Page 9 of Owned (Office Intrigue Duet 8)
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow morning I would ask Talon for something that would have me indebted to him for life, because the man did not do anything for free.
But if it meant saving Braelyn, it would be worth it. No matter the cost.
TWO
Thursday, December 31, 2020
RANSOM
The following morning, at precisely 6:25 a.m., I was pacing the floor in Talon’s Chicago high-rise office, waiting for the man to extricate himself from a meeting.
I was here at the offices of Owned, Incorporated without being on the schedule—or so I’d been not-so-kindly informed by the woman at the reception desk. Never mind the fact Talon was expecting me. Evidently, if it wasn’t on the calendar, it never happened.
There for a second, I’d thought the receptionist/drill sergeant with the platinum wig and polyester suit was going to tackle me to the floor and drag me back to the elevator by my hair. At the very least, I’d figured she would call security. Thankfully, she’d made a call and gotten approval for me to be here. Or so I assumed since she’d left my hair in place and led the way to this lavish office, allowing me to wait in here without those beady eyes scrutinizing my every move.
Teach me to be early.
Then again, it was a wonder I’d waited this long. Ever since I woke up this morning—after four fitful hours of sleep—I’d been antsy, something I was not familiar with and didn’t much care for. What I wanted to do was storm the door of the room Talon was in and insist he speak to me now. Considering it truly was a matter of life or death, I figured he might listen to reason.
However, I was not that man. I did not let emotion rule my actions—not hastily, anyway. I hadn’t since the night I fled with my sister, and I damn sure did not intend to start now.
Thankfully, I only had to rap my fingertips on the upholstered arm of this overpriced chair for ten minutes before the door opened and Talon strolled in, looking right at home in his five-thousand-dollar bespoke suit and silk tie.
The man was an imposing figure. Topping out at six feet eight inches with a long, rangy body that was chiseled to perfection—not too skinny, not too bulky—jet-black hair sporting a two-hundred-dollar cut, styled with care and precision, Talon drew attention when he walked into a room. Hands down the best dressed man I knew, along with an angular, clean-shaven face and keen eyes the color of cold, hard steel, his presence was impossible to ignore.
No one knew much about Talon’s heritage because he didn’t share that sort of information, but I’d say there was likely some Cuban in there somewhere, if he wasn’t full-blood. How did I come to this conclusion? A few reasons. His skin color was on the lighter side of copper, his values and beliefs strong, and he had a preference for Café Cubano. And yes, I realized that was me stereotyping, something I despised. What I really based my guess on was that, every now and then, I’d detect a distinct accent, something he’d probably spent much of his life concealing.
Add in the deep baritone and his straightforward method of communication and one might find oneself intimidated.
For the record, I didn’t intimidate easily.
“I’ll preface this with an apology,” I said quickly, ensuring he knew I was not one to ask for impromptu meetings unless it was absolutely necessary. “I hate to impose, but … well, I need your help.”
Talon tucked his hands into the pockets of his charcoal slacks, regarded me closely. “I figured you’d have a long list of friends you’d prefer to go to for such a thing.”
“I consider you a friend, Talon.”
Those dark gray eyes leveled on my face, studied me before Talon finally gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
I unbuttoned my suit jacket, which I’d donned for this meeting specifically, then positioned myself in one of the leather chairs placed for guests.
Before sitting in his own chair, Talon lifted a hand, motioned by tapping his index finger in the air twice.
I was aware of a man moving toward us. He appeared beside Talon’s desk, standing tall and gallant despite the fact he was wearing only a pair of jeans and a thick metal collar around his neck. It was rare for anyone to catch a glimpse of the sexual slaves Talon kept, but I’d heard rumors about them.
“Would you like something to drink?” Talon offered.
“Whatever you’re having’s fine,” I answered, admiring the way the man stood, as though every fiber of his being was dedicated to fulfilling Talon’s every need.
Talon didn’t speak, simply nodded his head at the other man, who in turn gave a quick nod then reversed course.
“How can I assist?” Talon prompted, taking a seat and leaning back in his chair.
