Page 9 of Hunted Temptation
I countthe hours down until my father is supposed to wake up. His words were enough of a warning for me that I’ve been physically ill with anticipation for hours… maybe it’s more dread than anticipation, though.
I’ve showered twice, done my hair, and put on a full face of makeup. The only thing I haven’t done is put on any clothes.
I’m in a robe, waiting for my next instruction. I already know that if I got dressed, it would just upset him. So I wait for his demands, because they will be coming, and they will be in detail.
As I sit on the edge of my bed, my head is dipped as I wait for my father to enter my room, my knee bouncing as I do. I don’t know what he has planned tonight, but it must be big if he was gone all night last night and then told me I needed to be on my best behavior tonight.
And I know whatbest behaviormeans in his world.
It means not only willing but enthusiastically excited about whatever is going to happen. And thatwhateveris going tobe something I absolutely do not want to do. It’s going to be something that makes me feel gross, bad, and sick.
And since I’m already sick just thinking about it, I can’t imagine how it’s all going to go down.
Anxiety fills me. It flows through me almost like a living, breathing thing. It fills the air in the room, threatening to choke me, and I blink back tears as I await my fate. I’m not sure why, whether it was the seriousness in my father’s tone, the way he gently woke me up to warn me about this afternoon, or what —but this feels big.
The door to my bedroom opens just as I’m about to attempt to calm my breathing because it’s become short and rapid. There stands my father. He’s dressed in a suit, which isn’t unheard of, but usually, he hates them.
“It has been postponed,” he announces, the irritation clearly expressed on his face.
“Postponed?” I ask.
My heart feels as if it’s about to actually burst out of my chest at the thought of feeling this anxious for however long I’m going to have to wait. I hate it. I wait for his response, wondering if he’s even going to tell me.
My father loves to watch me suffer in any way possible. Mental anguish is actually his preferred method, although he does enjoy physical pain as well. So I wait, my mind conjuring up some really scary and sick images as I do.
“Tomorrow,” he states.
I open my mouth to ask him what is going to happen tomorrow, but then decide against it. Snapping my lips closed, I press them together as I attempt to calm myself down. It doesn’t work. I’m still a gigantic ball of anxiety.
Thankfully, or maybe unthankfully, he puts me out of my misery and continues. “A heavy hitter is coming to town tomorrow. He arrives today but has several conflictingengagements, and he is unable to get away from them. He’s requested the best I have, which is you.”
I’m not sure how I should feel about that. I don’t think this is something I should be proud to be the best at. I wish I didn’t excel at anything—at all. It might make my life a hell of a lot easier if that were the case.
But unfortunately, this part of me was created by this man. Created to be everything and anything he deemed necessary. I hate it. Every single second of it. I’ve never wanted to be thisthing, this creation of his.
I feel like a monster, like I’ve been picked apart, pulled apart, and then sewn back together again… inside and out.
My father lifts his hand, and I don’t flinch back as much as I want to. Clenching my jaw, I anticipate his touch. He turns his hand over before he touches me, the back of his knuckle grazing me from my earlobe down my jawline and stopping at the center of my chin.
“Open for me,” he demands softly.
I want to do anything but that, any single thing. Reaching for my robe tie, I begin to open it for him, but one slight shake from his head causes me to pause. When I feel the pad of this thumb touch my bottom lip, I realize what he wants.
As much as I hate this part, at least it’s not as invasive as anything else. “You’ll save the rest of your body for tomorrow. He is particular about his girls. He’s made that much clear.”
Gross.
I do what I’m instructed to do, hating every single second of it. Every single millisecond. Every single nanosecond. Whatever time wants to be measured by.
I hate it.
All of it.
So I disappear into that recess of my mind where I can live in some kind of ignorance, my body taking over movementsand instructions without me being present. And as each second passes, I can’t help but hope that it’s over with soon.
VAUGHN
Glancingdown at my gold Versace Dominus Skeleton watch, I check the time. I spent far longer than I should have getting cameras turned off, adding trackers, and then figuring out where I could put listening devices without being seen.
