Chapter 68: Chapter Thirteen

Alice

He’d been completely naked.

Still covered in blood splatters.

And if I heard him correctly, he was talking about killing himself. What sort of guy attempted—according to him—suicide once a year?

My heart constricted.

I tried not to think about how selfish I was being by wanting to see a window, by wanting to be useful.

A knock sounded on the door. I put the remote down and went over to open it, but it opened on its own.

“Hey there.” A woman who looked old enough to be my grandma held out her hand. “I’m Georgie, I have clothes for you.”

“Oh.” I shook her hand firmly, as she sized me up and then winked. “He was right about your sizes. Astonishing, the man’s never been wrong. It’s in his hands.

“He just feels a woman's body and knows what would look good on her. Well, we don’t want to keep him waiting. You know how Andrei gets, impatient little shit—”

Like some kind of ninja phantom, he appeared in the doorway.

“Andrei, we were just talking about you.” She beamed.

He actually smiled at that. “What was it you said? Impatient little shit? Is that my nickname today, Georgie?”

“Someone needs to humble you.” She beamed like she was proud of him, and he seemed intent on ignoring her positive attention.

She turned and reached for something in the hallway then pulled in a giant rack with dozens of bags hanging on it along with enough clothes for ten women.

“All right, I’ll just leave this here, keep what you like, let me know if you need more, and I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” She leveled him with a sly smile.

I felt my body sway.

Price? As in sell me?

To whom?

For what?

I tried to keep my expression closed when my heart was squeezing painfully in my chest, he said I was safe.

And I believed him.

“Not selling her, not yet,” he said in a bored voice. “That will be all, Georgie.”

“Bye, handsome.” She winked and closed the door behind her, leaving us blanketed in silence.

Andrei was wearing a pair of designer jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt that molded to his body like a second skin.

He went to the rack and started looking through it. At that point, I noticed he still wore his leather gloves; these ones were clean.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why when he tossed a bag to me. “Keep the heels. I don’t like the Nikes—the color’s too loud, and you won’t be needing them.

“The Prada are nice if you don’t fall flat on your face in them…” He sighed and then pulled down a beautiful black cocktail dress. “This will be perfect for dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Dinner.”

“With you?”

“No, with a ghost,” he deadpanned. “Do you see anyone else in the room?”

“No.”

“Logic. Try using it,” he snapped then shoved the dress in my hands. “We leave in an hour.”

“We’re leaving?” Why the heck was I repeating everything he said like I was mentally handicapped?

His eyebrows shot up. “I imagined you would learn quicker than this. I don’t owe you explanations, six thirty-two, only my protection, right?

I backed away.

He took another step toward me.

I put a bar stool between us.

“Scissors are the worst weapon to use. The handles get caught on your knuckles. If I was going to hurt you, I’d use a serrated knife. Stop backing away and hold still.”

Shaking, I didn’t move as he walked behind me.

His body heat radiated against my back, and it was playing with my head, with my emotions, with everything because I had this weird reaction to his nearness.

Like I wanted him to hold me and tell me it was going to be okay.

But I knew I was nothing more than a prisoner to him.

A new toy he could dress up until he was bored.

That’s probably why Georgie didn’t seem surprised to see me in there.

He’d been surrounded by beautiful women all his life, and he was right. I had nothing special that he wanted.

Hadn’t my brother said the same thing?

I hung my head just as Andrei whispered behind me. “I’m adding a layer.”

“So you cut tongues and hair?”

He tugged harder than he needed to, making me wince. “Are you actually teasing the man with the weapon?”

“Are you actually cutting a whore’s hair?” It was out before I could stop it. I meant it as a way to deflect what I knew in my heart was true.

My brother had made me a whore.

My dad had allowed it.

And this man was going to sell me for it, wasn’t he?

Big fat tears collected in my eyes.

I refused to let them fall.

A gloved hand touched my shoulder. I was being slowly turned around to face him. I didn’t want to look at his cold, ruthless eyes. I knew what I would see there.

Indifference.

I hated it more than the rage I saw in my brother’s eyes because, at least, I could react and plan.

With Andrei, I just hoped and waited.

“Look at me,” he snapped.

I lifted my head, and when I wasn’t lifting it fast enough, he shoved two gloved fingers below my chin and gripped it tight. “Call yourself a whore again, and you won’t like the consequences.”

“Isn’t that what this is? Georgie said something about being sold.”

“Do you have chains around your ankles, six thirty-two?”

“No.”

“Do you have a tattoo on your ankle with a lock on it?”

“No,” I rasped.

“Then you aren’t one of the women being sold. And in order to stay that way, in my good graces and in God’s, I’d suggest you stand still so I don’t accidentally give you bangs.

I frowned. “What sort of—”

“Shhh…” He smirked, then, like he was enjoying himself. “It’s been a while since I’ve cut hair.”

“Alarming,” I muttered, earning another small smile that was gone too soon as the sound of snipping filled the air.

He was gentle.

It was strange.

The man with the leather gloves who cut out tongues had a gentle touch.

I would have preferred rough.

I had no idea what to expect when he pulled away with pieces of my hair clutched in his hand.

He held my hair up to his nose and sniffed, and then he tucked the cut pieces into his jean pocket and crossed his arms. “Not bad.”

“Not bad but not good either?” I asked in a small voice.

“Asking for compliments?” He was so close I could almost taste the cologne he wore—it was warm, spicy.

“N-no.” I ducked my head.

“Pity, because I would have given you one.” He jerked his head toward the bathroom. “Go dress, you’re about to be thrown into a den of hungry lions, only worse, they’re Italian and they hate vodka.

“Yes.” I straightened my shoulders and locked eyes with him. “I’m six thirty-two… I don’t have a name.”

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Very, very good.”