Chapter Ten #2
I barely get to fantasize about samosas and garlic naan before a hulking figure shadows my path, just as I’ve stepped onto the sidewalk.
A familiar figure. Killian’s guard dog, Locke. I stumble back when he blocks me, all of the NYC noise fading into the background as my focus hones in on him. If he’s here, does that mean…?
I glance behind him, where a limo idles on the curb, windows tinted. Is Killian in there? Did my refusal to accompany him for dinner actually result in him accosting me at my place of work?
That seems too far for him, but considering his recent track record of resorting to coercion and force, it isn’t. I glance around the street frantically, wondering if I should make a break for it.
“Miss Stewart,” Locke says. “Mr. King has invited you to join him for dinner tonight.”
I swallow. Locke’s words don’t sound like a request. “I’m afraid I’m unavailable.”
Locke nods solemnly. “That’s unfortunate. He’s quite looking forward to seeing you. In fact, I’ve been instructed to bring you directly to him.”
The subtext is clear; with or without my compliance.
“No,” I say. I mean for the word to come out strong, but it’s tremulous.
The memory of what transpired the last time I was in a room with Killian is jarring, and my ass is covered in dark blue welts because of it.
I want nothing to do with him—I can barely stomach the thirteen interviews we have to go, let alone adding any more time with him to my calendar.
Locke’s eyes harden, and his jaw tightens. “I don’t believe it was phrased as a request. Please, get in the car.”
“No,” I repeat. “We’re in the middle of a crowded city street, outside my place of work. You can’t force me to do anything—”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Locke’s voice has lowered to a haunting whisper.
“If you decide to make a scene, I’ll have to resort to using force.
Let me assure you, I have been trained in ways you couldn’t fathom.
If I press down on your vesuvian nerve, you’ll lose consciousness.
The car is ten feet away from us—getting you into it then will be no trouble at all.
Could it attract some glances? Maybe, but probably not—New Yorkers are notoriously desensitized—but even if it does, I could easily explain the scene away as you having a fainting spell and me taking you to the hospital. ”
He takes a step back. My heart hammers painfully in my chest. My ass pulses with each beat of it. A mixture of helplessness and fury lights up my veins, making me want to fight and scream, but Locke is right.
Making a scene would only negatively impact me. Yet again, I have no recourse, no option but to get in the car.
He must see the defeat on my face, because he walks to the limo and opens the door. “Please,” he says, motioning at the interior with his free hand.
I take one last long look up and down the city streets…
then, I get in the car. Smooth, buttery leather dents under my weight as I slide down one of the long benches.
A bottle of champagne rests in a small dip between seat cushions, along with a crystal glass.
Locke closes the door behind me, and the interior lights up.
I wrap my arms around myself and glance around the luxurious limousine, eyes falling on a garment bag and box draped over the leather-bound long seat across from me. There’s my name written across the garment bag, but I ignore it.
I’m not putting anything else Killian gives me on. I’m just fine in my slacks and red button up—if Killian wanted me to look the part during dinner, he should’ve actually given me a choice.
Locke gets into the driver’s seat. I watch him through the lowered partition, and he adjusts the rearview mirror so our eyes can meet.
“Mr. King has asked for you to change into the dress,” he says. “He believes you’ll be more comfortable.”
Locke speaks as if I’ve elected to be here, when he just threatened to knock me out and take me by force if I didn’t go willingly.
“No, thank you,” I say tersely.
“Again, it’s not truly a request. Killian asked me to warn you of… consequences… should you refuse.” Locke stares hard at me for a few more moments, then raises the partition screen.
I want to scream in frustration. Punishment likely refers to some form of corporal punishment, and I can’t take any more after Saturday. I’ve barely begun healing from the vicious belting I got—using the bathroom is still painful, as is sitting, lying down, and even standing.
It’s either put on the dress or earn more pain, and I can’t take more pain—not right now.
I squeeze my eyes closed. Take a few deep breaths.
Then, I reach across the aisle and snatch the garment bag.
When I unzip it, I see a lovely silver dress that gleams in the light, made of a metallic fabric.
It has spaghetti straps to hold up the shoulders, a slight v neckline, and a slit going up the thigh.
I can’t wear a bra with this dress—it’s too tight.
My nipples are bound to poke out. At any other time, I might actually be excited by a dress like this; it’s Vera Wang, outside my budget, and absolutely gorgeous.
But right now, I know that it’s less of a dress and more of something to wrap me in to make me the perfect little doll.
I hate the dress. I hate the limousine. I hate Killian, and I’m starting to hate myself.
Even so, I strip out of my work clothes and pull it on.
Even though I can’t stand up straight or look in a mirror to examine it, I can tell that the dress is flattering and stunning.
Killian must’ve somehow gotten my measurements and passed them on, because it fits me perfectly, as if it’s been tailored.
The waist is tight, the skirt is tastefully flowing, and the slit isn’t scandalously high—it stops mid-thigh.
I open the accompanying box, and pull out a pair of three-inch matching Jimmy Choo heels.
I have to grudgingly admit to myself that Killian has a good personal shopper.
I pull them on, wincing at the stiff material.
The heels won’t make for comfortable walking shoes, but I have to admit they’re very pretty.
Besides, I don’t get the sense I’ll be walking much tonight.
No, all of this is for Killian’s viewing pleasure—this getup doesn’t take my desires into account.
The limousine pulls to a stop just as I finish dressing. When I glance out the window, I see that it didn’t stop in front of a restaurant—rather a prestigious, upscale apartment building.
No. Fuck no. A public restaurant is one thing; a private dinner with Killian in one of his properties is far more dangerous.
I’ll have no way out.
I’ll be trapped, the same way I was in his office.