Page 12 of The Beast Who Bought Me
“No.”
“And no one has ever?—”
“No.”
He studies me, then writes something down under his other notes. “That significantly increases your value.”
Value. Like I’m a fucking collector’s item.
One month, I remind myself. One month for money and time off the streets. I can’t think properly while I’m exhausted and hungry and afraid for my life. I need time to get my head together, make a plan, find a path.
A contract is placed in front of me and I read key phrases that make nausea rise in me once more.
Merchandise may not refuse any act unless specifically excluded in this contract…
Owner maintains complete control of merchandise’s body, including but not limited to sexual access, temporary physical modification, and display to or use by select individuals...
Merchandise must comply with all grooming, dietary, and behavioral requirements...
The “protections” are minimal. No permanent disfigurement, and I’m to be returned to the Obelisk at the end of the contract alive and physically healthy.
Nothing about my mental health, of course.
“Wait,” I say sharply. “This contract is for a year, not a month.”
“Naturally. Given the amount of money you’ll need to disappear from someone who appears to be a professional hitman, I took the liberty of adjusting the parameters to better meet your needs.”
How does he know about?—
I turn around in my seat to glare at Jesse, who has developed a deep fascination with his cuticles.
“Please, Mr. Clemenza,” King says impatiently. “You are wasting time. The preparations for tonight will be extensive. But if you want to back out, if you think you can get a better price for yourself elsewhere, if you prefer to sell yourself on the streets—you are, of course, welcome to try.”
I feel numb all over. Ayear? “I can’t do a year.”
“Cal, sweetie,” Jesse says. “Be reasonable.” He comes closer, sits on the edge of the desk. “You need the money,” he stage whispers.
“I told you that in confidence?—”
King sighs, like we don’t have time for my outrage. And I’m annoyed at myself, too. I spilled gossip to a gossip queen. What did I think was going to happen? At my age, I shouldn’t need a new lesson in keeping my own counsel.
“I told him you neededprotection.” Jesse’s voice drops to the same persuasive tone he used at Kismet. “And look what Mr. King is offering—a deal that solves your problem instead of just putting a Band-Aid on it.”
King watches this exchange with the detached interest of someone observing lab rats in a maze.
I shake my head slowly. “I will not give up a year of my life.”
“Cal.Sweetheart,” Jesse sighs. “Look at me.Reallylook.” He gestures to his designer clothes, his perfect skin, the expensive phone in his hand. “Do I look miserable? Do I look abused?”
My eyes drop to his wrists, but he just gives me a suggestive wink.
“My owneradoresme,” he continues. “I have my own chauffeur. I live in a penthouse on Billionaires’ Row. I go to Paris or Rome or London for the weekend if I feel like it. I havefreedom, Cal. And I adore my owner. Plus his friend, who’s interested in you?Totalcatch. Powerful, rich, protective as hell. You’ll live like a prince.”
“For a whole year.”
“For a whole year that will feel like a vacation, and you’ll besafe. That’s what you want, right? No one will be able to touch you for that year. Whoever buys you, they’ll want to protect their investment. And at the end, you’ll have a nest egg waiting for you.”
What he’s saying is too close to the truth for me to ignore. Safety. For a year.
