Page 27 of Ruthless

He shrugs. “It’s no fun for me if you break too soon.” He checks his watch again. “Two minutes.”

I know I need to shift myself into gear, but my muscles seem frozen, the dress still lying between us a tangible reminder of my own helplessness.

Dantetsks. “Need some help?”

The thought of him putting his hands on me again sends my nerves into a tizzy. From disgust…or I try to convince myself of that. Because no part of me should want him to touch me. This isn’t the Middle Ages, and he can’t just decide he owns me as if he’s some feudal lord and I’m a peasant girl serving in his manor.

Presenting him with my back, I strip off the clothes he gave me a few days ago and quickly yank on the dress.

Dante has seen me naked plenty of times before, and unfortunately, my dream the other night reminded me of just how good he used to make me feel. What does he see when he looks at me now? Five years may not seem long in the grand scheme of things, but my body has changed so much since I was in my early twenties.

My hips are wider, my breasts fuller and softer. My belly, too, for that matter. He isn’t familiar with this version of me, and I struggle with the desire to hide, busying myself withadjusting the length. Somehow, the garment leaves me feeling more exposed than wearing nothing at all.

The dress he picked out matches my blue eyes, and the stretchy material hugs every curve. The strategically placed cutouts show an almost indecent amount of flesh. As a result, my underwear beneath the garment looks awkward and out of place beneath it.

Swallowing thickly, I slip my panties and bra off before he can issue the order. A tiny, rebellious way to reclaim a shred of agency.

From behind me, Dante clears his throat. “Lift your hair.” I do so, still too embarrassed to do anything but stare at the floor. When the locket at my neck disappears, I spin with a cry and grab for it. Though his face remains unreadable, a storm brews in his eyes, a dark, savage tempest that vies with his sanity. I don’t know which will emerge victorious, so I turn away, dropping my hand back to my side.

Something cool presses against my throat, and at first, I think he’s putting the necklace back on. Then I touch it and realize that it’s not my locket at all, but a snug choker with a little metal ring attachment on the front.

A collar. He put a collar on me.

Dante jerks me closer with a possessive grip. “So you remember who you belong to tonight.”

Whether a threat or a promise, the result is the same. He’s claimed me more thoroughly with this little trinket than he ever could have when we were together, and I hate him for that.

I’ve never been to a place like Club Paradiso before. Someone like me wouldn’t. It strikes me as the type of establishmentthat requires a six-digit annual membership fee. Of course, the building didn’t look like much when Dante pulled his car up to the valet. Just another skyscraper in an expensive part of Manhattan.

The elevator brought us straight to the forty-first floor, and the bouncer recognized Dante right away, so he must come here often. I ignore the way my gut twists as I speculate on what, exactly, Dante gets up to in here, and instead drink in the surroundings with wide, greedy eyes.

Though my legs shake, relief accompanies my anxiety. I may not know what Dante has in store for me, but at least I’ve temporarily escaped that miserable cell.

The club stretches the entire expanse of the top floor, and the ceiling must be twenty, no thirty feet up. Two walls have floor-to-ceiling windows that offer the most beautiful view of the city I’ve ever seen. Private booths facing the dance floor span the back wall, some enclosed by curtains that can shut. The sinking sensation in my stomach suggests that I’m beginning to understand what happens in places like this.

The most remarkable element of the space, though, is the bar that extends almost the whole length of the last wall. It’s this gigantic wooden anomaly, like something out ofPeaky Blindersor one of those old noir films my mom used to watch on TV late at night. Every kind of alcohol known to man covers the shelves, and the mirrored backing reflects the room back at me. The retro glamour almost seems misplaced amid the rest of the nightclub’s modern extravagance.

Like me.

Lines of coke and stray pills litter some of the tables. A man leans into his partner and snorts something off her breasts. I glance away as Dante presses his hand to the small of my back and guides me through the thick crowd. The air brims withexpensive perfume, marijuana, and sweat, all mixing into an intoxicating cocktail.

As a nurse who’s witnessed the disastrous effects of substance abuse, I’m not one for partaking. Given the current situation, though, I don’t feel bad about inhaling the skunky cloud as we cross the room. I wouldn’t say no to a little contact high to help numb at least some of my senses.

The club is packed, but people part for us like the Red Sea did for Moses. Eyes wander from Dante to me as we parade through, and my self-consciousness skyrockets. Dressed like this, these people must think I’m a hooker, and I feel the sudden urge to distance myself from Dante. I lengthen my strides, trying not to wobble on the four-inch heels he forced me to wear, and as the edge of the crowd comes into view, Dante locks his arm around my waist.

“Don’t wander too far from me,conglietta. After all, you’re just a little rabbit who’s hopped into a den of wolves.” He places the gentlest kiss on my shoulder, his free hand toying with my wrist, and electricity wreaks havoc on my nerve endings. My first instinct is to shove him away, but I refrain. The back and forth, the constant switch from hot to cold and back again, overwhelms me.

As if he can sense my internal struggle, Dante lifts and places another kiss on my wrist there. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he couldn’t keep his mouth off me. “Relax, Sara. The party hasn’t even started yet, and I still need to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

We stride past a beautifully carved wood bar and toward a short flight of stairs that leads up to a room I hadn’t noticed. From there, we ride the elevator one floor up and exit to dark-paneled walls and low lighting.

Another bouncer, this one even bigger and more menacing than the one downstairs, nods to Dante without sparing me a look and pulls open a thick, heavy door for us.

Tables are scattered throughout a lounge-like setting, each one boasting a Tiffany lamp that casts an intimate glow. A glass wall offers a perfect view of the club below, and the sleek, backlit bar running along the back of the room paints the liquor bottles a sinister red.

This space is quieter, less crowded, and creates even more of an exclusive vibe than the rest of the club.

A man motions us over. “Dante!”