Page 29 of Deadly Rival

I try to bat the thought away, but it’s a mosquito whining in my ear.

Take that off. You look like a slut.

If you dye your hair black, I’ll find out who helped you and break her fingers.

Did you mean to look like you were born in the gutter?

Words shoot out in a rush. “Why the fuck do you care what I look like? You want to punish me, I get that. But this—” I jerk my chin at the guard holding the needle, and the collar presses tighter on my throat. “—it’s messed up. Playing dress up. You’re sick.”

All my tirade gets me is a smile. “Playing dress up. I like that, but you haven’t answered my question. Will you behave, or do you need the needle?”

Movement behind the window catches my eye. Two women stand, watching the show. Prisoners. If what Sebastian said is true, they’re prisoners as well.

Think. Drugged, I’m helpless. Stacked against that, who cares what he does to my appearance? There are people here who want me out of this place. If I’m drugged and trapped in Sebastian’s room, they might not be able to help me.

“Don’t drug me. I’ll do what you want.”

It’s the sensible course of action, but I hate hearing the words. Sebastian nods to the soldier. “Wait outside, please, until we’re done. Thanks for your help.”

“Sir.”

The soldier steps aside, but I’m stuck on Sebastian’s words.Thanks for your help.It doesn’t fit. It’s too polite. Too kind for the image he’s projecting. Harrison would have pushed past the guy without a second look.

I follow Sebastian into the salon. It’s empty, apart from the two women who watch us like hawks. I’m guessing even in this fucked-up place, women being marched in here collared and at needlepoint isn’t the norm. One of the women is in her fifties, solid and with a stern, lined face. She reminds me of my dad’s secretary, who has worked with him longer than I’ve been alive.

Just another puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. Sebastian said all the women here are captives. Sex slaves. She doesn’t match thatstereotype. The other woman does, however. She’s small and absolutely stunning, with masses of dark hair and a delicate face like a doll.

Sebastian bends to whisper in my ear. “Be nice to them. They had a full morning of clients and canceled them for you. They’re going to have to deal with some grouchy ladies at the social brunch this weekend.”

I don’t bother to ask what in the hell he’s talking about. It’s a waste of time. So there’s a social brunch now? Great. I’ve been to plenty of those. Maybe I’ll get to speak to someone who isn’t crazy.

“I’m going to free your hands and take off your collar. Don’t even think of making a dash for it. If you do, it’s the needle. No second chances.”

God, I want this collar off me. Without it, I won’t feel like such a freak. Sebastian attends to the cuffs first, unlocking them. Before I can move my hands forward, he wraps his fingers around my wrists, massaging where the metal had been digging in. With all the stress, I hadn’t noticed the pain, but now, the flood of sensation hits me in a rush.

“A little too tight, perhaps,” he mutters, but I don’t think he’s talking to me. More like a note to self for next time. What the hell does he care if my wrists are sore? All part of the fun for him, right?

When he releases me, I roll my shoulders to relieve the ache as he moves to the collar. It pulls tighter as he works the buckle, and my stomach clenches at the pressure. If he strangled me, right here in this weird salon, would anyone care? Would the women run screaming for help? Would the soldier outside rush in to stop him?

Or would everyone just watch, dead-eyed, then organize to have my body tossed in a furnace somewhere?

Dad’s voice saves me from spiraling.

If anyone fucks with you, they answer to me.

Damn right. These people wouldn’t dare. The man—Fred—already proved they’re scared. I just need to stay alive long enough for Dad to find me.

The pressure eases on my neck, and I sigh with relief as Sebastian pulls the collar free. I twist my head from side to side, enjoying the freedom to do so. Sebastian wears a thoughtful expression as he comes back into view. He studies the collar, rubbing his finger over the nametag.

“I haven’t decided on your tattoo. I don’t have any of my own, mainly because I’ve never been able to make up my mind what to get. Imagine getting the wrong thing and regretting it. Do you have any already?”

I snort and answer honestly without thinking. “If anyone tattooed me, my dad would have chopped their hands off. I’m sure he’ll do the same to you. Along with anything else you put near me.”

Sebastian’s eyes widen, and the look he gives me is almost guilty. Like I surprised him doing something he shouldn’t. He glances at the women waiting quietly and is all business again.

“Which chair would you like her in?”

The older lady bustles forward, holding out a beefy hand for me to shake. I take it without hesitating. Thank God. At least one person in this place acknowledges I exist. Her accent is European, but I can’t place it. Somewhere eastern, maybe?

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