Page 13

Twelve

Ophelia

“A beauty appointment.”

I can’t handle one more thing that doesn’t make sense today. At this point, I’d take being locked in a basement with a hood on my head, because at least that’s what a kidnapping is supposed to be. At least my mind could comprehend the shape of what’s happening.

From the moment we left Sebastian’s apartment, I’ve been trapped in one of those dumb seventies movies made by people with more LSD than sense. The goth girl called Sebastian “sir” like it was no big deal and asked me to visit her damn shop. How can she have a shop? Isn’t she supposed to be another captive?

And the cobbled street we’re walking down right now, lined with pretty little shops. It reminds me of a trip I took to a seaside town, back when Mom was still alive and Harrison hadn’t turned into a complete asshole. I was eight, and we ate ice cream on the beach. It’s one of the only times I remember my dad relaxed, actually enjoying spending time with us.

But this isn’t a normal street .

I peer into the windows as we pass shops selling jewelry and trinkets. I don’t see a price tag on anything or any signs with deals to entice shoppers inside. People walking by see my collar, see my bound hands, but not one single person asks if I’m okay. Most shoot daggers at Sebastian with the same hostility as the man who confronted him.

I can use that anger.

It’s the first thing I’ve discovered since I woke up in this nightmare that gives me a sliver of hope. These people are scared of my family and what my capture might mean for them.

They’re right to be. My cousin was taken for ransom last year and lost two fingers in the process. My dad paid the money, got him back, then spent the next six months systematically taking out everyone involved. All I have to do is convince someone important that I’m not worth the risk, and they’ll set me free.

That easy.

So why don’t I believe it?

Sebastian steers me toward a shop that’s a much more tasteful version of my own clinic. The outside is simple, bordering on minimalist. Clean lines and “Mirror, Mirror” in clean silver script. A cool name, and the sort of decor I’d have selected if I had a choice.

A man in military gear waits outside, incongruous as a cactus in a patch of daisies. He nods to Sebastian and doesn’t so much as look at me. “Sir.”

Sebastian nods back. “Show her the syringe, please.”

My body stiffens, and all the food I ate earlier roils in my guts. No. They can’t drug me again. Not now that I understand why I’m here. What would happen to me while I was unconscious? A million images rattle through my brain, none of them good .

Sebastian shifts his hand, settling it around my waist in a way that could be comforting if it wasn’t him doing it, as the soldier pulls a syringe from a box.

“Ophelia, meet Private Barnes. That syringe holds the same drug we used on you earlier. We won’t use it unless we have to. Would you like to avoid going under again?”

A stupid question, but I rush to answer, galvanized by the pointed needle. “Yes. Please don’t drug me.”

I can be tough later. Right now, avoiding that needle is my only consideration.

“Smart girl. You’re going to have a few beauty treatments, that’s all. Nothing permanent, and nothing very painful. You’re going to look the way I want you to from now on, and I’ve got a few changes in mind. If you don’t cooperate, that’s when the needle comes in. Does that sound fair?”

The strangest river of emotions rushes through me, leaving my knees weak. He wants to change how I look? What’s wrong with how I look? It’s a splinter in my heart, even though I know it’s ridiculous.

On the heels of that pathetic reaction comes a welcome swell of anger. I dive into it, letting it wash away the sad little voice that came before. He already has me as a captive, and now he wants to take this away from me, too? No. He can’t decide how I look. It’s too much.

Like I ever had a choice anyway.

I try to bat the thought away, but it’s a mosquito whining in my ear.

Take that off. You look like a slut.

If you dye your hair black, I’ll find out who helped you and break her fingers.

Did you mean to look like you were born in the gutter ?

Words shoot out in a rush. “Why the fuck do you care what I look like? You want to punish me, I get that. But this—” I jerk my chin at the guard holding the needle, and the collar presses tighter on my throat. “—it’s messed up. Playing dress up. You’re sick.”

All my tirade gets me is a smile. “Playing dress up. I like that, but you haven’t answered my question. Will you behave, or do you need the needle?”

Movement behind the window catches my eye. Two women stand, watching the show. Prisoners. If what Sebastian said is true, they’re prisoners as well.

