9. Zoe
Chapter Nine
ZOE
I plant my bare feet on the floor, coming down from the staircase and feeling drips of my wet hair gliding down on me.
I cleaned up well and chose a sequoia dress instead of the black I was swooning after because of him.
The dress is simple, but, like everything in this house, including the owner, it doesn’t lack elegance. It also reflects the same glow I had captured from the sun when I stepped out earlier to meet him.
I strut with my shoulders as straight as I can get them, fighting against the intimidation of everything in here and the person waiting for me.
It’s a short walk over to the breakfast room, but it evokes an image I will look further into later when I’m alone.
To have models dressed in casual house wear, walking the runway barefoot. Who said doing chores and having breakfasts cannot be as enchanting as getting dressed for dinner or running errands at work?
I stop at the entrance of the breakfast room, the food splayed on elegant platters.
Despite the array of delicious smells, the one that fills my nostrils above all is his own, all freshened up and clean.
He lifts his eyes from his phone and pokes them at me, “Hi,” his voice is no different from the glacial tone he left my room with, but the stiffness is melting away. “Good morning,” he chirps like he’s just seeing me for the first time today.
Like we hadn’t just had sex.
While taking my bath, I made an effort not to think about it, but every time I felt my hands brush over my skin, I was reminded of the weight of his body on me.
Although my body has experienced other men, I have never knowna man quite like Ettore. I'm still not sure how he differs from the others. Somehow, it feels like I have known him all my life.
“Good morning,” I swallow and take a step closer to the table, trying to pretend I’m not at all feeling the emptiness from when he left me when he pulled out of me earlier.
“Sit,” he commands, and I obey.
I nod, “Thank you,” I rip my eyes away from him and drop them to the table, “I don’t eat that much,” I mutter, staring at the unbelievable quantity of food only for the two of us.
“Eat,” he picks up his cutlery with grace and begins to eat from his plate.
There are two large platters on the table. Both contain a full-course meal in smaller bowls: toast bread, waffles, slices of bacon, French fries with tomato sauce beside them, sausages, baked beans, white and red grapes, slices of watermelon, and a small jug of orange juice.
One piece of toast will fill me up.
Under the Bratva, we were taught to be content with very little, and with time, our stomachs started to adjust to it. They said that if you have a big appetite, you must work more to fill it.
The more of everything you require, the more you work your body. We never got anything we didn’t earn, down to the air they let us breathe.
“What are you waiting for?” His coarse voice pulls me back to the breakfast in front of me, and I pick up my fork, not sure what to do with it or how to use it anymore.
For the past fifteen years, I’ve gotten used to eating with just a spoon or my hands, which makes the eating faster. It feels like trying to dig into corners of my memory that seem much too distant and foreign, but I can try.
I watch what he is doing to mimic him, but as he takes a slice of bacon to his mouth, I watch for a different reason. I've never seen anyone make eating so sultry.
As he swallows, I gulp down dry air, feeling my pussy pinch, wishing to be a slice of bacon right now and to be eaten by him.
He raises one eyebrow at me, and I shake off the dirty thoughts.
We fall into silence, with just the clattering of my clumsiness around the bowls and platters resounding in the room, as opposed to him not making a single sound.
I, on the other hand, can be heard from a mile away. Not my chewing but my etiquette. It’s rusty. Embarrassingly rusty. It takes up all my attention, and I can barely taste the food. I’m just swallowing for the sake of needing something in my stomach.
That and the fact that he is quiet, which I should take as his nature, doesn’t help the thread of anxiety weaving around my chest and knotting it with my stomach.
He hasn’t said anything about why he needed me here or what he expects of me. He has established that sex won’t be a part of it, which leaves me more confused than ever. I haven’t seen anyone who hires a slave and takes sex out of the itinerary. Let alone buy one.
He sets his cutlery down, takes the napkin, and dabs the corners of his mouth. Then he places it back on the table and reaches for a glass of water.
“The rules are simple,” he leans into his seat. “Do as I say,” his voice gruff and grating. I freeze, a scoop of baked beans mid-air.
“I bought you to be my servant,” he picks up the glass of water again and takes a small sip. This time, I gulp with him. The iciness of his tone and the fact that I do not know what that entails make me a nervous wreck. “If you disobey me, I will sell you back to the Bratva.”
No. I shake my head. I would rather be here than with them.
And I'm sure he'll follow through on his threat. Others might have talked about torturing me till I begged to die, but not him. If I disobey him, he'll just send me back.
“Are we clear?” He pins me with the coldness of his coal eyes, and I nod, accepting this fate.
He takes a minute to observe me, and I drop the scoop of baked beans back in the bowl. I feel nauseated, and my stomach roils.
“I know what you are, Zoe,” he sets the glass of water down, studying me.
He knows what I am.
What part of me does he know?