Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Cosette
I stare out the barred window in the cell-like room. I’ve dimmed the lights so I can see out better and it’s harder to see me.
Not that he doesn’t have cameras trained on every possible exit.
If I move close enough to it and peer out, maybe squint my eyes a little, I don’t notice the bars.
Not that I care. He could put me alone in a prison in Siberia right now, and I’d welcome the solitude.
I don’t want to be anywhere near him.
I hate that guarded, fierce look in his eyes.
I hate that I’m in this predicament.
And he may not know this? But God, I hate Paris.
When I was younger, I didn’t really understand why I hated Paris so much.
When I was about six years old, I finally understood. I can still see my mother, sitting at our worn kitchen table, flipping through junk mail. A pamphlet of the Eiffel Tower bragged about discount flights abroad. She tore it into pieces and tossed it in the trash bin.
I hate Paris because she did.
“Why do you hate it so much?” I asked her.
She sucked on her cigarette, opening her mouth and releasing a ring of smoke before answering me. I imagined her words were embedded in the smoke.
“You’re old enough to know. Your father came from Paris.”
My father? I don’t know what I’d assumed up until then, but as a child with fanciful thoughts and a vivid imagination, I probably imagined she’d plucked me from a garden or something.
“My father?” I asked.
“Your father,” she said, her voice laced with contempt. “This is the first and last time we’ll ever talk of him.”
And that was that.
For her, anyway. For me, it was only the beginning.
The motion-activated lights blink on outside the window. Avril Gerard, her head held high, surrounded by lithe, lanky bodyguards on either side, walks down the long pathway that leads to her parked car.
My heart aches.
I’ve only met Avril once, when she came to Corsica to visit her sons.
They never take her to Le Luxe and she likes to pretend it doesn’t exist, but she sometimes comes on holiday.
Even though I worked for Thayer, I was friends with his sister-in-law Nicolette first and I’ve known Nicolette’s husband Fabien for years.
Avril was at once kind and welcoming. Once, Avril, Nicolette, and I went for a visit to one of Corsica’s many natural springs.
She asked about college, our plans, and listened with rapt attention to everything we said.
She brought a wicker basket of little sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, ripe fruit, and chilled wine.
It was a simple meal, but with her welcoming presence and ready smile, it felt like a feast meant for royalty.
I wonder what it’s like for her being alone. If I survive this—and I have no reason to believe I will—I wonder if I’ll be as graceful being alone as she is. Is it lonely? Or does she like having full autonomy over her life?
I wish I could talk to Avril now.
Nicolette spoke highly of her before I met her, and when I did, I wished I could spend more time with her.
My mother battled demons her whole life. She was coarse and abrasive and rarely showed kindness. But she was the only family I ever had, and she loved me in her own way.
I still miss her.
I blink in surprise when Avril turns to face Lyam’s house before she gets into her car. She’s strength and grace personified.
I watch as she kisses her fingertips and waves her hand toward the house.
Or is it… toward me?
Does she know, then?
Was that on purpose?
I pretend to catch the kiss in the air and place it onto my damp cheek.
I hate that I’m crying.
I hate the position I’m in.
I hate that I felt as if I had no choice.
The only warning I get is a series of clicks and sliding bolts that tell me he’s coming in. Ice pulses through my veins.
I stand with my back to him, still gazing down at the pathway. Pretending that my whole body doesn’t go rigid and my heart begin to pound when I feel him enter the room. I still don’t turn to look at him.
“Tears won’t sway me, you know.”
I close my eyes and steel myself to face him. To face whatever it is that comes next.
I wasn’t trying to gain his sympathy. I wasn’t even thinking about him.
But do I ever really stop thinking about Lyam?
“Look at me.”
I flinch at the sound of his voice. So cold. So harsh.
This isn’t a hill to die on. We’ll get there.
So I draw a deep breath and turn to face him.
Lyam stands in the doorway, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. The dim lighting makes it harder to see his eyes, but I know every crease and contour of his face.
The harsh slash of his brow drawn over brooding eyes.
The aristocratic turn of his nose, and his sensual mouth.
He’s beautiful and cruel, like an angry god.
He’s the epitome of tall, dark, handsome, and fucking pissed off.
Behind him, I hear the vague chatter of staff, footsteps, and the barely audible, faint sound of glasses clinking. I doubt he’s invited anyone to the house, so it makes me wonder how many members of staff he has here.
