Page 30 of Deadly Rival

“Hello, darling. I’m Anya. I’ll be doing your hair today. This is Ella. She’s beauty.” A smile softens her stern features, and she points to a swivel chair. “Take a seat here, please.”

Better manners than half of my staff. I take a seat and actually look at the salon interior for the first time, tracking the products and equipment. It has the look of a one-stop shop. Hairproducts and manicure and pedicure equipment. A couple of treatment rooms branch off from a small corridor. Perhaps they do waxing or laser as well?

The decor is a little old-school but funky. One black feature wall is filled with pictures of smiling women that don’t look like models. Maybe some previous clients? I stare at the wall and spot the goth girl from earlier, grinning with her jet-black hair curled into Victorian ringlets.

It’s all so normal and familiar. Even the faint chemical smell feels like stepping into my own clinic, and I breathe it in with a shiver as Anya addresses Sebastian. “You’re sure about the color? Her hair is so beautiful. It’ll take months to get it back to this shade.”

Months? That means black or red, then. I used to long to dye my hair those colors when I was a teen, but now? They’ll wash out my complexion. Which matters not at all, because I’m a goddamned captive.

“Yes. I want her to match my eyes.” Sebastian gives Anya a charming smile, and it changes his face. The tightness vanishes, and his eyes light up. It’s such an open, engaging expression that even Anya’s stern face gains a pink tinge.

All I can do is splutter, “Match your eyes? What?”

As his eyes meet mine in the mirror, his expression darkens, and the warm smile gains a predatory edge. “Yes. You’re going to be the perfect accessory.”

“Blue? You want my hair blue?” I don’t know why I’m so stuck on this point. It’s hardly the worst thing that’s happened to me today.

“Yes,” he says, as if I’m the strange one for questioning it. “Anya, please go ahead.”

As she mixes up the product, the other woman, Ella, steps forward. Her voice is barely a whisper. “And you want nails, lashes, and lips, sir?”

Sir.

It grates on me, that word. Anya didn’t use it, and Sebastian didn’t correct her. He probably didn’t dare—she looks like she could shot-put him through the salon window. Why did I never take up powerlifting as a hobby?

Sebastian turns his dazzling smile on Ella, and the poor thing melts. Her cheeks flush deep red, and she twists her hands together in front of her. Seriously? She just watched him walk me in on a leash. Is that not a red flag in this place?

“Yes. Nails to match the hair, but glittery. It’s not like my princess will be doing any housework.”

Then the bastard winks at me in the mirror, bends his neck, and kisses the top of my head.

It’s an electric shock, and I jerk away from him. “I’m not your fucking princess.”

His smile doesn’t falter one iota. “Sorry, darling. Does your daddy call you that?”

Yes, actually. I’m not telling him that, but my silence must have spilled the beans, because he says, “I’ll just stick with pet, then.”

He turns back to Ella, whose eyes are huge, round saucers. “Dramatic lashes, please. Not too heavy on the lips. I don’t want her to look ridiculous.”

Wait. “What are you doing to my lips?” I direct the question at Ella, and it comes out in my stern manager’s tone.

She jumps, glances at Sebastian, who nods, then answers in her quavery little voice. “Just a bit of filler. Please don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.” She gives a nervous smile. “You’ll look pretty. Not that you don’t now, I mean, but…it’ll suit you.”

I wantto snap at her, but it’d be like punching a kitten. I take a deep breath and direct my anger where it belongs. Sebastian’s smile is gone, but those deep blue eyes—that I’m about to be fucking matched with—flash with amusement.

“You said nothing permanent or painful.”

“Eighteen months isn’t permanent. And I said nottoopainful. You need to pay closer attention.”

“I don’t need filler. I don’t like—”

He whips his hand out, wrapping it around my throat. Ella takes a step back, and I hiss as his hand tightens. He’s not crushing me. It’s a light, insistent pressure that’s almost worse. A warning. “What you like doesn’t matter anymore.”

He squeezes, and I freeze. “You’re mine now. I’m full of ideas for what to do to you.” Before I can take a breath, the hand not gripping my neck cups my breast. He lifts it as if testing the weight. I stare at the scene in the mirror, and shock makes it seem as though it’s happening to someone else, though I can feel the pressure of his hand through the bra.

He’s touching me. There are people here. Surely stern Anya will do something? He can’t just grab me in public.

“These are a good size, but maybe we could go bigger. What do you think?” His twisted smile is back. A glimpse of a predator. Is it an act designed to scare me or the real him?

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