I pull my dad through the doorway and slam the door. “Ten minutes? What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what you think it means.” Dad looks at me, the expression on his face one that I’ve never seen on him before.

Defeat.

“No. No. No. I can’t stay with that man.”

“I tried to buy you back, but he doesn’t want money. I even offered to work for him, teach his people our tricks. He doesn’t want any of it.” My dad takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “He only wants you.”

“And people in hell want ice water.”

“He has us over a barrel. If you leave, he turns over surveillance that could send you and Adam to jail for a long time.”

Dad’s tremors are far worse today. The worst that I’ve ever seen. Probably because of the stress he’s experienced over the last couple of days. And that makes me hate Tristan Broussard even more.

“I can’t lose both of my children.” My dad reaches out to grasp the bedpost for support. He looks as though he could collapse at any moment. “Baby… I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Sit down, Dad.”

For once, he doesn’t argue. And that tells me more than his mouth ever could.

He’s weakening.

“Why the hell would you and your brother think it was okay to step foot in a Broussard casino after I told you and told you and told you not to?” Dad isn’t exaggerating. He warned us repeatedly.

“You forbade it but never told us why. It was a challenge. A temptation. I was lured in by the unknown. And the winning… it was so easy, Dad. It was like they were ignoring Adam and letting me win.”

“I think that he instructed his people to let you win so that you’d owe a substantial debt to him. I think this has been his plan since you started coming into his casino.”

That’s a ridiculous idea. “Adam and I won that money. No one let us walk out of there with a hundred thousand dollars.”

“You and Adam are very good. And maybe you got away with one or two wins, but neither of you have mastered your craft well enough to walk out of there with that kind of money without them knowing.”

That would require a lot of conspiracy on his part. And a lot of luck. He’d have had no way of ensuring that I would return.

Unless we won big and won often. Which we did.

“Why would he do that?”

“I was hoping that you’d be able to tell me. Has he told you anything about his plan?”

His plan is to keep me. His plan is to fuck me. His plan is to hurt me.

But I can’t tell my dad that. He’s not well. He doesn’t need the stress of hearing something sick like that.

“Mr. Broussard told me that he wants to keep me around as his companion. Like a live-in friend to talk to and share meals with when he isn’t working. Basically, just someone to keep him company so he isn’t so lonely.”

“And you believe that?”

I have to convince my dad that I’ll be okay.

“I believe him. He means me no harm. He’s just lonely and looking for friendship. He knows that I owe him, and he’s using that as a way to force a companionship on me.”

“Are you sure that’s all he wants from you?”

“I’m positive.” I’ve never told a blacker lie in my life. I wouldn’t be shocked if my tongue turned to ash and I choked on it. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to go home and rest. And you’re going to stop worrying. It isn’t good for you or your condition.”

“How do I not worry about my baby girl when she’s being held against her will?”

“Technically, I’m not being held against my will. The doors are unlocked. I can walk out of here anytime I want.” But with harsh consequences.

“Maybe you aren’t locked up, but he’s imprisoning you inside an invisible cell. That’s almost as bad.”

“He’ll tire of me soon enough, and my debt will be paid because I stayed. It’ll be fine, Dad.”

The door opens and Tristan’s body fills most of the frame, making me realize just how big he really is. “Time’s up.”

I lean in and my dad embraces me. He squeezes me hard, as hard as his deteriorating muscles will allow, and places a kiss against my forehead. I feel like his little girl again, the one he used to comfort after she woke from a nightmare about monsters. But I won’t be waking from this nightmare. This evil monster is real. And I’m completely at his mercy.

Ray shows my father to the door, and Tristan escorts me to the formal dining room. He’s still wearing the suit he wore to work, and I’m dressed as though I’m ready to hit the town.

Formal dinner at home. I’ve never seen the reason behind it. I prefer to be casual and eat at the kitchen bar while watching television.

“I hope that you like shrimp and grits.”

I actually do. “It’s one of my favorite dishes.”