“Nicolette thought it smart to tell my mother you were here.”
Oh, did she? I’m surprised by this. My betrayal of their family put Nicolette’s sister in danger.
“Why?”
“I have no idea. Misplaced sympathy? Mercy?”
I don’t reply. I don’t know what to say to something like that anyway. If he thinks he needs to emphasize how little sympathy he has for me, he’s woefully mistaken.
“Nothing to say?”
“Did you ask me a question?”
I watch as he strokes his chin thoughtfully, as if contemplating how he wants to begin to torture me.
“I did. I asked you lots of questions on the way here and you didn’t want to answer them.
” Shrugging, he begins to push up his sleeves.
He wears a long-sleeved navy tee that fits him well, molded to his muscular body.
Back at Le Luxe, I’d have gotten excited to see him roll up his sleeves.
It was almost foreplay. Now, it’s a different story.
When both sleeves are rolled up, he anchors his hands on his hips. I swallow hard. God, why does he have to be the absolute picture of masculine perfection? “Let’s see if you want to tell me the truth now.”
My pulse quickens when he steps into the room and slams the door behind him. The series of locks click. Ominous silence fills the room.
I know what Lyam is capable of. He’s told me as much, and I’ve heard stories.
Way back when I was first hired to work for the Gerard family, before we’d even moved to Le Luxe, a few of us—Nicolette, Gwen, and I—worked at La Maison, essentially a high-end brothel.
Gwen told me the first day I met Fabien Gerard, head of this family and owner of La Maison, that I should tread carefully.
I can still see her sitting on the edge of her desk, sharp eyes piercing mine.
“You think Fabien is scary, and you should. He rules this region of Corsica with an iron fist. But you haven’t met Thayer, his much scarier brother.
They call him The Savage and say he doesn’t have a conscience.
But Lyam? The youngest?” She’d blown out a breath and shaken her head. “He’s the scariest of all.”
It wasn’t until later that I realized why, but it was in that moment I felt the pull toward Lyam. I couldn’t explain why. I still can’t. But as soon as she told me about him, something pulled at my heartstrings.
That was obviously a mistake.
It’s quiet in here. So quiet, I can’t hear a single sound outside the door. It feels as if I’ve just switched on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. The effect is strange, and a bit unnerving, as if my inner thoughts have been magnified.
I realize with a start that he’s made this room soundproof. What else has he done in here?
“So this is where you take your victims?” I say, trying to sound all brave and sarcastic, but I’m finding it harder to pull that off.
He laughs humorlessly as he walks to the small desk and reaches for the black bag. “Victims? No, Cosette. A victim implies the person I hurt doesn’t deserve it.”
I think about my reasons for what I did. My mind races because of what’s at stake.
I don’t care if he hurts me. I don’t fear pain. But I’m not the only one on the line here.
I think about what he can do and what he can’t, not without causing harm. He’s already implied he won’t lean heavily on any kind of impact play, as we’d call it at the club.
There’s no playing here, though.
He could spank me or whip me, and I’m sure he’ll use that at some point, but he already knows what I can take. Being punished when it isn’t a form of sensual play is very different, however.
I saw him give Claude a merciless beating, and it wasn’t the first time. I can’t imagine even angry, Lyam would do that to me, though.
Or would he?
I turn away from him when a lump forms in my throat. How could I have ever thought he was anything but a monster? Why was I so attracted to the wounded bad boy?
I watch as Lyam extracts a thin, flexible leather strap, coiled like a snake.
He lays it beside the bag and reaches back in.
Next, a set of clamps, followed by a bottle of liquid I can’t identify.
Something silky and black joins the rest, along with a ball gag and a portable kit for melting hot wax.
My stomach begins to churn acid.
“You really gave this some thought,” I say nonchalantly, aware of the bitter edge to my tone. “Or is this just your little bag of tricks you keep packed for date night?”
No response. He only continues to unpack the bag as if looking for something and he won’t let my chatter distract him.
I watch him remove a velvet bag the length and size of a vibrator, something else that looks like a small violet wand, and a pair of metal handcuffs.
“I think the deluxe package of the Fifty Shades date kit has a feather and a mask…”
Still no response.
He doesn’t need any of these tools, though. Lyam is strong and devious. He could do plenty just with his mouth and hands alone.
God.
I have to steel myself against this.
You’ve overcome worse than this, I tell myself.
This won’t last forever.