Three Years(26)

I look down to see I’m still naked except for his leather cut, and a rolling wave of nausea slams into me. I put my hand over my mouth, swinging my legs off the bed and scrambling to the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I lose last night’s dinner.

Gasping for breath, I look to see Dornan standing in the doorway to the bathroom. “Take a shower,” he says briskly. “Five minutes.”

I glare at him, shrugging out of his cut and tossing it on the ground before I step into the glass shower cubicle. I slam the door forcefully, but not hard enough to break it, and he watches my every move as I scrub myself with a bar of soap that smells like lavender.

After I’ve soaped everywhere and rinsed off, I shut the water off. He hands me a towel and I snatch at it angrily, annoyed that he’s being nice to me. I preferred it when he was choking the life out of me. This shit is just messed up.

He points to a scrap of folded white material on the counter next to the sink. “Get dressed. It’s time to eat.”

He leaves the room and I snatch at the white clothing, shaking it open. It’s a white sundress, with an empire waist and stretchy sides. It’s a maternity dress, for fuck’s sake.

I fling the dress on the ground and wrap the towel around me instead, stepping out of the bathroom. I’m starving, but if he’s going to stay in here and watch me, I’m not touching his fucking food.

A look of annoyance flashes over his features as he sees I’m not wearing the dress, but he doesn’t say anything. He points to the wicker chair that overlooks the balcony, the plate of eggs and bacon sitting on the table next to it.

“Sit,” he says, tapping the back of the chair. “Eat.”

I frown. “You were trying to starve me, and now you’re trying to fatten me up? I don’t think so.” I cross my arms over my chest, water from my wet hair dripping down my shoulders and seeping into the top of my towel. Luckily, the heat seems to be turned on in this part of the house, or I’d be freezing cold.

“Juliette,” he says sharply.

I storm over to the plate, picking it up and hurling it at the window. I’m so weak that the stupid plate doesn’t even break—nor the window—but it’s still satisfying seeing the eggs slide down the glass as the bacon rains onto the carpet. My stomach protests, but I don’t care. I’d rather starve to death than eat his food.

He nods, a grave expression on his face. Pulling his phone out, he dials and waits, never taking his eyes from me.

“Bring that little servant girl up here,” he says to whoever is on the other line. “Quickly.” He ends the call and pockets his cellphone, looking oddly calm despite my act of defiance.

He sits in one of the two wicker chairs, turning it to face me, while I stand there and drip water on the carpet. What is he playing at? Suspicion bubbles up in me, keeping the hunger company. A moment later the door opens, and The Prospect is there, but he’s not alone. He’s holding the wrist of a young Hispanic woman, who’s eighteen at the most, and probably younger than that. She’s dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and a black knee-length skirt, some kind of uniform I guess. He pulls her into the room and kicks the door shut behind him.

“What’s your name,” he asks the servant girl.

“Violetta,” she says quietly.

“Did you cook this food?” Dornan asks her pleasantly, his fingers templed in his lap.

“Yes, sir,” she says, nodding frantically.

“Well,” Dornan says. “Apparently it’s not good enough for my girl.” He flashes a fuck you smile at me, then turns back to the girl as my panic mounts.

“Ese,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Today’s your lucky day. Stand right where you are. Violetta, unzip his pants and start sucking his cock.”

“What?” The Prospect and I both say at the same time. The poor girl is too scared to even open her mouth to question her asshole of a boss.

“Have you got a hearing problem?” he asks, shifting in his seat. “Or would you like me to give you one?” He pulls his gun from his waistband and sets it on his lap as a clear warning. “Sometimes, if the bullet doesn’t get lodged in the brain, I can get it in one ear and clear out the other.” He smiles cordially, as if he’s talking about the fucking weather.

“Knees. Suck. Now. Do you need that in Spanish?”

“Boss,” The Prospect says, shifting from foot to foot.

“Shut up,” Dornan says. “You’re expendable. There’s a million other fuckin’ chili eaters out there who’ll take your place, Mexicana. Stand there and do as you’re told.”