through papers on his desk despite the fact that I’m standing on the other side. Do people like him even have papers? My father used his printer quite a bit—his old eyesight never could get used to the screen. But Gabriel is younger than him, sharp enough to be fluent with technology. The file folder feels like a ruse.
“Gabriel.”
He looks up briefly, his golden eyes merely a flicker of flame before he looks back down. “Yes, Ms. James.”
Something inside me turns small and cold. I want him to call me Avery. I want him to call me little virgin again. “You left.”
“I have work to do.”
Present tense. It’s not only an explanation as to why he left. It’s a dismissal. Except that in yoga pants or a two-thousand-dollar Versace skirt, I’m Avery James. I was born and bred and goddamn raised to demand attention. I may not have deserved any of that privilege, but I don’t deserve his scorn. “Can you at least look at me after I sucked your dick?”
That gets his attention. His gaze snaps to mine. He narrows his eyes, though I can’t say he looks displeased. No, he looks hungry. Predatorial. He stands, and I take a step back.
“Yes, Avery. I tasted your pretty virgin cunt. You came against my fingers. Less than…”—he pretends to count—“twelve hours ago. Do you think I forgot?”
My chin lifts higher even as I take another step back. “You’re acting like you did.”
His steps are slow and graceful as he rounds the desk. “I’m acting like a man who got what he paid for. Excellent service. Would you like a review on Yelp? Five stars.”
I flinch. “Fine, push me away. Because you’re scared of what happened.”
“Scared?” he says, tasting the word. “I was taking it slow for you, little virgin. But if you’re ready for more, I’ll be sure to show you what scary things are waiting for you.”
“Not sex. The way you held me after.”
“You were shaking,” he says, his voice almost soft.
“Have it your way,” I say, my teeth gritted. “It’s only sex between us.”
“No, little virgin. It’s only money between us.” He reaches back to pick up the file folder. After a considering glance, he hands it to me.
It’s like he’s offering me a coiled snake, and I have to take it. I have to take it or I have to admit that I want there to be more between us than sex, than money. Of course I don’t. Not with him. He ruined my father. He’s a criminal. He goes against everything I believe in, but it would have been nice to have affection between us for the thirty days I’m here. Twenty-eight days, now.
I open the file folder, blinking at the stream of small black-and-white numbers. I’ve learned to be somewhat literate with investment accounts and bank statements since my father’s attack. Lord knows I’ve learned how to read a bill. But I’m not sure what this is.
“An escrow account,” he supplies. “It contains your percentage of the money from the auction.”
My heart clenches. I stare at the paper as if I’m reading it, but I can’t see anything. This is how I felt when the verdict came back guilty, when the call came from the cops about Daddy. When I sold the beautiful silver pendant with my mother’s birthstone. An emerald. Daddy gave it to her the birthday before she died.
The file folder is clenched so tightly in my hand I’m surprised I’m not crushing it. Somehow I manage to close it and hold it at my side. My voice sounds hollow. “Thank you.”
He said there’s only money between us, but he’s a fucking liar. In the air there’s rage and revenge, betrayal and lust. I may be innocent, as he called me, but I know what I feel.
“You’re excused,” he says, his voice hard. “I’ll call for you when I want you.”
Like I’m some kind of servant. Like I’m a maid, brought in to clean whenever he makes a mess. Like I’m a maid for his cock, barely a warm body to wipe himself.