Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Promise
I have to keep my lips clamped shut to keep from whimpering. I haven’t been tempted to make a sound in ages.
But today…
It’s the dead look in his eyes, for one. There is no caring, no compassion, no…humanity in them.
I’m used to my father, I know men who will suck you dry, but my father keeps a mask on his beast.
Not this man. There is no veil over his true nature.
Angel. What a name…
A name has never suited a man less.
“No. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Little fucking bitch.” My father lets my hair go as he shoves my head forward. I wobble in my heels again but remain standing.
No mask required in this place for my father either. Which scares the shit out of me. What do these men do, that my father has no fear about being his true self?
“Your fiancé is affectionately called the Devil of New York.” He gives a cold laugh. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.”
My eyes are watering from the hair pulling. If I wanted to risk the rest of my hair being ripped out, I’d turn around and glare at him again. I don’t.
Instead, I look down at the floor. The only other option is to stare into the eyes of my fiancé, and that is so much worse than any words my father might spew.
But in looking at the floor, I catch sight of his boots instead. Large, black, and covered in all sorts of grime, most notably something that appears like blood.
I swallow as my throat closes. I’m on the precipice of something so much worse than shock therapy.
My father isn’t done. “But her silence does have some advantages.” He grabs my arm, yanking up my sleeve, and exposes the skin above my elbow.
On it are several perfect circular scars.
Cigarettes.
His.
He only smokes when he drinks, a guilty pleasure that can easily be hidden. “Didn’t even gasp.” His voice drops. “You can give it a try. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I want to try,” the man who carried me in crows, closing in on my right. I’m trapped in a wall of male chests, and I wish that the floor would open up and swallow me. This has to be hell. “Give me a cigarette, Axel.”
“Rock,” Angel’s voice rumbles out low and deep, the warning in his tone making my shoulders curl. “Step back.”
Rock doesn’t. He straightens instead.
Angel grabs my arm, spinning me around. I stumble a little, but am held up by first his arm, and then his chest, as my back presses against it as he locks his arm around me. “Let me introduce my wife. No one touches her but me. No one marks her but me.”
“She’s not your wife yet,” Rock spits. “And I was just having a bit of fun.”
This is what he considers fun? Burning women?
I tremble again, trying to hold myself away from the man who’s got me in an iron grip. He tightens his hold, his arm compressing my chest.
“You can leave her with me, Don.” Angel’s fingers are still wrapped around my forearm, my arm looking like a matchstick in his huge hand. He puts more pressure on my skin and I try to shift, his grip hurting.
I have pale skin, always have, that bruises easily.
But he holds tight, not loosening his grip.
“Tsk, tsk.” My father shakes his head. “The wedding isn’t for a few more days, and my daughter is certified pure. Are you trying to get early access to the goods?”
The blood rushes in my ears as my heart stops. My purity has been protected. I’ve never been allowed to date, and my father wanted me to have a spotless reputation, so no man has been allowed to touch me.
But all at once, the realization that I’m going to have to give myself to this man, that he’s going to be free to dominate me in the most vulnerable way possible, has my knees buckling.
He holds me firmly, keeping me from sinking to the ground. “Is she mine or isn’t she?”
I don’t look at him. I don’t look at my father either. I am being sold. For what?
“She’s yours.”
“Then trust me when I say the goods are the part I care the least about.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” one of the men at the table grunts. “That is one sweet piece of ass, and if you’re not going to taste it—”
Angel bangs his free hand on the table hard enough that I jump.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my father start as well. Does Angel scare him too? That almost makes me like the man behind me more. Or less. Maybe I should just be worrying about myself.
“She stays!” Angel roars. “And no one but me touches her.” And then he squeezes me tighter.
“Don’t forget your promises,” my father says, raising a finger, but I can see the fear in his eyes. “I hear you’re a man that keeps them, which is why I’ve brought this opportunity to you. But I want your word that all you’ve agreed to, you will uphold.”
“You have mine. Don’t forget yours, Don,” Angel rumbles.
