Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Eve
A week ticks by, then two. Every day is a new humiliation. The first day, it was the naked sandwich buffet, which was mortifying. The worst part was when each guy reached for his sandwich, his fingertips grazed my naked skin. And every single time one of their hands touched me, it sent a chill snaking down my spine.
Day two wasn’t much better. Christian had me cook dinner, naked, while people gathered in the kitchen to watch. It wasn’t as bad as the sandwich episode, but it was glacial in that kitchen and everyone watching me was awkward as fuck. Straining a pot of steaming noodles while naked, and trying not to burn yourself, is not as cute as you’d think it would be.
My next assignment was cleaning the bathrooms—not nude, thank God. But scrubbing drunken fratboy pee from the bathroom grout is its own kind of hell. It was slightly better than cooking naked, though, so I didn’t complain.
And Christian kept his word, allowing me to attend my classes. So that’s one point in his favor, I guess. Someone is always assigned to chaperone me, though, and I haven’t figured out why. It’s not like I’m going to run. Maybe it’s to ensure I don’t talk to anyone? Whatever. School is the only thing keeping me sane at this point, so I’d take a dozen chaperones if I had to.
But there’s one “punishment” I actually look forward to: cleaning. Not because I have any interest in tidying up after these assholes—who, by the way, never seem to have encountered a trashcan in their entire fucking fratboy lives—but because I’m left alone in the various rooms of Rush House. And alone means I can poke around freely, looking for information. But not just any information—leverage. Leverage that ensures the Sacred Sons hold up their end of our bargain once my three months are up.
Unfortunately, I heard someone mention in passing that the Sacred Sons keep all their confidential information locked away in an office somewhere on campus. Not in Rush House.
And maybe the rumor is true, because I haven’t found much. I’ve torn through drawers, rifled through closets, hunted for anything I can use—documents, passwords, names—but so far, nothing.
But it’s only a matter of time before one of the Sacred Sons slips up. And when they do, I’ll be right there, ready to jump on it.
On a random Thursday, I’m half-heartedly flicking a feather duster over the massive collection of leather-bound books in the study. Every time I’m in here alone, I make it a point to thumb through at least twenty books, looking for hidden pieces of paper, anything . I’ve already finished the history and geography sections.
Now, I’m working my way through the philosophy section, when I come across a book that’s sticking out, just slightly, like someone took it out, and didn’t push it all the way back in.
Pulling the red leather-bound book out gently, I glance at the gold-embossed title— Plato’s The Republic. Hm, okay. As I carefully flip to the first page, the book naturally opens to the middle, and I immediately see why. There’s a folded slip of paper wedged between the pages.
My heart rate kicks up, but I try not to get too excited, because it could be nothing. I’ve already found a couple of random pieces of paper inside the books—scribbled notes, or a random receipt—but this piece of paper is soft with well-worn edges, like it’s been opened many, many times.
Unfolding the paper, I’m immediately confused. It’s a hand-drawn diagram of three circles nestled within each other. The outermost circle is lined with numbers in sequential order. The middle circle is the English alphabet arranged clockwise. And the innermost circle has a bunch of weird symbols. The whole thing is divided like a pie chart with lines coming from the center, so each number lines up with a specific letter and set of symbols. It almost looks like…
Wait, is this a cypher decoder ?
Holy shit.
Blinking down at the diagram, I try to absorb the importance of what I’ve just found. It makes sense that the Burning Crown would write all their shady shit in code—and of course, they’d need something like this to decode it. Memorizing all this would be insane. Some of these letters have three or four symbols assigned to them.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway, and I quickly jam the decoder back into the book and shove it onto the shelf, moving my duster around like there’s nothing to see here …
“Oh, hey, I thought that was you,” a voice chirps. I spin around to see Skye peering around the doorway, like she’s afraid of getting caught talking to me. “How are you holding up?”
Wow, loaded question. I shrug. “Only two months, twelve days, and eight hours to go. Not that I’m keeping track.” I flash her a tight smile. “Oh, hey, were you able to text my brother for me?”
Sin is insanely protective, like psycho-level protective, and when I came to Rush House, I knew he was going to be my biggest obstacle. There was no way in hell he’d ever allow me to come here, under any circumstances, let alone to be the Sacred Sons’ new toy. So I had to come up with a reason why I’d be gone. Originally, I’d just planned to call or text him every couple of days, so he wouldn’t get suspicious. But since the Sacred Sons took my phone, I’ve had to get creative.
“Yeah, girl, about that—I don’t think he believes the whole ‘lost phone’ thing. He’s asking why your new phone keeps getting delayed. Yesterday, he said he was going to drop a new phone off to you personally—and it sounded like a threat.”
It was definitely a threat. Fuck . If Sin comes to campus to drop a phone off and he doesn’t see me, in the flesh, he’s going to flip. And by “flip,” I mean, “tear this whole campus apart.” It won’t be pretty, that’s for sure.
“Thanks,” I say. “Just…hold him off if you can. I’ll think of something.”
Voices approach from down the hall, and Skye glances over her shoulder. We’re still trying to keep our friendship on the down-low.
“I’ve got to run,” she says. “But I wanted to warn you—Christian is planning something and it involves you.”
Oh. Honestly, I thought he’d all but forgotten about me. Aside from a few stray commands here and there, like “polish the dining room table naked” or “dust the study in your bra,” he’s mostly lost interest in me. Which is fine. I’m not complaining.
