Page 32 of Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy 1)
The clothes you will wear to work are in the closet.
If you are not attired as I’ve outlined by nine, expect to spend another twenty-four hours here. Your excuses will be made to your employees.
* * *
The hurricane of emotions rioting through my head has my fingers gripping the device before I’m conscious of my own movement. More than anything, I want to throw it at the wall, smashing it to pieces.
How dare he?
But one phrase stops me before my high-school softball-pitching skills come into play.
“The clothes you will wear to work.”
My chest heaves with ragged breaths as I
drop onto the edge of the bed and reread every word of the note six times. I don’t trust this man, but if there’s a single chance he’ll let me out of these rooms to go to work, I have to comply.
And he knows I will.
“You fucking bastard,” I tell the wall, the pliant latex of the sex toy clutched in my hand.
Mount’s low, deep voice comes from the doorway. “You’re right. I am a bastard. Born on the streets to a whore who left me on the front steps of a church. Raised on those same streets and put through a hell you will never in your soft and cushioned life ever imagine.”
I whip around to face him, my hand no longer shaking in rage, but trembling with fear. He steps toward me, and the stories Magnolia told me play through my head, as do her warnings.
I straighten my arm down at my side, hiding my reaction from him.
“You think what I want from you is demeaning?” he asks, taking another step toward me.
“You don’t fucking know the meaning of the word, but I’m happy to introduce you to a taste if that’s what it takes for you to hold up your end of the bargain we made last night. Unlike you, I keep my word.”
In that moment, I believe he’s capable of every horrible thing I’ve heard about him.
He can hurt me. Kill me. Make me disappear.
But for some reason that I may never, ever understand—he wants me.
That, and maybe only that, gives me an edge.
I have a choice to make, and I can’t let fear paralyze my brain. I can continue to rebel and challenge him—and undoubtedly lose—or bend the slightest bit and make it appear that I’m playing his game.
I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid.
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin as though the black satin sheet is a ball gown.
“I was not aware of your parentage. The slur was only meant in reference to your personality. At least, what I’ve seen of it so far.” The next part is harder to get out, but I manage. “I apologize for any offense I’ve caused with it. It was unintended in that context.”
Something flits across his expression. Surprise? Disbelief? Shock? I don’t know, because it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he glances down at his watch.
“You have eleven minutes to get ready if you want to go to work today.” His gaze lifts to mine and a hint of a smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth. “I suggest you hurry, unless you’d prefer to spend the day wearing less than you are now.”
Again, the phrase fucking bastard floats through my head, but this time I keep it in. I spin and rush into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, not even thinking until I’m midway through brushing my teeth that maybe slamming a door in Mount’s face might not be the best idea I’ve ever had.
Even so, I scrub my face in a hurry and rush to the closet to find exactly one outfit hanging in it. A black pencil skirt and an iridescent gold blouse that looks nearly transparent. A matching sheer gold bra lies on the center island next to a strand of white pearls.
Black, gold, and white.
I don’t have time to wonder again about the significance of those colors as I drop the sheet and get dressed. I’m not the least bit surprised when everything fits perfectly. The clothes are all higher quality than I’ve even allowed myself to dream of owning, and my employees are certainly going to have questions.