My father gives a stiff nod before he turns to me, his lip curling into a sneer. “Good luck, Promise.”
Luck? Is that what I’m going to need?
He turns to leave as Angel’s other hand wraps around my body. I’d shrink away but there is nowhere to go. “Everyone out.”
A new wave of fear crashes over me, as my father disappears through the doorway, the other men slowly stand from the table.
My first impression was correct. They are all as large as Angel and Rock, each covered in various tattoos.
Other than that, they each look completely different. Except for one detail. They all have the same amber-colored eyes which look unnatural and frightening as hell.
Each gives me a long look as he passes. Are they studying me or the way Angel is holding me?
The last of them finally clears out, leaving us alone in the room. My one consolation? The door is still open.
Angel has not loosened his grip.
He holds my back to his front, both his arms wrapped around me like I might escape if he doesn’t hold me tight.
Which is ridiculous. He’s big enough that he could probably hold me in place with one finger.
“Promise? What kind of fucking name is that?”
His words make me jump, I’d lost myself in my thoughts. I wish I had a pen and paper. Because…Rock? Angel? These are better names than Promise?
But it’s better that I don’t. Now is hardly the time for snark. I’ve been living with my father too long and I’m always looking for the angle to argue.
“Did you decide not to talk or are you just broken?”
Broken. Not a bad word for me, honestly. But why he keeps asking a mute girl questions makes me wonder about his mental stability.
He is the Devil of New York. What kind of name is that?
Naturally I don’t answer, and he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t mind. In fact, I really prefer that I don’t have to listen to your fucking yapping.”
I don’t yap. I’ve never yapped.
“In fact, the smaller you could make yourself, the better,” he grits out near my ear. “Because the truth, princess. I don’t want you. I don’t want to be married, and I fucking hate your father.”
That makes two of us.
“But you’re useful to me, so behave, and this might just go all right.”
I look back at him. This is all far more…civil than I expected a few minutes ago.
But the sneer he gives me has me shriveling again. “You’ll put out, because that pleases me. And you’ll go where I tell you, when I tell you. Personally, I think of you as a necessary evil. You should consider me the same.”
A necessary evil…
I press my lips together, turning my gaze forward again. So I’m being passed from an abuser to the devil.
He gives me a little shake. Was I supposed to agree?
Was there ever a choice?
I remain still. Apparently I have upped the ante on my silence. It now includes not even jerking my chin in acceptance.
Why should I agree?
I wasn’t given a choice in any of this, and I have my own agenda, and it does not include being passed off to a…
I have no idea what he is.
But I know that marrying him moves me further from my end game.
His grip on my arm tightens, digging into my flesh. “Are you not capable of nodding?”
I don’t respond in any way.
“Fuck. It turns out that a silent woman might be the only thing more irritating than a talking one.” He lets me go, pushing me away, and for the second time I stumble, landing on my hands and knees.
But I don’t stay there long, spinning so my butt is on the floor, my knees curling up into my chest as I rub my arm where it’s already bruising.
“Behave, and things will go all right for you,” he grits out, leaning down to stare at me with those freaky eyes.
It’s stupid, but I don’t nod. I just stare back. Let him think I’m empty. A complete void without thought or feeling.
I don’t care.
But his eyes assess me with a shrewdness that makes me curl into myself.
With the suddenness of a snake strike, he reaches for me, hauling me into his arms and lifting me off the floor.
I try to twist away, but he’s too quick.
My lips press together as my teeth grind to keep the cry of fear from falling from my lips. I won’t give in. Not even here. Not now.
It’s my only weapon, meager as it is, and I can’t lose it.
But he doesn’t hurt me. Instead, he pulls me to his chest, carrying me out of the room. But we don’t head toward to the door I entered. Rather, he goes the other way, turning right into a narrow staircase.
Up and up we climb, him not seeming bothered by my weight at all.
I don’t fight. It’s useless.
When we reach the top, he opens a door, a small, shabby apartment coming into view.