“Ray is an excellent cook. You can tell him what you like, and he’ll be happy to prepare it for you.”

I’m here under the most bizarre of circumstances, yet he’s speaking to me as though everything about my having dinner with him tonight is ordinary. As if he invited me over and I walked into his home of my own free will.

And it really pisses me off.

I look at the glass of wine next to my plate. “This one isn’t drugged?”

He chuckles. “No. It’s only wine.”

I’m not sure that I believe him. He’s not given me a reason to.

“Would you like to trade glasses with me?” He lifts his and holds it out in my direction. “I’m happy to swap if you like.”

I look at him, studying the expression on his face. Wondering if he would have drugged his wine instead of mine in anticipation of my hesitancy. Is he that intelligent? Something tells me that he is, but I don’t think that I’m in a position where he’d feel the need to drug me again. What would be the purpose?

“No. I believe that this one is fine.”

I lift the glass and take a drink. I’ll soon find out if I’ve placed too much trust in him.

“Where have you brought me?”

“New Orleans.”

“You transported me across the state line?” I don’t know shit about kidnapping laws, but surely that ups the charges.

“You sound surprised, which is surprising in and of itself.”

I am, but I’m not sure why. This man has drugged me. Kidnapped me. Held me against my will. And had some doctor perform God only knows what kind of exam on me while I was unconscious.

“You’re rather good at pointing out my crimes against you, but you’ve quite a few of your own against me, Mr. Broussard.”

He stops eating. “You will no longer address me as Mr. Broussard. You will refer to me as Tristan in front of casual acquaintances. You will call me Sir when it’s just you and me. And in the bedroom, you will address me as Master.”

Laughter spews from my mouth. “Like hell I will.”

He’s unsmiling.

“Are you shittin’ me?”

He lowers his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “No, Miss Grant. I am not shittin’ you.” His handsome face becomes marred by repulsion. “And you will not use crass language like that again. It’s incredibly unbecoming for such a beautiful woman.”

I’m amazed by the way that he can scold and compliment me within the same sentence.

“You really don’t know me because if you did, you’d be very aware that I’m not calling you Sir or Master or Dom or boss or any other label implying that you have control over me. Because… you… don’t.”

He leans back in his chair and stares at my face, his eyes locked on mine. Unblinking. I stare back with wide eyes. I will not be intimidated by him. “You are going to be so much fun to break.”

“You can try.” My voice oozes with confidence.

There’s a smirk just below the surface threatening to spring forward. “I ordered you to wear one of your black dresses with your hair down and minimal makeup. And you did it without question or argument. Seems to me that I got exactly what I wanted without even trying.”

Legit point.

“I don’t understand why you want me; I don’t know anything about being a submissive.”

My knowledge on the subject is very general and probably not even accurate. I’ve never even read one of those romance books about it.

“I know that it probably comes as a surprise, but I don’t want my submissive to know anything about being a submissive. I want to be the one to teach her everything. It’s very important to me that I am her first Dom.” One of his brows lifts. “I very much want to be your first Dom.”

This doesn’t make sense to me. “Shouldn’t a sub have the desire to be submissive?”

“That desire will grow over time. You’ll want to make me happy, and eventually you’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that.”

I don’t see myself ever having a desire to please him while degrading myself.

“I can see from your expression that you don’t believe me. But you’ll see. It’ll happen.”

You can force someone into submission, but you can’t force the desire to be submissive. “I’m not the person who you want me to be. I’m never going to want to be dominated by you.”

“You feel that way now because you’ve not given it a chance. I promise you that we’ll have a good laugh about this conversation six months from now.”

Six months? He’s out of his damn mind if he thinks that I’m going to be here with him six months from now.

“You’re an intelligent man, so I can’t help but wonder: why is it that you can’t see how fucked up this is?”

His resting hand on the table becomes a tight fist. “Don’t… judge… my… lifestyle… and call it fucked up when you know nothing about it.”

