Page 96 of Lucky's Trouble

By the time we pull out of the parking lot with Cy leading the charge and Tigger trailing behind in the van, the sun is just coming up, and the world is quiet except for the loud rumble of ten bikes.

Hang on, Hellcat. I’m coming for you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

TINLEIGH

The door opening startles me awake. I sit upright, pushing into the corner to make myself small. A male guard walks in dressed in an all-black suit and a scowl on his ugly face.

“Your presence is requested in the dining room for breakfast,” he says, standing with his hands clasped in front of him.

“I’d rather not, but thank you.” Yesterday, I was scared and unsure of how things would be, but today, I’m angry and ready to make it everyone’s problem.

He’s just as annoyed with my defiance as the woman from last night, huffing and rolling his eyes dramatically. “Do you honestly think that was a request?”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” I mutter, climbing off the mattress and remembering I wasn’t given clothes last night, so I’m completely naked under this blanket. “I need something to wear.”

“Your natural state is also requested.”

“You can fuck right off with that one. I want some damn clothes.”

More eye rolling and huffing. “You’re going down to breakfast just as you are. How you get down there is up to you.”

My shoulders sag, and a whole new level of hatred for Sir is unlocked. He’s trying to break me down, assert his dominance, and humiliate me. He’s winning on all fronts as I stand, letting the thin blanket—that did little to keep me warm last night—fall, and the guard unabashedly takes in my every curve as if he’s entitled to the view.

“Want me to turn around so you can see it all?” The words drip with venom, and I don’t wait for him to answer. With my hands on my hips, I spin in a slow circle. “I can lie down and spread my legs if you want to see that too, you pervert.”

Not caring for my insult, he grabs my upper arm and shoves me into the bathroom. “Get yourself together. You have two minutes.”

I was generously given a travel-size toothbrush and toothpaste last night, so I pull double duty and pee while cleaning my teeth. The second my two minutes are up, the door opens without a knock.

“Let’s go.”

“Good thing you gave me two minutes,” I say, and he gives me a questioning look. “It’s the minimum amount of time the ADA recommends you brush, and my oral hygiene is very important to me.”

He doesn’t find me funny and grips my upper arm more roughly, taking me out of my room and down the hall. I try to swallow down my embarrassment at the two housecleaners who do their best to avoid looking at me as we walk past them at the bottom of the stairs.

My skin erupts in gooseflesh as the chilled air hits me everywhere. I don’t know why Sir chooses to keep this house like an ice box, but it’s an asshole move if he’s going to require me to traipse around sans clothes all the time.

I do my best to add to the map in my head, connecting hallways and different rooms. When I figure out how to escape, I’ll need to know the best way out of the house.

We’ve walked the entire length of the house when we finally end up in the dining room, which is the most ostentatious room I’ve been in yet. There’s seating for at least twenty people at the antique-looking carved wood table, and a set of tall French doors leads out to the garden, allowing natural light to fill the space. The adjacent walls and ceiling are painted cream and decorated with gold molding and filigree. It’s pretentious and busy.

Above the table is a gold chandelier with sparkling crystal that hangs from each swooping arm, topped with faux, flickering candles. The place settings, including the utensils, are gold, and bouquets of fresh flowers in crystal vases line the center of the table.

Sitting at the head of said table is Sir, looking annoyingly handsome in another bespoke suit. This one is a deep navy with a plain white button-down and a gold tie. His black hair is gelled into place, and his tan complexion is nearly glowing.

Compared to him, I must look like a street rat. For my shower last night, I was only given a bar of soap and was told to wash everything from head to toe. My hair was a ratted mess after, but I wasn’t given a brush. I did my best to finger-comb it, but then I had to sleep with wet hair.

Hearing our arrival, he stands, and his eyes narrow at where the guard is holding me in place. Quickly, his hand falls to the side. Sir frowns and closes in on me until he’s inches away. He lifts my arm, inspecting it from all angles.

“Did I give you permission to touch what’s mine?” he asks, unnervingly calm.

“No, sir.”

“Then why”—his voice grows louder with each word—“the hell did you do it?”

“I’m sorry, sir. She was arguing and being difficult. I didn’t think she’d come on her own.”

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