“What’s he planning?” I ask, heart in my throat. I just pray it isn’t some new and twisted way to torment me.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know, but he’s having a few of the Debs deliver invites to the membership later today. If I find out what it’s about, I’ll try to get word to you…”
Before I can even ask her, “How?” she’s gone.
When I’m done in the study, I dust the music room, my gaze straying to a hand-painted portrait of a girl, about my age, with dark brown hair and green eyes. She catches my attention because it’s one of the only portraits of a woman in this entire house. And there’s something hauntingly ethereal about her.
“What’s your story?” I whisper, my eyes tracing the lines of her delicate face. Probably something tragic.
With a sigh, I move on to the massive dining room, which is easily the length of my entire childhood apartment. Thankfully, though, there aren’t a ton of things that need to be dusted in here, so it’s quick.
I’m just dusting the last thing—the mantel—when I notice a section of wood paneling that’s separated. I pull on it gently and discover it’s actually a hidden door that leads into a small, mostly empty closet—only a couple of shelves and a polished wooden box. I open the lid and peer inside to see a pair of silver candlesticks. They look old. I bet they’re worth a fortune.
I’m just closing the closet door when I hear heavy footsteps approach. I turn around to see Christian in the archway that adjoins the music and dining rooms.
“There you are,” he says in that lazy, surfer-boy drawl. He leans against the wooden casing, arms crossed over his massive chest. He looks both casual and completely at ease in this insanely lavish house. But what disturbs me most is his pale, ghostly stare. It has a way of sucking me in and holding there.
“Here I am,” I reply with a gulp. “But I’m done, and I was just about to go back upstairs.”
If I’m not cleaning or being subjected to some humiliating task, then I try to stick to the bedroom I was given. It has a television, a mini-fridge, and its own bathroom. It’s like having a studio apartment.
“It occurs to me that I’ve been neglecting you,” he says, his voice low and gravely. “And I feel bad about that.”
I doubt Christian West ever feels bad about anything.
Gripping the wood handle of the feather duster, I walk toward him, because it’s the only way out. Well, there is a door on the other side of the dining room, but I have no idea where it leads.
“I’m surprised you feel anything at all, “ I say with a smirk.
As I pass by, he grabs my arm. “There’s my spicy Little Fox,” he chuckles, and I don’t know what it is, but the sound of that rumble deep in his chest does something to me—it makes my cheeks flush and my heart race. It makes my pussy clench.
“What do you want?” I ask stiffly.
His grip on my arm tightens, and he pulls me close so he can bury his nose in my hair. “You’ve been here for two weeks, and I haven’t tasted you once . How’s that for restraint, hm? I’m impressed with myself.”
“Then you’re the only one who’s impressed,” I say flatly.
The feel of his muscled body crushed against my side has my heart doing an entire Cirque Soleil performance inside my chest. I feel a little dizzy, and my palms are sweating. Actually, scratch that. Everything is sweating.
Jesus, is this how I die? A heart attack brought on by the hottest, most evil guy on campus?
He laughs at that, my comment sliding right off his back. “The guys are starting to get restless.”
I gulp. “What do you mean?”
His mouth hovers over my ear, bottom lip catching the lobe. “They want a sample of you,” he whispers, his tone deep, intimate. Heat trickles down my spine and sends an electric current straight through every nerve ending. “Should I let them have you, Eve? Would that ease the tension in the house…?”
Is he seriously considering giving me to all the guys here?
No, he’s fucking with me. This is what Christian West does. He plays mind games so he can watch me squirm. Tormenting me gives him some kind of sick pleasure.
“Giving me to them would only create more tension,” I say, reaching for logic. “It wouldn’t lessen it.”
In the last couple of days, I’ve noticed more guys trying to talk to me, or touch me, or tease me when I walk by. And I’ve worked really hard to tune them out, and usually when they don’t get a response, they end up losing interest and moving on. Thankfully, there are other willing girls here to distract them.
“Really?” His teeth scrape over my earlobe. “How so?”
“They’ll each claim ownership over me,” I say. “That’s the way it always happens.”
He pulls back and lifts a brow. “You sound like you know from experience. How many guys have claimed ownership over you, Eve?”
I should throw out a crazy number, just to scare him off, but for some idiotic reason, I tell him the truth. “I’ve been around the Shadow and Ash my entire life,” I say. “I know how guys work. They’re willing to fight over just about anything—and women are the first on that very long, very dumb list.”
He pulls on my arm, twisting me around so I’m facing him. His pale eyes darken. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I laugh under my breath, amused that I’ve managed to anger him. Though why he’s angry, I have no idea. Did he think I was an untouched virgin or something? Well, news flash. Not even close.
“Are you asking how many guys I’ve fucked?”
His eyes narrow, and it occurs to me that this conversation bothers him for some reason. Finally, that all-knowing smirk has been wiped off his pretty-boy face. “What’s your body count, Eve?” he asks, his voice tight.
“Two,” I answer truthfully, leaning in, enjoying the look of discomfort on his face. “Two guys have slid their thick cocks into my pussy and made me scream ?—”
He yanks me forward so hard and so quickly, a wisp of air is snatched from my lungs. His jaw is tight, his eyes eating me up—and not in a fun way. In a dark, sinister way. “Who’s going to be lucky number three, I wonder?”