Disobedience,I think, looking up to face the woman in person. She entertains a much different definition of the word than I do. I letthe camera fall back onto the table. A part of me wonders if I should make her take another one—force her to look pathetic—but I don’t, and she stares blankly ahead as if she had never reacted at all.
I keep her secret and return to my place at the wall, watching her. Arno’s men are anxious. They loudly discuss what they’ll do when Arno finally gives the go-ahead. How many ways they can make a “bitch scream.”
If she hears them, the girl’s face offers no indication. She’s ice cold, her expression a carefully composed mask. I’d admire her if I weren’t almost as impatient as the other dogs were. The waiting game never was my forte, but Arno seems to relish making her sweat. I wish he would fucking get it over with. I want to see how the little princess keeps her head held high when she’s forced to pleasure an entire crew of brutal, violent men. Something tells me she’s been through worse, and I fucking hate the part of me that wonders exactly what.
Maybe an hour passes by the time Arno finally returns, his hair streaming behind him like fire. He scan the room, spotting me near the corner. “Dante.” He doesn’t seem surprised to see me back early—he sighs, apparently more relieved instead. “Something came up. I need these assholes to help me...take out thegarbage.” He gives the words a meaningful edge that make his men lurch to attention. I can fucking hear them sniffing at the air, eager to cut their teeth on fresh meat. “Can you watch her? It won’t take long.”
He leaves the matter up to me, but I shrug rather than answer. The little princess has stiffened up in his presence, and I don’t miss the slight slip in her otherwise impenetrable armor. Despite her shit about disobedience, she truly is afraid. I can’t decide if I’m amused or not.
“Dante?”
I shrug again and run a hand through my hair. The fingertips burn slightly, and I’m not sure why. “I’ll stay.”
“Good.” With one look, Arno musters his men into action, and they follow him up the stairs.
The ceiling trembles with their combined weight as they march across the length of the bar and exit out of what I assume to be the main doors. God help whichever bastard pissed Arno off today. The girl might get a reprieve after all. If she’s lucky, the worst of his murderous lust will be rubbed out by the time he comes for her. Though I doubt it will do much good. She may be better at hiding it than most, but her body can’t stave off the lasting impact of pain and exhaustion for very long. She’s already trembling, rattling the metal legs of the chair. Her skin is icily pale, and a sheen of sweat glistens over her forehead.
I give her an hour, maybe two, before she fully goes into shock—and she certainly won’t be laughing by then. The desire for something to pass the time drives me up the basement steps, leaving her there. She won’t follow, and I doubt she has enough strength left to run. I take my time when I head across the now nearly empty barroom to the counter. The bartender gives me an odd look when I ask for something “strong as hell,” but she tosses me a bottle of dark, nearly black liquor, and I accept it with a nod.
I sip at it while I return to the basement. Whatever it is, it burns like hell. I drain nearly a third of the bottle by the time I finally approach the woman.
“Drink,” I tell her, placing the bottle down in front of her—though I don’t fucking know why.
If she’s stupid, she’ll hit me with it and try to run. If she’s smart, she’ll ignore me. I can see her wrestling with either decision as she warily scans the label.
“W-why?” she asks.
I cock my head and shove the bottle closer. It flirts with the edge, only about an inch from spilling onto her lap. “Drink.”
Her fingers tremble as she clutches the neck of the bottle with one hand. Her eyes dart to mine and then flit away again. Sheknows she won’t find any comfort in them. She gets her reassurances from the drink instead, taking a small, pursed-lip sip. It’s fucking pathetic.
“Another,” I command, bracing one hand flat against the table so I have enough leverage to position myself above her.
To her credit, she doesn’t flinch or sink into her seat. She keeps that debutante posture, her fingers clutching the edge of the table.
Slowly, she reaches for the bottle and wraps her lips around the opening. She tosses the bottle back and almost immediately lurches forward, sending drink spraying across the table. Her eyes water as she sputters. I bet her lip is burning, along with her throat and her internal organs. The little princess has never sampled good booze before. She winces at the taste. Then her cheeks redden, and I don’t have to prompt her to take another taste. This time, she gets most of it down, though some trickles down her chin. Her eyes meet mine again, still hesitant, as she should be.
“Another,” I tell her. I mime drinking from a glass when she doesn’t comply and make my tone harder. “Take another sip.”
She wipes at her mouth with the back of a shaking hand. She doesn’t want to. I can see it in her eyes, but she makes a show of taking another measured taste.
“Again.”
“How much?” she counters. The defiance in her gaze becomes questioning.
Something in me bristles at that. I’m an asshole, getting the sacrificial lamb drunk before her slaughter to see if she’ll make even more of a mess. Arno’s plans for her don’t faze me in the slightest, but when she takes her hand off the bottle, I don’t know what makes me reach for it.
“Drink.” I press the opening to her lips, ignoring the way she flinches back. “More.”
“W-why—” She breaks off and rephrases the question, her eyes meeting mine. Probing. “How much more?”
I consider holding her down and pouring the liquor down her fucking throat. It certainly would make for one hell of a prelude to the main event Arno has planned. In the end, I set the bottle on the table. She’s not expecting it when I reach out for her wrist and manually curl her hand around the bottle’s neck.
“Drink,” I tell her, my gaze settling over the blood welling from her cut lip. “Drink...until you stop feeling the pain. Until you don’t feel a damn thing.”
Something flickers across her expression as she swallows hard. I’m sure she’ll resist. I’m just about ready to take the bottle for myself when she lifts it and brings it to her lips again. When she throws her head back, most of the liquor is wasted on sputtering coughs as her body rejects the bitter taste. But, when I no longer have to command her, I know she’s gotten enough.
CHAPTER NINE