There’s that angry side of him again. The one that frightens me. But not enough to backpedal or apologize. I simply hold steady with my glare, dishing to him the same one that he’s giving me.

“Your language. That is at the top of my priority list.”

“What’s wrong with my language?”

A look of disgust crosses his face. “You say fuck too much. And too casually. It’s crass. Not what I want to hear coming out of my submissive’s mouth. You should speak with the elegance of a refined lady.”

“You want a refined lady who you can fuck like a whore?”

“I want to sit down to dinner with a beautiful woman in an elegant dress with perfect hair and makeup and share a quality conversation. And when we finish, I want to take her upstairs and fuck her mouth and pussy and asshole. And I want to come in all three. And sometimes I want her to swallow my cum or wear it on her body in a place of my choosing. So yes. I want a refined lady who I can fuck like a whore.”

“My language is crass? You’re the epitome of the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I’m the Dom.”

“More like the male chauvinist.”

“Being a Dom doesn’t make me a male chauvinist.”

“That’s not the way it sounds to me.”

“I feel as if you have this idea in your head that maybe I will see you as inferior because you submit. But that isn’t the case at all. I will hold you in the highest regard. You will become the most important person in my life. No one will come before you. And I will become the center of your universe.”

I suppose that a Dominant isn’t a Dominant unless he has a submissive. I hadn’t considered that before now.

I love the idea of being the most important person in a man’s life. But not in Tristan Broussard’s.

“Back to your language. You will no longer use the word fuck in casual conversation. The only time it should ever come out of your mouth is when we are in the bedroom. But even then, you should use the word with caution, taking care that you aren’t using it to give me orders.”

I’ve never been one to issue orders or ask for anything in the bedroom. I take whatever I’m given—good or bad.

“What will happen when I say fuck or other profanities outside of the bedroom?”

“I will punish you.”

“How?”

“I will spank you.” Those words make him smile just a little too much.

“With what?”

“My hand would be one option.”

“I say fuck a lot. Your hand is going to be blistered.”

“I certainly hope so.”

This is one area where things become super confusing for me. “You tell me to not say fuck because you don’t like hearing crass language from me. But then you say that you hope I do say it. Those two statements are completely contradictory of one another. Which is it? You don’t want me to swear or you do?”

“A little of both.”

“The concept baffles me.”

“I will give you limits and rules and when you break them I will take pleasure in punishing you. And you’ll take pleasure in being punished because you know that it pleases me to do so.”

Only a freak would enjoy this stuff. “I will never take pleasure in having my ass spanked.”

A one-sided grin spreads across his face. And damn, if he doesn’t look like a cocky model on the cover of GQ.

Damn, he’s hot. Why does he have to be such a nutjob?

“I love your resistance to the Dom-sub life. It’ll make it even sweeter when I collar you for the first time.”

“Hate it, but that shit’s not happening.” I am no one’s pet.

“We’ll see.”

“No. You’ll see.”

“You have a lot of strong opinions about a way of life that you’ve never experienced. I bet everything that you believe about this lifestyle is grossly untrue.”

“Educate me. Make me understand.”

“I’ll receive great sexual and emotional gratification from the control I’ll have over you. I will also enjoy punishing you, but our world will be about so much more. Passion and pleasure. Satisfaction and fulfillment. It all goes together hand-in-hand. You and I will share the deepest connection you can possibly experience with another person because you’ll eventually place every bit of your trust in me.”

Gratification. Passion and pleasure. Satisfaction and fulfillment. Deep connection. Full trust. I think that most happy couples would list those exact things if asked what is most important in their relationship. Is it possible that there’s more to this dynamic than I think?

His hand glides over the table, and the tips of his fingers touch mine. “I’ll spoil you with the best of everything. Shower you with gifts—whatever your heart desires.”

“And then you’ll hit me. I’m not okay with that.”

