Rowan
I wake up in the car slumped over on the window as we pull into a long, asphalt winding driveway. My eyes widen when we pull up to a carved gray stone mansion, with wrought iron balconies and arched windows draped in heavy burgundy curtains. It’s dark and luxurious, like something you would see in a movie, but also what I imagine a vampire would live in. Is this supposed to be my prison? A luxury mansion that’s a thousand times bigger than my shitty Detroit apartment? Wow I’m shaking in my boots. This guy isn't going to scare me. I won’t let him. I will never let a man scare me again. I don’t care if he’s a fucking Santoro. That stopped meaning anything to me years ago. I know of his family, granted not much– but enough to know what they do. They won’t kill me over their issue with Frank.
Grayson opens my door and guides me up the white marble steps to the tall black double doors into his house, his grip is firm but not unkind. I hate how his touch makes my skin tingle, I should be repulsed by him. My hands are still bound but my feet are free now. He insisted on keeping my hands tied “for safety,” as if I’m the dangerous one.
“I’ll show you to our room, get cleaned up. The designer will be here in an hour.”
Our room?
“ Your room.” I snip, as he leads me up the staircase and into a large master bedroom decorated in all black and gold with tinted floor to ceiling windows on the back wall.
“You’ll get used to it,” he replies smoothly.
I stare in awe at the beautiful master bedroom as he removes his suit jacket. I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything Grayson has told me. Married. My father’s debt. Everything feels surreal.
“What’s the designer for?” I ask, cutting off my own thoughts. If I don’t they’ll torture me .
“You don’t have clothes here. She’s taking measurements and putting a wardrobe together for you.”
He says it so casually but normal people don’t have designers getting their clothes.
“I can just give her my sizes can’t I?”
He lets out a small laugh. “You will, but most of what you’ll have will be handmade by her. Her clothes are top quality.”
Most of my outfits cost ten dollars, I couldn’t give a shit less what kind of quality his designer has when I’m basically a prisoner. He probably thinks I’m going to swoon over all of his money because he sees I’m broke but I don’t put my value into shit like that.
He strides over to me, cutting my hands free with a tactical knife. I take the opportunity and attempt to slap him but he catches my hand.
“Don’t make being here harder on yourself, ,” He says calmly, gripping my wrist. “I can tie your hands back together if you’d like.”
I pull my hand back and clasp it into the other one, nodding to him. He exits without another word. My guess is, he wouldn’t leave my hands untied if there was a way for me to escape. I’d hate to let my pride get in the way if there’s not even a chance of me leaving this place.