Think. Drugged, I’m helpless. Stacked against that, who cares what he does to my appearance? There are people here who want me out of this place. If I’m drugged and trapped in Sebastian’s room, they might not be able to help me.

“Don’t drug me. I’ll do what you want.”

It’s the sensible course of action, but I hate hearing the words. Sebastian nods to the soldier. “Wait outside, please, until we’re done. Thanks for your help.”

“Sir.”

The soldier steps aside, but I’m stuck on Sebastian’s words. Thanks for your help. It doesn’t fit. It’s too polite. Too kind for the image he’s projecting. Harrison would have pushed past the guy without a second look.

I follow Sebastian into the salon. It’s empty, apart from the two women who watch us like hawks. I’m guessing even in this fucked-up place, women being marched in here collared and at needlepoint isn’t the norm. One of the women is in her fifties, solid and with a stern, lined face. She reminds me of my dad’s secretary, who has worked with him longer than I’ve been alive.

Just another puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. Sebastian said all the women here are captives. Sex slaves. She doesn’t match that stereotype. The other woman does, however. She’s small and absolutely stunning, with masses of dark hair and a delicate face like a doll.

Sebastian bends to whisper in my ear. “Be nice to them. They had a full morning of clients and canceled them for you. They’re going to have to deal with some grouchy ladies at the social brunch this weekend.”

I don’t bother to ask what in the hell he’s talking about. It’s a waste of time. So there’s a social brunch now? Great. I’ve been to plenty of those. Maybe I’ll get to speak to someone who isn’t crazy.

“I’m going to free your hands and take off your collar. Don’t even think of making a dash for it. If you do, it’s the needle. No second chances.”

God, I want this collar off me. Without it, I won’t feel like such a freak. Sebastian attends to the cuffs first, unlocking them. Before I can move my hands forward, he wraps his fingers around my wrists, massaging where the metal had been digging in. With all the stress, I hadn’t noticed the pain, but now, the flood of sensation hits me in a rush.

“A little too tight, perhaps,” he mutters, but I don’t think he’s talking to me. More like a note to self for next time. What the hell does he care if my wrists are sore? All part of the fun for him, right?

When he releases me, I roll my shoulders to relieve the ache as he moves to the collar. It pulls tighter as he works the buckle, and my stomach clenches at the pressure. If he strangled me, right here in this weird salon, would anyone care? Would the women run screaming for help? Would the soldier outside rush in to stop him?

Or would everyone just watch, dead-eyed, then organize to have my body tossed in a furnace somewhere ?

Dad’s voice saves me from spiraling.

If anyone fucks with you, they answer to me.

Damn right. These people wouldn’t dare. The man—Fred—already proved they’re scared. I just need to stay alive long enough for Dad to find me.

The pressure eases on my neck, and I sigh with relief as Sebastian pulls the collar free. I twist my head from side to side, enjoying the freedom to do so. Sebastian wears a thoughtful expression as he comes back into view. He studies the collar, rubbing his finger over the nametag.

“I haven’t decided on your tattoo. I don’t have any of my own, mainly because I’ve never been able to make up my mind what to get. Imagine getting the wrong thing and regretting it. Do you have any already?”

I snort and answer honestly without thinking. “If anyone tattooed me, my dad would have chopped their hands off. I’m sure he’ll do the same to you. Along with anything else you put near me.”

Sebastian’s eyes widen, and the look he gives me is almost guilty. Like I surprised him doing something he shouldn’t. He glances at the women waiting quietly and is all business again.

“Which chair would you like her in?”

The older lady bustles forward, holding out a beefy hand for me to shake. I take it without hesitating. Thank God. At least one person in this place acknowledges I exist. Her accent is European, but I can’t place it. Somewhere eastern, maybe?

“Hello, darling. I’m Anya. I’ll be doing your hair today. This is Ella. She’s beauty.” A smile softens her stern features, and she points to a swivel chair. “Take a seat here, please.”

Better manners than half of my staff. I take a seat and actually look at the salon interior for the first time, tracking the products and equipment. It has the look of a one-stop shop. Hair products and manicure and pedicure equipment. A couple of treatment rooms branch off from a small corridor. Perhaps they do waxing or laser as well?

