Page 16 of The Killer's Payment

And it’s his fingers stroking my hair…

I open my eyes. The room is way darker than it should be. And James is fully dressed.

“Too much for you, little one?” he asks.

I sit up, blinking and feeling around for something to cover myself with. I must have nodded off.

“Don’t,” he says, his deep voice a warning. “Better to get used to being naked in my bed. You’re too far too beautiful to hide yourself from me.”

He holds out his hand, and I look down to see him offering a steaming hot mug of dark liquid. “The coffee we missed this morning.”

“Th-thanks,” I stutter, accepting the drink and peering down into it to avoid looking at him in the dim light.

Standing, he crosses the room and turns on the overhead light. “You’re probably sore. I’d offer to draw you a bath, but we need to get going. You have time for a quick shower, though, and you’ll find your clothes in the en suite. Come out to the kitchen when you’re decent.”

And with that curt dismissal he just… leaves.

I stare at the closed door. He must think I’m… God, what must he think? We have sex once, and I need a full eight hours of sleep to recover? How humiliating. No wonder he’s so eager to get rid of me.

Earlier, he said I could stay, made it sound like hewantedme to stay. But clearly, fucking me was such a disappointment that he changed his mind.

Feeling like a fool, I set the mug on the nightstand and head into the bathroom. Wetting a washcloth, I wash my face and then bathe my still tender sex, not bothering with a shower. If he’s that impatient for me to leave, better to rip the Band-Aid off quickly. I can shower when I’m home.

Home.

I clutch the edge of the counter, feeling ill at the realization that it’s time to follow through with the rest of my plan. It seemed so brilliant in the abstract—returning to my father and presenting myself as damaged goods. But now that I actuallyamruined…

Swallowing back the tears, I search for my nightgown. James said it would be in here. And won’t that be just perfect? The humiliation of standing in front of my father in that stupid, flimsy nightie and admitting that I’m now damagedandunwanted goods?

But it’s not my nightgown that I find on the cedar bench in the bathroom but a dress. One ofmydresses from my closet at home. On the bench beside it is one of my lingerie sets. A blue lace bra and a matching thong. My favorite.

Shit.Myfavorite…

Oh my god, does this mean that my dad already knows?

Thoroughly humiliated I put on the bra and underwear. Taking the dress off the bench, I stare at it in dismay. Sure, it’s one of my cuter ones. White lace. The kind of thing I wear to my dad’s garden parties now that I’m older. A dress guaranteed to make men stare. Yet it’s an awfully impractical choice for October in New York…

But realizing I have no other option, I pull on the dress, then survey my reflection in the mirror, staring into the eyes of a girl who’s been rejected. She’s a perfect mess. In the harsh light of the bathroom, her skin is washed out, eyes red rimmed.

No wonder James doesn’t want me. How gauche and unsophisticated I must seem compared to the women he’s used to dating. God, I was so naive to think a man like him could actually be interested in an inexperienced, nineteen-year-old virgin.

But as I continue to stare at my reflection, trying to work up the courage to go out to the kitchen and face his scorn, the unfairness of the situation hits me, and my self-pity is replaced by anger.

Who does he think he is to reject me out of hand just because I wasn’t perfect my first time? And more than that—it’s nothisdecision whether or not I return to my father’s house.

Sure, I don’t have anywhere else to go, but if he’d just give me a few days, I could figure something out. Call some friends from school, find a job,something. And isn’t giving me that time the least he could do after freakingkidnappingme and taking my virginity?

That’s the part that stings most of all. Because when he was inside of me—stretching me, filling me—I really thought I felt a true connection there. And the way he looked at me, it seemed like he felt the same.

But no, he’s just like my dad, seeing me as nothing but a pawn. A vehicle for humiliating his enemy. A doll to be returned—broken—now that the debt he was owed has been collected.

Well, screw that. Even if I was disappointing, he didn’t seem totally disinterested earlier. Maybe we can work something out, come to some sort of agreement where I can at least stay here a little longer as I figure things out.

Returning to the bedroom, I sip my now lukewarm coffee and try to convince myself that I’m fine with this plan, that it’s what I want. My entire life I’ve tried to get the approval of a man who never saw me as anything more than a pretty doll to be trotted out at parties to impress his friends, an asset to be sold to the highest bidder once it fully appreciated. And look where that got me—caught smack dab in the middle of my father’s failed “business” dealings.

None of this would have happened if I’d had the sense to leave home the moment I turned eighteen. And I won’t make the same mistake twice—I won’t try to win the approval of a man who clearly doesn’t want me.

It doesn’t matter that he’s sinfully handsome and has a body that makes me weak in the knees. It doesn’t matter that I’ve dreamed about him for years. Or that he has dark green eyes that seem to see into my soul.

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