Page 60 of Ramsay

She’s beautiful. Does she see it?

Shaking my head at the nonsense, I leave the room and close the door behind me.

There’s much to do and I have no time to waste. Unfortunately, Willow will have to learn to fall in line because the stakes are too high for anything else.

Chapter Thirteen

Willow

Rolling over, I clutch my aching head. Shit, did I go on a bender last night? No.

And with a bang, the events of the evening before come crashing in, to which I groan my misery into the universe. Holy fuck, Ramsay ate me out and before that Oliver and Diem undressed me. This after I had a mini-breakdown and swam in his damn pool fully clothed.

At this point, I’m not sure which I should be more embarrassed about.

Although, for insisting I’m nothing but a piece of ass, Ramsay sure stepped up when I was in need, in more ways than one. Ugh.

Shivering at the memory, I sit up and sigh because I’m naked. I’ve no clue where my dress went, and I have nothing to put on. This isn’t my house, but I should have a change of clothes here from the last time, although I’ve no clue where they might be.

Fuck it. With a shrug, I go back to the dresser from before and help myself to a T-shirt and sweatpants.

They’re so large that I have to pull the drawstring on the pants as tight as they’ll go and fold them down three times to keep them from sliding off my body. Thankfully, the shirt billows on me, covering my braless state, but I feel acutely vulnerable anyway.

Venturing down the hall with a deep sense of deja vu, I find my way back to the kitchen with apprehension. Which of the many personalities of Ramsay will I see today?

“I hardly had time to plan,” Ramsay says in his icy voice as I step into the kitchen.

Too late, I realize he’s not speaking to one of the guys when a woman about my mom’s age turns my way. She’s the spitting image of Ramsay, or he’s the spitting image of her anyway, right down to the arctic blue eyes.

And although it’s clear to see the resemblance, I also recognize her cool expression from the picture in Ramsay’s room, hidden behind his clothes either as an afterthought or a pointed message.

She drills me with her gaze, and I turn to Ramsay helplessly, but he merely smirks. I’m standing before his mother, mussed, and dressed in his clothes, surely looking just fucked and confused by his lackadaisical attitude.

“Who’s this?” she asks briskly.

Ramsay shrugs, his smirk still wide as he says, “A friend.”

She swings her frigid gaze my way again, and it takes a monumental effort not to shrink under her censure. No surprise, Ramsay must’ve gotten his sparkling personality from her.

“I’ll thank you to take your whore somewhere else from now on,” she says, raising her brow at me.

Apparently unaffected by her words, Ramsay continues to smile, and the macabre parody of humor stretching his mouth sends a chill down my spine. I get the sinking feeling he likes that I’ve gotten under her skin but whatever his issue with his mom, it isn’t my problem, and unfortunately for Mrs. Yates, her wealth doesn’t scare me. I take shit from no one.

“I thought rich people had manners,” I mutter, raising my chin right back at her. Fuck you.

Mrs. Yates’ mouth forms a thin line, but I’m saved from another tongue lashing when Ramsay stands.

“Enough. I’ll have whoever I want here, including my whores, and there’s nothing you can say about it,” he says.

Annoyed, I give him a fierce glare but allow him to pull me from the kitchen and away from the bitch who glares after us with Ramsay’s identical stare.

He escorts me back down the hall and pushes me into a room, closing the door behind him before leaning against the dark wood.

The room is lined with books along the walls with a desk nestled near a large window that faces a cold fireplace and a sizable fancy rug in between.

Shivering, I turn away from his weird smile and mutter, “Can you stop?”

“Stop what?”

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