Walking in, he closes the door behind us and then sets me down.
I look around, noting the cabinet doors falling off the hinges, the cracked finish of the Formica counter tops. Is this where we’ll live?
“Sit.” He points to a set of rickety-looking folding chairs. Just like with my father, I follow his direct command and walk across the room to take one of the seats.
My legs cross despite the fresh scabs on my knees, and my hands fold in my lap.
He stands in place, legs wide, arms crossed as he stares down at me. “You either have a will of iron, or you’re completely cooked.”
Cooked? I cock my head, staring up at him.
“Doesn’t matter which. Your father has access to doors I can’t touch without some help.”
Figures.
“But I want to make sure you understand a few rules, so you better listen. And when I’m done…you better nod that you understand. Am I clear?”
How much should I test?
I look away, staring at the cracks in the wall to my right. I don’t nod.
I hear him cross the floor, moving closer.
I tense, knowing something bad is coming, but I don’t look at him, don’t acquiesce. My whole life I kept thinking, if I’m just a little more accommodating. Prettier. Better behaved, he’ll be happy.
But it was never true. The harder I tried, the less satisfied my father seemed to become. It was the same with my mother. The smaller we made ourselves, the larger and more tyrannical he became.
And that’s when I realized…
It wasn’t about me at all, and there was nothing to do but fight until I couldn’t fight anymore.
Granted, I’m a shit soldier.
If this were chess, I’d be some tiny pawn who can barely move and is likely about to be sacrificed.
Not like the man before me. He’s a king.
So is my father.
He squats down, his hand coming to my bare knee, and I do a thing I hate. I flinch.
“Well, well, well…something gets a reaction out of you.”
I tighten the hands in my lap into fists as my chin notches up. But he doesn’t squeeze harder.
Instead, he slides his hand higher, under my skirt, along my bare leg.
My gaze snaps to his as I try to jerk my leg away, but he holds firm. Not enough that he’ll leave bruises but enough that I can’t move my leg.
His fingertips dig into the soft flesh of my thigh. “So soft,” he murmurs, his gaze narrowing. The way he looks at me, I know his words are not a compliment. It’s commentary on how easy I’ll be to break.
My breath hitches as his hand moves even higher, stopping when his fingertips hit the edge of my underwear.
“First,” he rumbles low and deep, “and I meant this when I said it earlier, you will put out whenever I want.”
My lips fall open as I stare at him. I don’t mean to, but I softly shake my head, my hair swishing over my shoulders, as I quietly disagree.
His brows lift. “You understand after all.”
My lips clamp back together.
“You’re a virgin?”
He knows I understand. I have no idea if I should lie in this situation, either choice seems dangerous, so I give a quick jerk of my chin in acknowledgement.
His middle finger follows the seam of my underwear. “You’re even prettier in person,” he says, making it clear he’s seen me on television. “I like how pale your skin is,” he murmurs, his other hand lifting my arm where he’s left finger mark bruises. “Shows my marks nicely.”
I can’t help it, I’m breathing like I just sprinted, my breath huffing out of my lungs.
“And I like the fear, princess. Keep breathing like that.” Then his fingers slide under the fabric of my underwear, touching the hair at my apex. His mouth twitches down into a frown. “I’ll send Candy to wax you. That has got to go.” And then he withdraws his hand.
My shoulders wilt in relief as he stands in front of me again.
“Second, provided you comply, you will find it more comfortable here than you did with your complete piece of shit father. I’m sure of that.”
At least we agree on one thing. My father is a piece of shit. But I seriously doubt what Angel is saying is true.
He reaches down and runs his thumb over my bottom lip. “This doesn’t need to end badly as long as you behave like a good girl.”
Behave like a good girl? I’ve tried that trick. It doesn’t work.
And not to try to find the loophole here, but do good girls put out? Maybe they do when they’re wives?
Then again, he’s the one referencing the end.
Does he mean he’ll divorce me once he’s done using me and my father, or does he mean something way more sinister?
He is the Devil of New York.