Page 29 of Violent Hearts

Chapter 14

Ann

I don't understand this man. He releases me a moment after finally touching me for the first time since I moved in, and I can't help but wonder why. Am I supposed to be doing something that I’m not? Am I a disappointment to him? Why wouldn't he tell me what's wrong?

More than a day has passed, and I've had more than enough time to read that contract between us again and again. All it stipulates is that I'm supposed to be "submitting to his will" while I'm living with him, and I know that provision is primarily aimed at the sexual part of our relationship.

The way he goes back and forth is beyond frustrating. I'm not ready to say that I regret agreeing to this, but I have to admit that I'm surprised. First off, I'm surprised I agreed to do this in the first place—it’s so bold, so demeaning in a way - but so exciting. When I set my goal to not have to work once I reached thirty, not once did I ever imagine I would reach that goal by agreeing to be someone's private mistress.

Oh, how my father and brother would hate this if they knew! I know it's vindictive of me, but a small part of me did this just to put one over on them. Ann, the perfect daughter, their shielded little flower, deciding to sell herself to someone.

Of course, he is not just any someone. Even with what little contact we've had so far, Jared King has uncovered a side of me that I never knew existed. I don't know what to think of it yet, but I knew I'd forever be wondering about it, about all of this, if I didn’t agree to his offer. I would have been asking myself "What if?" for the rest of my life.

I know deep down inside that I want to do this. And I know I can do this.

But maybe he's the one having second thoughts?

I watch as he turns away from me to refill his tumbler with that terrible-tasting whiskey. He looks troubled, as if he's deeply concerned about something.

"You're paying me to be yours," I say. "Does that not include talking to me when something is troubling you?"

He takes a sip of his whiskey and casts a quick glance over to me, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"What makes you think something is troubling me?"

"I'm not stupid," I say. "You've been acting strange ever since we signed the contract."

"So have you."

Our eyes lock for a few moments, and neither one of us speaks. I might be imagining it, but it seems as if he is just as overwhelmed by normal social interactions as I am. The only way I’ve ever been able to get close to a man has been through one thing - sex. I've never had a meaningful and long-lasting relationship, just a few short-term flings with guys that I dated for a few weeks after random hook-ups, but we always split before the fire between us died down.

"What have you been doing all day?" he asks.

I don't like his question. It reminds me too much of a time in my past when I couldn't do anything or go anywhere without having to answer questions like that.

"Unpacking, reading. Nosing around the house."

His eyes flicker with anger at that last part, even though I'm sure that he knows I'm joking, but barely. Truth is, there wasn't much to find because the entire place is void of any personal touches that would tell me something about him, at least anything that I don't already know. Two of the upstairs rooms are locked every time he leaves the house, his bedroom and office. I'm sure those two rooms would be the most interesting places to search for clues about the man I'm now living with.

"Nosing around, huh?" he says, attempting to be nonchalant about it. "Why not just ask me, if you have questions?"

"I don't have any specific questions," I respond truthfully. "For a journalist, I've never been good with interviews; I prefer research."

He huffs and puts his glass down on the kitchen counter. "Are you hungry?"

I nod. "Very."

For a split second, I'm wondering if he expects me to cook for him, too. He never said anything about cooking, and there's no food in the kitchen pantry to indicate it was part of the plan, but I can't simply assume he doesn't expect it from me. After all, he said he's looking for a "partner", and that could entail a lot of domestic duties that never occurred to me.

"I would take you out for dinner, but you're not outfitted for that," he says, roving over me with a judgmental look from head to toe. "We still have to take you shopping."

"We?" I ask, frowning at his contemptuous behavior.

"My team. You'll meet most of my staff tomorrow. And then afterward, you're going to be fitted for a wardrobe that's appropriate for your role."

I roll my eyes at him, making sure that he notices it, too. He can get as mad as he wants, but I'm not going to let him talk to me like this.

"You know, I don't like you rolling your eyes at me."

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