Read Online Bought by Tara Crescent - Free Book Online

Nose has been broken once. Ex-military, perhaps? Carries himself that way though his body has gone slightly to seed.
    Weapon strapped to thigh. Looks like a hunting knife, from the way he moves. No body searches for the Dominants then. No gun.
    One ring on his left index finger. Wedding ring. One fat signet ring on his right thumb. I don’t know the symbol. File it away for later reference.
    The second man. Tanned. Fitter than the first. Black hair, also cropped short. This man isn’t military though. His muscles are earned at the gym, not in battle. This man exudes wealth.
    Armani suit, custom-made. Linen. Summer-weight wool, in concession to the heat in Bangkok. Hand-made loafers.
    His eyes are as green as mine.
    Is one of these men Alexander Hamilton?
    I looked up into the eyes of the man who’d spoken, the one in the expensive suit. From the dynamics between the two, the rich one was the employer, and the other one was the bodyguard. He wasn’t wearing a gun, so he didn’t think there was a serious threat in the room. But like all warriors, he felt naked without a weapon. Hence the knife.
    “Your hard limits sheet,” the man gestured to the paper in his hands, “is quite remarkable.”
    There was very little on that piece of paper. We hadn’t been able to research Alexander’s kinks, so I had to cast as wide a net as possible to trap him. Or be trapped by him .
    “Yes Sir,” I replied softly. Madame Lorraine’s rules on protocol had been clear. Address the men as Sir , and the women as Ma’am . Be polite. Be well-mannered. Keep your eyes respectfully lowered unless you were told otherwise.
    “Nothing?” He raised one dark eyebrow, and his lips twitched. “That could be… fascinating.” He waved an arm towards my robe. “I’d like you to take off your clothes, please.”
    I knew I could say no . This was a request, not an order. But this could be Alexander. My nerveless fingers moved to the knot at my waist. I tugged and the robe fell open.
    Everywhere in the room, I saw the same scene take place. Everywhere, fabric was falling to the floor and bodies were being revealed. I should have felt embarrassed and humiliated. But the present was falling away with the same soft whoosh my robe made as it fell to the floor and the past once again rose to the fore.
    ***
    It is always a click of his fingers. One click and I am supposed to stop whatever I’m doing and get naked.
    Mostly, I’m obedient. He’s clicked his fingers in the kitchen where I’m helping Mrs. Olusola fry some fish for lunch. Though hot oil roils next to me and the risk of splatters and burns are high, I disrobe instantly. I know the consequences of failure and they are to be avoided at all costs.
    Once though, I balk briefly. I haven’t been on the estate long. Just three months and that day, there’s a woman in the room, a guest of Dylan’s. Her eyes are cold and I shiver instinctively when I look at her. This woman rouses the same fear in me that Dylan does.
    His finger clicks and I hesitate. Just for seconds, but the damage has been done. Dylan’s eyebrows draw together in extreme displeasure and I tremble openly. Dylan goes cold when he’s angry and he can be very, very mean.
    “Master, this worthless slave begs forgiveness…” I start faintly, prostrating myself on the floor. Perhaps abject humiliation will save me from his wrath.
    “You are slipping, Dylan,” the woman says. She sounds amused. “Would you like my help in training your property?”
    Your property. Even in my fear, even in my terror, my soul notices and rebels against those words. I’m not property. My name isn’t slave. It isn’t cunt. My name is Ellie Samuelson. But I don’t speak. I don’t move from my position. My forehead and shoulders stay pressed into the floor. Every muscle in my body trembles, but I stay silent. I’ve already brought down Dylan’s wrath on me. I cannot make it worse.
    Dylan’s voice is cold when he speaks, but his tone is