Page 18 of Deadly Rival

Oh, God. I do.

I could walk in there right now. Force her to remove the rest of her clothes. Tie her to the bed. Do whatever I want. And no one, not a single person in the Compound, would hold it against me. There it is again, that black lake. The lure of unshackled power. The temptation to dive in is almost too strong.

She picks up the cheap bra she selected from the drawer and shrugs into it in a rush. She must suspect I’m watching. How does that make her feel? My blood races faster as she squeezes into it. It’s the right size but designed to shove her tits upward, and that’s exactly what it does.

The top doesn’t help her at all. The neckline skims the top of the bra, leaving oceans of exposed cleavage. She tugs at it, shifting it this way and that, but nothing helps. My lip curls up as I watch her struggle, the rush of lust mingling with something darker. This is all part of her punishment. The more uncomfortable she is, the better.

Finally, she gives up. Her hands fall to her sides, and she stares at herself in the mirror, biting her lip. All dressed up for me. How she must hate it.

The skirt next. She unzips the sensible suit skirt, folds, it and places it on top of the blouse. Her round ass juts out as she rips off the pale blue panties she was wearing and drags on the barely-there black thong. The flimsy black line circles her hips, and I’m almost sad when she steps into the miniskirt, yanking it over her hips.

She shifts it down as far as she can without exposing the line of the panties and turns to survey herself in the mirror again. She tilts her head to the side as she studies her own reflection and closes her eyes. Then she opens them again, as if what she’s looking at will have magically changed.

Christ, she’s like a different person. She looks at least five years younger, her actual age, stripped of the overly sensible power suit. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and she pulls it in front, as if it will help hide the cleavage. All it does is enhance the cheap sexiness of the outfit, and she must see the same thing I do, because she pushes it back behind her shoulders again.

She gives herself a long, hard look in the mirror and strides from the room. My skin flushes hot as I realize what comes next. She did as she was told, like the obedient little pet I’m going to turn her into.

I take a minute to straighten my own outfit—refined and elegant, of course, to provide the best contrast possible.

Time to greet my guest.

Eight

Ophelia

It’s just clothes. Asilly, juvenile trick to set me off my game and make me feel weak. I’m a Calder, and it doesn’t matter if I’m dressed in a suit, naked, or wearing a goddamn clown costume. Nothing can change that fact. Even as a captive, I have power.

I repeat the words as I stare at myself in the mirror, but it’s hard to believe them. I’ve been here less than a day, and he’s already made me dress myself like a stripper. My stomach growls, reminding me why I went along with his demands. It’s been a full day since I ate anything, and that was just a slice of toast.

I’ve never been this hungry before. My hollow stomach aches, and my legs wobble as I walk to the door. Logically, I know I’m nowhere close to starving—humans can go days without food and be fine—but logic isn’t helping right now, and the hours by myself with nothing to distract me from thinking about food have worn me down.

If I refused to play his stupid game, he’d have made me wait for lunch. Then dinner. On and on, until I finally cracked. I should have just done this last night, when I felt stronger.Refusing gained me nothing, and now my emotions are boiling close to the surface. I want to scream, or burst into tears, or both. Neither will work.

My hands twitch toward the skirt as I reach the bedroom door, but I force them down to my sides. It won’t help. I’m sure he’s waiting right outside, ready to gloat at his little win.

What is his endgame here? What does he want? I need to work it out, but anxiety is a swarm of buzzing bees, drowning out my thoughts. He dressed me like a cheap hooker. Is that a sign of how he plans to treat me? When he opens this door, just what in the hell is he going to do to me?

My hands shake—whether from hunger or fear, I’m not sure—and I ball them into fists. Breathe. You can do this.

I still jump when the door opens. I try to stand straight and tall, but instinct takes over, and I stumble back a step as adrenaline scorches my bloodstream. The clothes felt ridiculous a moment ago, but now, faced with Sebastian in the flesh, all I can think about is how exposed I am. How I’m dressed up as he demanded, for his amusement.

I finally force my eyes to focus on the man in the doorway. He’s tall, and not in the gangly, high-school way my lingering memory tells me he should be. He’s filled out in the last ten years, still lean but strong, broad shoulders complimented by his perfectly tailored suit.

He’s immaculate, and everything, from the pale gray suit fabric to the eggshell shirt to the cufflinks with a hint of blue to match his eyes, tells a story of time and care taken to select it.

I’m used to powerful men having a rough edge. My father and brother both aim for elegance, but there’s savagery there, too. Sebastian is almost too handsome to be scary, but when he smiles, a shiver runs through me. There’s something predatory about it. A darkness hiding behind his perfect face.

And worse, he’s enjoying this.

His gaze tracks up and down my exposed skin, and I fight the urge to wrap my arms around myself like a stupid teenager. No. That’s the reaction he wants, and he’s not getting anything he wants from me. Not a single damn thing. I’ve already given him way too much by dressing myself like this.

“What do you think of the outfit?”

His voice, free of the affected gravelly rasp, is deeper than I expect. There’s melody to it, and the cultured tone perfectly matches his appearance. Everything about him is so tailored, and none of it gels one iota with the boy I remember. It’s like this man erased that person from the world and took his place.

But here it is, the battle I’ve been craving. I straighten my spine and look him right in the eye. “Let’s move past this silliness, shall we? I’m not sure what point you were hoping to make, but I’m a busy person, and I’m sure you are too. Why have you brought me here? What do you want from my family?”

I imagine myself dressed in my suit and heels, speaking with an antagonistic business associate.

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