my face, trying not to think of what it means that I want to look nice.
Rosa is in a good mood when she shuffles into my room. I close my eyes and relax as she gently drags a comb through my wet hair, tugging lightly to free any tangles. Her sturdy fingers pull hair off my face, grazing my temples. It’s not often that anyone touches me anymore. My head falls forward, hair creating a dark veil as she brushes. I haven’t even touched myself. My mind makes up for it with occasional wet dreams, sometimes about a shadowed man abusing my mouth. I am guiltiest when I catch myself replaying them during the day.
The floor-length, tea rose pink dress I choose resembles a nightgown. In a way, it’s a small step up from what I’ve been wearing around the house. I’m oddly excited when I slide into heels, even if it’s just to wear them downstairs. I ask Rosa twice in halting Spanish if she’s sure I should wear them at all, and she confirms with a nod.
She accompanies me out but vanishes once we reach the base of the steps. I don’t need her anyway; I could find my way around the mansion, at least the parts I’m allowed in, with my eyes closed.
But no amount of time exploring this place could’ve prepared me for what I see next.
As I round the doorway into the dining hall, everything I know, all my myriad theories, anything I believed to be true shatters to pieces. Beautiful olive-green eyes framed by black rims bring my world to a halt. Where Guy Fowler should be sits Calvin Parish.
My hand spreads over my stomach and clutches my dress. I try to inhale, but air comes in short, impossible wisps. “Mr. Parish?”
“Have a seat,” Calvin says, his voice dripping with heart-stabbing indifference.
I take a step backward and make jolting contact with the doorjamb. “Where’s Guy?” I ask, my head shaking out of my control. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my home.”
“How?” I whisper.
“I’m not sure I understand your question. Have a seat, Cataline.” He removes his glasses with a heavy sigh. “I’m certain you’ve been warned about my patience?”
With tentative steps, I inch my way to sit at the opposite end of the table. As I do, his eyes drop from my face.
“Norman?” he calls, and instantly Norman appears. “What is this? She looks ridiculous.”
“It’s customary for dinner guests to dress as such in your presence, Master.”
“No need for formalities that will only confuse the girl. We’re not playing house here.” His attention returns to me. “Going forward, come to dinner as you are. And on that note, don’t call me Mr. Parish. Calvin will do.”
I swallow, running my hands over my silk-sheathed thighs. It wasn’t long ago that my mouth stretched from his throbbing dick. I shake my head quickly. “This can’t be real,” I say softly to the table. “This whole time—these last two months, I thought . . .” My head overflows with questions faster than I can keep up. I look up again. “Why are you doing this? What do you want with me?”
For rarely having ever made eye contact, his gaze is unnervingly fixed on me. It’s almost more shocking to have him stare at me so directly than what I’ve just learned.
“Norman,” he says without looking away, “excuse yourself.”
And again we are alone. He leans forward with agonizing slowness to set his elbows on the table. “I won’t answer those questions.”
“Why not?” I pause, awaiting a response. “Are you working with Guy Fowler? Is this because of what happened at the restaurant?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “No.”
“No what?” I cry. “No, you’re not working with him, or no, it’s not my fault?”
“Please, don’t get hysterical. Remember your place.”
“My place?” I repeat. “I don’t know my place.”
“The fewer questions you ask, the better. They’ll only lead to disappointment, as anyone you come in contact with has been instructed not to answer them.”
“For how
Rosa is in a good mood when she shuffles into my room. I close my eyes and relax as she gently drags a comb through my wet hair, tugging lightly to free any tangles. Her sturdy fingers pull hair off my face, grazing my temples. It’s not often that anyone touches me anymore. My head falls forward, hair creating a dark veil as she brushes. I haven’t even touched myself. My mind makes up for it with occasional wet dreams, sometimes about a shadowed man abusing my mouth. I am guiltiest when I catch myself replaying them during the day.
The floor-length, tea rose pink dress I choose resembles a nightgown. In a way, it’s a small step up from what I’ve been wearing around the house. I’m oddly excited when I slide into heels, even if it’s just to wear them downstairs. I ask Rosa twice in halting Spanish if she’s sure I should wear them at all, and she confirms with a nod.
She accompanies me out but vanishes once we reach the base of the steps. I don’t need her anyway; I could find my way around the mansion, at least the parts I’m allowed in, with my eyes closed.
But no amount of time exploring this place could’ve prepared me for what I see next.
As I round the doorway into the dining hall, everything I know, all my myriad theories, anything I believed to be true shatters to pieces. Beautiful olive-green eyes framed by black rims bring my world to a halt. Where Guy Fowler should be sits Calvin Parish.
My hand spreads over my stomach and clutches my dress. I try to inhale, but air comes in short, impossible wisps. “Mr. Parish?”
“Have a seat,” Calvin says, his voice dripping with heart-stabbing indifference.
I take a step backward and make jolting contact with the doorjamb. “Where’s Guy?” I ask, my head shaking out of my control. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my home.”
“How?” I whisper.
“I’m not sure I understand your question. Have a seat, Cataline.” He removes his glasses with a heavy sigh. “I’m certain you’ve been warned about my patience?”
With tentative steps, I inch my way to sit at the opposite end of the table. As I do, his eyes drop from my face.
“Norman?” he calls, and instantly Norman appears. “What is this? She looks ridiculous.”
“It’s customary for dinner guests to dress as such in your presence, Master.”
“No need for formalities that will only confuse the girl. We’re not playing house here.” His attention returns to me. “Going forward, come to dinner as you are. And on that note, don’t call me Mr. Parish. Calvin will do.”
I swallow, running my hands over my silk-sheathed thighs. It wasn’t long ago that my mouth stretched from his throbbing dick. I shake my head quickly. “This can’t be real,” I say softly to the table. “This whole time—these last two months, I thought . . .” My head overflows with questions faster than I can keep up. I look up again. “Why are you doing this? What do you want with me?”
For rarely having ever made eye contact, his gaze is unnervingly fixed on me. It’s almost more shocking to have him stare at me so directly than what I’ve just learned.
“Norman,” he says without looking away, “excuse yourself.”
And again we are alone. He leans forward with agonizing slowness to set his elbows on the table. “I won’t answer those questions.”
“Why not?” I pause, awaiting a response. “Are you working with Guy Fowler? Is this because of what happened at the restaurant?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “No.”
“No what?” I cry. “No, you’re not working with him, or no, it’s not my fault?”
“Please, don’t get hysterical. Remember your place.”
“My place?” I repeat. “I don’t know my place.”
“The fewer questions you ask, the better. They’ll only lead to disappointment, as anyone you come in contact with has been instructed not to answer them.”
“For how
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