Page 18 of Kept

There was some strange relief in their first rule: I wasn’t allowed to touch any man but them. I didn’t want other men, not the kind who smelled like potato chips or thought ‘adequate’ was an actual compliment.

A deep, twisted Jane liked the kind of man who wanted a woman so deeply he’d crush her into it.

Rhett watched my eyes like he was reading every emotion that flashed through me. I dropped my gaze, not wanting him to read that last thought.

I took that twisted version of Jane who enjoyed this, folded her up, and dropped her down a well somewhere in the back of my mind.

“What do you mean by, ‘who deserves to be the Pet’?” I asked, forcing myself to find my voice. The squeaky mouse gets the grease. “Have you done this before to someone else?”

Rhett’s pause was telling, but he lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I haven’t.’

There was the slightest inflection onI.

“Have they?”

He shut me up with another bone-melting kiss. Twisted Jane was climbing out of her well again like it wasTheRingin there.

“Don’t bother asking questions you won’t get the answer to,” he said against my mouth. My stomach twisted. That was as good as an admission, as far as I was concerned.

A second later, he’d stepped out of my grasp, leaving me cold against the wall. The absence of his warmth left behind a glacial freeze.

“We’re having dinner tonight,” he said, gathering his belongings like he hadn’t just been all over me two seconds ago.

“Good for you,” I muttered. I didn’t addI hope you choke on it, because I wasn’tthatpetty, and because… Twisted Jane didn’t want them to choke. I was still the stupid mouse courting the tasty cheese in the next trap.

“We. As in you and me. Meet me on the roof after your shift.”

I paused with my hand on the doorknob, holding a battlefield of conflicting emotions inside my ribcage. He wrung mind-blowing orgasms out of me, blackmailed me… asked me to dinner. No, ordered me.

“What if I’m busy tonight?” I asked quietly. Oh, look, there it was, the tiny bit of spine I had.

Rhett held all the cards. He didn’t care about my spine, or lack thereof, or any excuse I might have. He hadn’t asked me to dinner, he’dtoldme to be there.

Rule three: I existed at the beck and call of Professor Harlow & Co.

Rhett smiled at me. It was his old smile, a little crooked, a touch shy, nothing guileful or evil about it. “Then you won’t be here tomorrow, will you?”

The hall wasn’t empty when I left. Rachelle and Sean were lingering outside the library, and although Rachelle was talking a mile a minute about making a sculpture out of used gum and Victoria’s Secret panties as a commentary on slut-shaming, Sean’s narrowed eyes took in my flushed cheeks with a hint of suspicion.

“What’s going on with you, Jane?”

I bristled at the propriety in his question. There was a strange sense of ownership in it, like he was asking more than just how well I was doing.

“I’m not feeling great. Might be coming down with something.”

Rachelle blinked her black lids, but her thoughts were clearly a million miles away. “Take vitamin C. I’m thinking thongs for this project. Boy shorts don’t project the image of unapologetic female sexuality I’m looking for. Or are thongs too on-the-nose?”

“Definitely thongs,” I agreed, because Sean was still examining me, muddy brown eyes picking out the damning details: rumpled hair. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. “I’m going to go grab some coffee before my shift starts. See you guys tomorrow.”

I would see them tomorrow, because Rhett wasn’t going to scare me off with a dinner invitation.

Mrs. Clarke was subdued after she scared off Rachelle, whom she seemed to have a long-standing enmity with, allowing me to take over the operations while she buried her nose in a book. I had a feeling she was one of those relics that fancy institutions seemed to like having around; old-school alumni who functioned almost as living artifacts as a trophy of their own prestige.

It was almost pleasant, shelving while she read in the background. At one point she started reading select quotes aloud for me, and we’d both pause to bask in commiseration that true bookworms felt when they bonded over a love of the written word.

My shift flew by. Mrs. Clarke bookmarked her place and handed me the entire key ring. I tried not to let my eyes bug out of my head.

“You keep track of this from now on. Don’t lose it; that’s the original key and the historical curators might actually murder you in a rage of passion if you do. Lock up at eight,” she said, leaning heavily on a cane. It’d been decoupaged with old book pages. Fitting. “Make sure all the lights are out.”

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