The decor is a little old-school but funky. One black feature wall is filled with pictures of smiling women that don’t look like models. Maybe some previous clients? I stare at the wall and spot the goth girl from earlier, grinning with her jet-black hair curled into Victorian ringlets.

It’s all so normal and familiar. Even the faint chemical smell feels like stepping into my own clinic, and I breathe it in with a shiver as Anya addresses Sebastian. “You’re sure about the color? Her hair is so beautiful. It’ll take months to get it back to this shade.”

Months? That means black or red, then. I used to long to dye my hair those colors when I was a teen, but now? They’ll wash out my complexion. Which matters not at all, because I’m a goddamned captive.

“Yes. I want her to match my eyes.” Sebastian gives Anya a charming smile, and it changes his face. The tightness vanishes, and his eyes light up. It’s such an open, engaging expression that even Anya’s stern face gains a pink tinge.

All I can do is splutter, “Match your eyes? What?”

As his eyes meet mine in the mirror, his expression darkens, and the warm smile gains a predatory edge. “Yes. You’re going to be the perfect accessory.”

“Blue? You want my hair blue?” I don’t know why I’m so stuck on this point. It’s hardly the worst thing that’s happened to me today.

“Yes,” he says, as if I’m the strange one for questioning it. “Anya, please go ahead. ”

As she mixes up the product, the other woman, Ella, steps forward. Her voice is barely a whisper. “And you want nails, lashes, and lips, sir?”

Sir.

It grates on me, that word. Anya didn’t use it, and Sebastian didn’t correct her. He probably didn’t dare—she looks like she could shot-put him through the salon window. Why did I never take up powerlifting as a hobby?

Sebastian turns his dazzling smile on Ella, and the poor thing melts. Her cheeks flush deep red, and she twists her hands together in front of her. Seriously? She just watched him walk me in on a leash. Is that not a red flag in this place?

“Yes. Nails to match the hair, but glittery. It’s not like my princess will be doing any housework.”

Then the bastard winks at me in the mirror, bends his neck, and kisses the top of my head.

It’s an electric shock, and I jerk away from him. “I’m not your fucking princess.”

His smile doesn’t falter one iota. “Sorry, darling. Does your daddy call you that?”

Yes, actually. I’m not telling him that, but my silence must have spilled the beans, because he says, “I’ll just stick with pet, then.”

He turns back to Ella, whose eyes are huge, round saucers. “Dramatic lashes, please. Not too heavy on the lips. I don’t want her to look ridiculous.”

Wait. “What are you doing to my lips?” I direct the question at Ella, and it comes out in my stern manager’s tone.

She jumps, glances at Sebastian, who nods, then answers in her quavery little voice. “Just a bit of filler. Please don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.” She gives a nervous smile. “You’ll look pretty. Not that you don’t now, I mean, but…it’ll suit you.”

I want to snap at her, but it’d be like punching a kitten. I take a deep breath and direct my anger where it belongs. Sebastian’s smile is gone, but those deep blue eyes—that I’m about to be fucking matched with—flash with amusement.

“You said nothing permanent or painful.”

“Eighteen months isn’t permanent. And I said not too painful. You need to pay closer attention.”

“I don’t need filler. I don’t like—”

He whips his hand out, wrapping it around my throat. Ella takes a step back, and I hiss as his hand tightens. He’s not crushing me. It’s a light, insistent pressure that’s almost worse. A warning. “What you like doesn’t matter anymore.”

He squeezes, and I freeze. “You’re mine now. I’m full of ideas for what to do to you.” Before I can take a breath, the hand not gripping my neck cups my breast. He lifts it as if testing the weight. I stare at the scene in the mirror, and shock makes it seem as though it’s happening to someone else, though I can feel the pressure of his hand through the bra.

He’s touching me. There are people here. Surely stern Anya will do something? He can’t just grab me in public.

“These are a good size, but maybe we could go bigger. What do you think?” His twisted smile is back. A glimpse of a predator. Is it an act designed to scare me or the real him?

He gives my breast a squeeze. “Answer the question.”

“No! No. I don’t want that.”

“Hmmmm. I’ll think about it.” He drops his hands away and kisses my head again. This time, I don’t even react. “Relax and enjoy your treatments, pet.”