Page 16 of Daddy Devious

Victoria

The island is gorgeous. I have no idea where we are, but clearly it’s somewhere tropical, judging by the heat and the acres of exotic trees rising up around us as we drive toward my new home.

You mean your prison.

Shoving the uncomfortable thought aside, I crane my neck to try and take in everything as we drive. At Mr. Stone’s command, Oliver detours through town so I can see all the shops he was telling me about on the plane.

The thing that strikes me the most is hownormalit all seems. Outside a barber shop, for instance, an elderly man in an apron sweeps the sidewalk. He lifts his head and waves in greeting as we pass, like something out of an old movie.

“Does everyone on the island know about the whole… Little girl thing?”

Beside me, Mr. Stone looks up from his phone and smiles. “They do. All the citizens of the island must pass careful background checks and screenings before they’re allowed to even know what the true nature of the island is.”

“How did you find so many people?”

“The world is filled with depraved souls, my little thief. Any number of whom would jump at a chance to live out their deepest, darkest fantasies out in the open without fear of judgment.”

It makes sense, or at least as much sense as I can make of any of this.

We spend the rest of the ride in silence, Mr. Stone tapping away on his phone while I keep myself occupied with the scenery.

And then I see the house. It’s even more impressive than it was from the air, rising up at the end of a long and winding driveway, a fortress of brick and stone that literally steals the breath from my lungs.

At least if I have to be trapped in a prison, it’s one as gorgeous as this. And it comes with some pretty spectacular perks, if that orgasm on the plane is anything to judge by.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him, tearing my gaze away from the house to look over at Mr. Stone.

He raises his head, tucking his phone back into his pocket and rewarding me with an uncharacteristically warm smile. “Thank you. The east wing is still under construction, so you’ll need to be careful not to wander. But I’m rather proud of what we’ve built here.”

What is wrong with me that I immediately want to do exactly what he’s just warned against and go exploring every singleinch of my new “home”? Even knowing I’ll likely face a painful punishment for such a disobedience, the desire to thumb my nose at his rules is like an itch between my shoulder blades.

But Mr. Stone doesn’t even give me a chance to disobey. The second the car rolls to a stop, he takes my hand firmly in his, and keeps a tight hold on it as we exit the backseat and make our way up the massive stone steps to the house.

We’re halfway up the steps when the front door opens, revealing a stone-faced man in a well-fitting suit. Everything about the man screams that he is not someone who will tolerate any misbehavior, and already I’m rethinking my desire to test Mr. Stone’s rules.

Unease coils in my belly and I press myself against Mr. Stone, doing my best to hide behind him. Despite everything he’s done up until now, at least I know him. Sort of. He may be dangerous, but he isn’t a complete stranger and I cling to that shred of familiarity with everything I have.

I count my blessings that Mr. Stone finally let me pull my skirt down when we exited the plane, so I’m not meeting this stern-looking man with my ass on display.

“No reason to feel shy, little thief. Caleb isn’t quite as mean as he looks.”

If that’s meant to be reassuring, it falls far short of the mark. Because the closer we get, the meaner Caleb looks, which still seems to leave plenty of room for him to be very, very mean.

“Welcome home, Mr. Stone.” Caleb glances down at me for only a second before shifting his attention back to his boss. “Everything has been arranged just as you requested.”

“Thank you, Caleb. We’ll take dinner upstairs tonight.”

“I’ll inform the kitchen.”

Moving aside, Caleb makes space for us to pass him, and I do my best to ignore his stony expression as Mr. Stone and I step inside.

Into the most stunning house I’ve ever seen.

“House” honestly seems like an insult. My observation that it looked like a castle from the sky seems even more apt as I stare in wonder at the soaring ceilings and marble floors that seem to stretch on for miles. The walls are painted a surprisingly cheerful, if muted, blue, and gorgeous watercolors hang artfully along the entryway.

Where I’d expected a masculine cave, I’m instead presented with a tastefully decorated, welcoming space. If I had the kind of money Mr. Stone has, it might even be how I would decorate my own home.

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