Chapter 11 She's Yours for the Night
"Who do we have here? Well, if it isn't Ms. Penrose."
Michael's voice dripped with mockery as his eyes swept over Elizabeth. He took in her long sleeves and trousers, his lip curling with disdain.
Elizabeth noticed Armando barely spared her a glance. She steadied herself. "Mr. Wilson, about last time... I truly apologize."
"Drink this entire bottle and I'll accept your apology."
Michael shoved a tall bottle of whiskey toward her, his expression like stone. Last time, she'd nearly unmanned him, and he wasn't about to let her walk away without paying the price.
The liquor was strong enough to burn through her stomach—maybe even kill her.
Tom gave a faint smile. "Mr. Wilson, I'll drink half for Ms. Penrose. Would that work?"
"No. If Ms. Penrose doesn't want the drink, she can give us a strip show instead."
A few men around the table joined in the jeering.
"Yeah, strip for us."
Sherry, cheeks tinged pink, shot Michael a look and laughed. "Mr. Wilson, we women don't exactly enjoy watching another woman strip."
"So you won't drink, won't dance... how exactly do you plan to apologize?"
Michael spread his legs and patted his thigh. "Sit here and play poker with me. That should be fine."
Elizabeth had been bracing for this. Tonight's apology was never going to be easy. She wasn't about to risk her life on that liquor.
She dug her nails into her palm, forcing herself to keep her composure, then sat on Michael's lap. The whistles from the men around them hollowed her out inside.
Armando's cold gaze flickered. His brow furrowed. "Are we still playing?" he asked, meaning the game.
"Of course," Michael said, one arm clamped around Elizabeth's waist, his hand roaming. He tossed a card onto the pile. "Six of clubs."
Sherry smirked at Elizabeth, then turned to Armando. "Armando, which card should I throw?"
"That one."
Armando flicked a card toward the table. It bounced off Elizabeth's arm. The sting was real, but she kept her head down as if it hadn't happened.
"Elizabeth, does it hurt?" Michael asked, grabbing her hand and yanking up her sleeve. His fingers kneaded her skin. "A little red... so soft."
"It doesn't hurt," she said coolly, pulling her arm free.
Michael's mouth twisted into a sly grin. "Bring me a plate of grapes."
Someone handed him a platter. He picked one up and smiled. "Elizabeth, I'll play poker while you feed me grapes with that pretty mouth of yours."
The men laughed.
Elizabeth's eyes flicked to Armando. She knew he was waiting for her to bow her head first. But with Quinton still in Armando's hands, she decided to endure whatever came.
She lifted a grape to her lips, holding half between them, steeling herself. Michael pressed a hand to the back of her head, trying to force her lips to his.
She turned away.
"Don't be shy," he said, licking his lips.
A flash of tears threatened, but she forced them back down.
"Mr. Wilson," another man said, "let me try having a beauty feed me grapes too."
They were used to passing a woman around like a bottle of whiskey. Elizabeth's beauty and icy demeanor only made her more of a challenge.
Tom frowned, glancing at Armando. Seeing no move to intervene, he stayed silent.
Michael grinned. "Elizabeth, feed him a grape."
Sherry watched Elizabeth's face tighten, her contempt deepening. She was certain Armando felt nothing for her.
Still, with Armando there, Sherry feigned concern. "Ms. Penrose could bow to apologize, Mr. Wilson. Would that do?"
Michael thought for a moment, then waved a hand. "Fine. But she turns around, bends over so I get a good view. If I'm not satisfied, she does it again."
Laughter erupted.
Michael was a master of humiliation, and tonight he was in rare form.
Elizabeth felt stripped of all dignity, yet powerless to resist.
Sherry's cheeks flushed again as she turned to Armando. "Shall we go? This is getting boring."
Elizabeth's sudden laugh cut through the noise. It was sharp, unexpected.
All eyes turned to her.
Armando's gaze locked on hers, cold as steel.
"Did you all forget something?" she said, her smile curling. "Yesterday Bronte made an announcement."
She pointed to herself, then to Armando, her voice laced with a sultry edge. "I'm the wife of Mr. Johnson."
The room went dead silent.
Armando's expression darkened, his breath turning icy.
Elizabeth covered her mouth, laughing with reckless allure. "Imagine that... Mr. Johnson handing his wife over to be toyed with."
The tension thickened.
Armando stood, his eyes like frozen glass. "Michael, she's yours for the night."
Without another glance, he walked out.
Sherry's lips curved upward as she hurried after him.
Michael, thrilled, called after them. "Good night, Mr. Johnson."
The twist was almost too good. Moments ago, he'd thought Elizabeth's words had ruined his fun. Now Armando had gifted her to him outright.
"Elizabeth, you heard him. Mr. Johnson says you're mine tonight. Don't worry... I'm gentle with women," Michael said, his grin anything but gentle.
Elizabeth moved toward the door, but he slammed her against it.
Men were stronger than women, and Michael knew her fiery temper—he'd been kicked by her before. His hands locked around her wrists.
Tom started forward, but the other men blocked him.
"Mr. Davis, Mr. Johnson gave the word. You really want to interfere?"
Michael tilted his chin. "Hold Mr. Davis back."
Elizabeth was dragged to the couch, Michael's hands roaming greedily. Her stomach twisted in disgust.
Pain bloomed low in her belly.
She spat in his face. "You're disgusting. Don't touch me."
Michael's slap cracked across her cheek. Her ear rang, the world going momentarily silent.
"Ms. Penrose, looks like you still don't understand your situation. Let's get you a drink... something to make you behave."
They had something—powder that could set blood on fire.
Michael's breath came heavy. He ordered someone to hold her down, dumped the powder into a glass of liquor.
Tom could only watch as they forced her mouth open and poured it in.
Her clothes were already torn half away, pale skin exposed under the harsh light.