Page 77 of Sin & Sapphire

“And most importantly,” Valentin said, leaning forward in his chair, “you broke the rules.”

I flushed, then instantly hated myself for flushing.

The appearance of a flight attendant in a neat navy-blue suit saved me from embarrassing myself with a response that would only earn me more punishment.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” she breathed at Valentin, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. He’d fucked her. I ruthlessly squashed the tightness in my chest when she squeezed his shoulder in greeting, and her skirt rode up the backs of her thighs when she bent over to talk to him, giving Angelo an eyeful of her stocking-clad legs. It was her uniform, and she was doing her job, I told myself, as I refused to look over at Angelo and see where his gaze wandered.

“Whiskey, one ice cube,” he said to her, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard before.

“Yes, sir,” she said and stood before turning to Angelo and bending over to take his order, allowing Valentin to enjoy the same view that Angelo and I had moments before. The neckline of her white shirt revealed the lacy top of her bra as she looked at Angelo with blatant want.

“The same, but neat,” he said. I kept my eyes straight ahead, staring at the ceiling above Valentin to pretend that I wasn’t utterly humiliated by the fact that she wanted to fuck both men, and that Valentin, at minimum, had fucked her before. Did she know what he liked? Did she like that too?

My breathing sped up as their pretty words about being their toy flashed through my mind, reminding me what they thought of me. Useless for anything but hurting and fucking. Disposable.

“Princess?” Valentin asked, noticing my distress.

I shook my head, unwilling to show weakness in front of this stranger. She pretended to ignore me, but her eyes flicked over my bound hands and feet, my disheveled appearance, and the inexpensive clothes I wore before she dismissed me.

I wasn’t competition. I didn’t want to be, I reminded myself. It didn’t matter that she was stunning, perfectly made up, not a hair out of place, and I wore old worn clothes, with a poor dye job turning my hair a flat brown, and looked like I belonged wedged into the cheapest economy seats. It didn’t matter because I was not competition—Iwouldnotcompete—for these men’s attention.

“And your … guest?” she asked finally, pressing her lips together, as if my presence were an offense to her sensibilities.

“I’d like champagne,” I said, lifting my chin, grateful my bound hands hid their trembling as I tried to hold myself together, irrationally hurt by the entire exchange. A lifetime of training kicked in, and I shoved the humiliation deep into my soul, where it couldn’t make me shrink into myself and hide, like I desperately wanted to.

The flight attendant looked to Valentin for approval, and indignation grew in my chest. He nodded, and the woman disappeared into the galley without further acknowledging my presence.

“Princess?”

I wouldn’t meet his eyes. He could fuck whomever he wanted. It didn’t affect me. It wouldn’t hurt me. It was further proof that I needed to get out of here as quickly as I could.

In a flash, Valentin had released his seatbelt so he could loom over me with his hands on the armrests on either side. I breathed in his spicy scent and hated how much it comforted me.

“Princess, what’s wrong?”

Oh.He thought I was having a panic attack. No, I was hyperventilating because these assholes had reminded me once again how little value I had to them. Idiot that I was, I kept forgetting.

Valentin slid his fingers around my neck, pressing his palm against the front of my throat. “Take a deep breath, princess.”

“I’m not having a panic attack,” I snapped, fighting to be angry rather than hurt.

He adjusted his grip, so his fingers pressed on the sides of my throat, gently constricting my airway. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said sullenly, “maître.” Fuckingnothingwas wrong. I wasn’t jealous. I wasn’t resentful. I didn’t want their eyes on me and only me. I wasn’t desperate for some sign that I loomed as large in their lives as they loomed in mine.

“Ana,” Valentin said, and my eyes snapped to his with surprise. He never used my name. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Hot tears pressed at my eyes as exhaustion wore down my determination to maintain my hauteur.

“First rule?”

I shook my head and met his gaze, pleading with him not to make me say it, not to make me admit the confusion swirling in my brain, that my hatred of them was spiked with jealousy and a desperate need for comfort that I wasn’t yet ready to confront.

He slipped a knife out of a pocket and knelt before me. He sliced through the cable tie binding my feet together, then, one by one, lifted my feet to his knee and inspected my ankles, frowning at the red lines that marred my skin. “Better?” he asked.

I shrugged, not interested in admitting that the skin-to-skin contact comforted me.

“Toy,” he snapped.

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