Page 44 of Lord of Debauchery

“Hello, my little fighter. Did you really think I was going to let you go anywhere?”

Locked into a room.

I’d been locked into a sparse bedroom like I was some bad girl.

That had been over two hours before, maybe longer.

The bastard had tossed me over his shoulder after opening the door to a different house, even dumping me into the trunk of a hot car, tying both my ankles and wrists with a thick rope. Then he’d driven around for at least thirty minutes before stopping. That hadn’t meant I’d been let out of my prison. I’d beaten on the underside of the hood, screaming for anyone to help me for what had to have been at least forty-five minutes, and no one had given a shit.

I’d even heard deep male voices, at least eight or nine of them, and it seemed every man was standing around the car, but they hadn’t cared I was being held prisoner. They’d simply laughed and talked amongst themselves as if they were old college buddies sucking back a beer or two.

When I’d finally resigned myself to the fact I’d be spending all night long in the trunk, he’d returned, peering down at me with a stern look on his face. And his ugly words?

“You thought you were a prisoner before? Well, you’re going to learn what that truly means in my world, little fighter. It’ll be good to see what you think.”

The fucking bastard.

I moved to the window, staring down at the courtyard below. A light had been turned on, highlighting the area, likely on purpose. There was a stone patio and the only way to escape was jumping out the window. It might only be three stories, but the ceilings were taller than normal, which meant at minimum I would break my leg if I attempted it. That wouldn’t bode well with trying to run away.

Huffing, I turned back toward the room, glaring at the interior. Talk about sparse. Where what I’d seen of the rest of the house had been posh, every room inviting, this one barely had any furniture let alone a single decoration. There was a twin bed with basic covers, a nightstand with a lamp, and a chair in the corner of the room with a small table next to it. That was it. There were no pictures, no vases, no books, and certainly no television or other form of communication.

My purse had been taken along with my phone and what was left of my trust and dignity as well. He was doing this to teach me a lesson and I hated him for it. What I’d guessed after the initial shock of him being the one to open the door was that either the person who owned the house was a very close friend or maybe a family member.

I had caught a glimpse of two men who looked remarkably like him. Great. There were more of him in the world. I was sick inside, uncertain what I could do. While the lamp worked, it was glued or nailed to the table so I couldn’t use it as a weapon. The bastard had thought of everything. Perhaps he knew me far too well at this point.

Even the bathroom had almost nothing inside but a couple of towels and soap. While the toilet paper roll was full, there wasn’t even an extra roll. I had found toothpaste but no toothbrush. I guess that could be used as a weapon too.

And no shampoo or conditioner. What? Did the man consider that a luxury I didn’t deserve?

I flew toward the closet, praying something had been left behind like a wire coat hanger. That would allow me to beat him with something should he choose to return.

As soon as I threw open the door, I rolled my eyes. I guess it had been wishful thinking. When I heard the lock being rattled, I closed the door quickly, leaning against it.

I wasn’t surprised one of the bastard’s soldiers walked inside, immediately tossing me an angry look.

“Don’t try anything, miss. I’ve been authorized to handle the situation any way I believe necessary if you do. And I ain’t a nice guy, certainly not like the boss.”

Huffing, I glared at the tray in his hand. It held a single slice of bread on a paper plate, two bottles of water and a tiny apple. My guess was the damn thing had a razor blade in it. Okay, so maybe my melodramatic side was getting the best of me, but was Beckham really going this far? Next, I’d be shackled in chains.

“Well then, since he’s a complete asshole, that must make you a violent beast.”

He smirked as he placed the tray on the table, removing the items. Somehow, I had a feeling he hated being my personal delivery boy. When he turned around with the tray in his hand, he had a wicked grin on his face. He even had the nerve to glance down my length of my legs far too slowly. “You don’t have any idea.”

As he moved past me once again, I couldn’t help but think of him as a sloth, although he was wearing an expensive and perfectly tailored suit as well. Was it some requirement that all his employees had to try to look like they’d stepped out of a fashion magazine?

Well, this guy had a scar on the side of his face that made him appear highly dangerous. And of course, that’s what Beckham wanted.

For me to be shaking in my boots.

Fortunately, I wasn’t wearing any shoes, another form of punishment.

“How long do I have to wait here like this?” I asked. Why was I bothering?

He glanced over his shoulder before stepping from the room. “As long as the boss thinks it’s necessary. Just sit tight.”

Sit tight. Was the asshole kidding me? After he’d closed and locked the door, I rushed forward, beating my fists on it out of frustration. I even kicked the door, yelling at the top of my lungs.

I knew it wouldn’t do any good, but it did make me feel a little better. After thumping my butt against the door three times, I took long strides toward the goodies on the table. I was thirsty. I cracked one of the babies open, gulping more than I should, immediately hiccupping afterwards. I needed to calm down, to try to put my mind in a better place so I could pretend I’d been cooperative.

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