His hand advances, and his long fingers curl around my hand. “The strike of my palm or flogger against your ass will certainly gain your attention, but I would never cause you harm. Your health and safety come first. I’d never push you further than you were willing to go. You always have the right to stop everything. Ultimately, the real control is in your hands. You have the final say in anything that we do.”

He wants to control me, yet I’m the one with all of the control. It’s one contradiction after another.

So fucking complicated. Why can’t he just be a man after as much pussy as he can get like every other typical heterosexual man?

This isn’t normal. You aren’t born this way. Something happens to spur this inside of someone.

“What drives you to do this?”

“I love control. I love the power I feel when a woman submits to me. Especially a strong woman. That’s even more thrilling. But with you specifically… it’s because you’ve been a very bad girl. My palm is twitching to redden your sweet little ass.”

I don’t doubt him for a moment. I’m certain that he’s telling the truth when he says that his palm is eager to meet my ass. Reddening my cheeks isn’t the only thing that he’s going to do to me. It’s only the beginning. And I’ll be completely at his mercy.

There’s something terribly wrong with this man. I see a sinisterness in his eyes—a warning of the darkness that resides behind those beautiful blue eyes. Like a dark angel, his outer beauty disguises the malice beneath his surface.

He takes his hand away and returns to eating. Casually. Like we aren’t having a discussion about the ways that he’ll strike me.

“You aren’t eating.”

How can I eat when we’re having a discussion that will decide my fate between being his submissive or going to jail? “This conversation has stolen my appetite.”

“You clearly have concerns. I’d like to hear them.”

I’m not sure we have enough time to discuss everything on that list. “How long am I going to be here?”

“That is solely dependent upon you.”

What does that mean? “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a simple matter of math. Each act earns one thousand dollars’ credit toward the hundred thousand dollars that you took from me.”

One hundred thousand divided by one thousand.

One hundred acts.

“What do you consider an act?”

“A sexual encounter.”

“I need you to be more specific.”

He stops eating and lowers his fork to his plate. “My dick in your mouth. My dick in your pussy. My dick in your ass. My dick between your tits. Your hand jerking off my dick. To be safe, let’s say anything that results in cum shooting out of my dick. Is that specific enough for you?”

No. It’s actually not specific enough.

“The spankings. The floggings. The other Dom stuff. That’s not considered an act? You’ll get those things for free?”

“One. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. I want you to think about that for a minute and then ask me again if I’m getting something for free.”

Well, I guess he does have a point there. “You can forget anal.”

His head tilts and his brow wrinkles. “Every Dom has anal sex with his sub. That’s standard.”

I shake my head. “Not standard with this girl.”

“We’ll ease into it.”

“No, we will not.”

“Anal is very enjoyable when it’s done the right way. You’ll like it.”

“Anal is non-negotiable. It’s a firm no from me.” He looks appalled. Does anal sex really mean that much to him? “Is that a deal breaker for you?”

“Possibly.”

“You like it that much?”

“I fucking love it, but what’s concerning me is how absolute you are about it.”

“I don’t want to do it.”

“I don’t want to go into this with anal as a hard limit. Can we make it a soft limit so that it’s not off the table entirely?”

“Call it whatever you like, but I’m not doing it.”

“Is there anything that you absolutely won’t consider?”

“If it belongs in a toilet, I want no part of it.”

He chuckles. “I’m not into anything like that.”

Thank God for that.

“Are you submitting to me?”

Submitting. I hate that word so fucking much. “I’m not submitting. I’m just doing what I gotta do to stay out of jail.”

“If you’re taking my offer then you are submitting. And your first lesson will be tomorrow night. Just the basics but it’ll be enough for us to get started.”

He expects to fuck tomorrow night?

“I’m not ready. I need more time.”

“The longer that you take to begin paying off your debt, the longer you’ll be here. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Then we begin tomorrow night after your tutorial.” Tutorial? He’s going to make me watch a video about Dominants and submissives?

He’s right about one thing. The longer I procrastinate, the longer I stay here. And I don’t want to be here with him one second longer than necessary.