Page 40 of Freeing Hook

He lets out a calculated laugh. “No. Just the belly of a pirate ship. I’m sure you were treated quite well there.”

My chest aches. Astor hadn’t touched me. Well, other than throwing me on the ground and yelling at me to get up.

“I will make life easy for you, you know,” Vulcan says. There’s something genuine about this man. Like he truly believes himself to be kind, generous. Benevolent. It’s unsettling—he’s convinced himself so entirely, it’s difficult not to believe him. “You say you didn’t come from the streets. You were an aristocrat then?”

“Once.”

“Tell me. What would your life have consisted of had you stayed?”

I frown, not liking where this path is heading.

“You would have been married, would you not?” he asks. “Probably to a man much older than yourself? One who would use you to produce an heir who would one day control you as much as his father did?”

My mind flashes back to Lord Credence snaking his hands down my backside at the masquerade.

“He may or may not have been kind,” Vulcan continues, “but likely not. Men of the aristocracy rarely are. I am offering you no less than what you would have received as the wife of a nobleman. You might lack the title, but you will have everything your heart desires. I will ensure it.”

“And I’ll be one of many in your collection?” I ask, unable to help how my voice wavers.

A sly smile curves his lips, revealing the perfect points of his canines. “They are all as close as sisters, I assure you. I imagine you’ve not had many of those.”

“You claim you offer me a desirable life, yet you would treat me as a pet.”

“Pets, my dear,” says Vulcan, stroking the ridge of my collarbone, “often have more desirable lives than wives, do they not?”

I find that words leave me, even as his assertions cut to my soul. It shouldn’t be tempting, that kind of life—and it isn’t. But it gnaws at me—the way there was a time in my life when his offer would have seemed attractive. When I was at my lowest, back when I would trade every last bit of myself just to find someone who would take me, who would rescue me from my Fate.

I think there was a time when the idea of only being subjected to one man’s whims and desires might have been appealing tome. Not having to worry about being shuffled from one pair of hands to the next. Assurance that his lust would be occupied elsewhere most of the time. That there were other women who would share the burden of pleasing him. Other women who understood.

But that was before Peter, before I found my Mate. Back when I’d lost hope of ever finding him. And though my hope has been rattled, though I know the chance of a future between Peter and me is slim, I can’t help but grasp for that sliver of light. The future where I find a way to break his curse. Where he and John and Michael and the Lost Boys can find happiness. Somewhere, somehow.

If Peter hadn’t come for me the night I plunged myself overboard, I might be tempted to go with this stranger willingly. Then again, if Peter hadn’t come for me, I’d be dead.

But Peter is out there. He’ll track down Astor’s ship, and when he discovers I’m missing, there will be a reckoning.

This stranger’s blood will mingle with shadows when Peter gets ahold of him. He might have permitted Astor to have me for a time, but I’d only felt betrayed because I’d forgotten that Peter knew Astor. The captain has done nothing to hurt me. Peter must have known that I’d be safe when he gave me up, though I hadn’t seen it at the time.

But this man.

This man, Peter doesn’t know.

I weigh my options. Boris warned me to be likable, desirable to this client. Said the others wouldn’t be so gentle with me. Is it better to feign compliance to this man, or disgust him and place my bets on the hope that Peter will find me before I’m sold off to someone else?

As if in answer, wraiths rise from underneath the sheets of the nearby bed, forming the figures of women sold like goods and the men who got their money’s worth out of them. Theshadows whimper, but none of them scream. Their almost-silent cries fill my ears until I can hardly stand it.

Maybe it’s just my body’s panicked response, wishing to avoid the danger that’s more imminent, but a little voice whispers in my head.Be what he wants. At least he’ll take you out of this place. At least he’ll have to move you. Give you a chance to escape.

“You won’t hurt me, then?” I ask, allowing the trembling to suffuse my tone. It’s easy, when my limbs are rattling against the table, my body’s reaction to fear unaffected by the rushweed.

“Never,” says the man, cupping my cheek as if to show how gentle he is. “By this time next year, you’ll be glad for your decision. You’ll accompany me to events and operas and see the wives who hide their bruises underneath their cuffs and collars and paint. And you’ll be the one pitying them.”

I let out a regretful exhale, thankful at least not to be breathing in the heady perfume of the room for a moment. It’s making me dizzy.

Barely, just barely, my finger scrapes against the cold facade of the table. Of my own accord.

Hope buds between my ribs. It’s not much. The ability to wriggle my fingers won’t free me from Vulcan’s grasp. But it’s more than I had only seconds ago.

“Promise me you’ll be good?” he says, lifting my chin.

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