Chapter 9 THE PRICE OF SURVIVAL
Constantine's POV
It is 8:57 PM and I am standing outside his building. He had his assistant send me his house address later in the afternoon, so I'm just here right now, staring at the glass tower of a building he calls his home that was so tall, it is giving the illusion of reaching into the sky. My stomach feels like it is being tied tight and my hands would not stop shaking no matter how many times I tighten them into fists.
I am not wearing any underwear, just like he wants and the thought that I obeyed him just like that makes my skin crawl with embarrassment and shame. I hate that I listened to him. I hate that the only thing between me and complete ruin is walking through those doors and giving myself to a man who sees me as nothing more than a toy.
I think about going home, to my miserable life, but where? Do I have a home? My mother's face flashes in my mind. The way she used to smile before the dementia took her. And my father, pale and barely breathing in that hospital bed, machines doing the work his body can't anymore. If they took them away from the place they are now, they will die…and I…I don't know what I will do in life without them.
So I do all I can do. I take a breath and walk inside. The lobby is empty except for a security guard who barely glances at me. The elevator ride to the penthouse feels like ascending to my own execution. Each floor that passes makes my heart beat faster, harder, until I'm sure it's going to burst out of my chest. The doors open directly into his penthouse.
I step out into a space that's as cold and minimalist as his office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, making me feel exposed even though we're forty stories up. Everything is black, white, or grey. There is no color or warmth or life here.
'You're early.'
His voice comes from somewhere to my left. I turn and see him standing near the windows, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He's changed from his work clothes into dark slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, making tattoos peek out his arms. I have never really noticed any tattoos until now. He looks…casual. Casually devastating and relaxed. Like this is just another evening for him. Like I am not unraveling right here where I am standing.
'I didn't want to be late,' I say quietly, trying my best to hide the shake in it.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. 'Smart girl. Come here.'
I walk toward him on legs that feel like they might give out. When I'm close enough, he sets his glass down and circles me slowly, like a predator assessing prey.
'Did you follow my instructions?' he asks.
My cheeks burn. 'Yes.'
'Prove it.'
I freeze. 'What?' My breath catches in my throat.
'Lift your dress.' His voice is cold, commanding. 'And show me.'
Humiliation crashes over me in waves. My hands tremble as I reach for the hem of my dress. It is a simple black thing I borrowed from Ivy…and then I slowly lift it.
The cool air hits my bare skin. I'm completely exposed to him, and I really want to die. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
He steps closer, his eyes dragging over me with clinical detachment. Like I'm not even a person. Just an object he's inspecting.
'Good,' he says finally. 'You can put it down now.'
I drop the dress immediately, my face burning so hot I feel dizzy.
He walks back to his drink, picks it up, and takes another sip. 'You know why you're here, don't you?'
I nod, not trusting my voice.
'Say it.'
'To… to be yours,' I whisper.
'Louder.'
'To be yours!' The words come out harsh, angry, and I hate the way they taste.
He smirks. 'That's right. You're mine now, Constantine. Your body, your time, your dignity, all of it belongs to me. Do you understand?'
'Yes,' I grit out.
'Yes, what?' His eyes darken.
I clench my jaw. 'Yes, sir.'
'Better.' He sets his glass down again and starts walking toward me.
'Strip.'
My heart stops. 'What?'
'Don't ever make me repeat myself. Take off your dress. Slowly. I want to watch what belongs to me be unveiled.'
Every fiber of my being screams at me to refuse, to run, to tell him to go to hell. But I don't. Instead, my hands move to the zipper at the back of my dress. I pull it down slowly, the sound impossibly loud in the silence.
The dress pools at my feet, leaving me completely naked in the middle of his living room. I cross my arms over my chest instinctively, but his voice cuts through the air like a whip.
'Hands at your sides.'
I drop them, trembling, exposed, hating every second of this. He circles me again, slower this time, his eyes roaming over every inch of my body. When he's standing in front of me again, he reaches out and grips my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
'You're not bad to look at,' he says conversationally, like we're discussing the weather. 'A little too thin. But that'll change once you start eating properly.'
The casual cruelty of it makes my eyes sting with tears I refuse to let fall.
'On your knees,' he says.