Page 35 of The Beast Who Broke Me
When I get down to the foyer, Dami hasn’t come down yet, so I take a moment to turn on the phone the Morellis gave me and text Finch D’Amato again. Yesterday, he sent a flood of turkey leg emojis and a question mark, to which I replied with a briefI am still aliveand refrained from telling him to choke on his Thanksgiving dinner.
Today I see he’s sent back clapping hands, as though my survival is worthy of applause.
He’s not entirely wrong. I send back an acerbic,Once again, not dead. And then I turn off the phone and leave it on the side table near the fireplace. When I turn, my heart jolts when I see Dami has been watching me from the stairs.
“I didn’t hear you come down,” I say.
“Sending your dick pic to the Morellis, huh?” is all he says.
I don’t dignify that with a response.
Vito is waiting outside the car when we go out, not the large one that took me away from the Obelisk and into this new nightmare, but a more compact town car. Damiano hands Vito a slip of paper.
“This is where we’re going in Queens.” And then he steps forward out of habit to enter the car first.
But I only have to glance at him to make him pause.
I smile in thanks to Vito, who already has the door open, and slide into the back seat in Dami’s place.
Damiano jerks his head at Vito, who gets back into the driver’s seat, while Dami walks around the car to let himself in. “Did you talk to Sammy?” I ask as Vito pulls out from the curb.
His only reply is to hit the button that puts the privacy screen up.
“I told you to give it some time,” I sigh.
“Open your pants.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“You heard me.” He’s not looking at me. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the cock cage, that hateful little contraption the Obelisk sent me home with, and holds it up between two fingers. “Open your pants.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You said your body belongs to me. Contract, remember? So open up, or I’ll do it for you.”
Of all the petty, vindictive…
But even as the fury rises, a cooler part of my brain is already taking hold. Dami needs to feel like he has power over me. If this crude reassertion of ownership is what it takes to blunt his volatility, then it might actually work in my favor.
It doesn’t mean I’m going to enjoy it.
“Fine,” I say, and undo my belt.
He shifts closer, and there’s nothing clinical about the way his hands move. He tugs my waistband down just enough to reach me, and I have to look away, fixing my gaze out the window as his fingers close around me. He’s slow—too slow—fitting the ring first, adjusting it with a deliberateness that sends heat crawling up my spine.
“You’re getting hard.”
“I’m aware,” I say through my teeth.
“Better hurry up and think about something else, then. This goes on a lot easier when you’re soft.” He gives me a look of dark amusement, and I want to hit him.
Instead, I think about my grandfather’s study. The desk. The smell of cigar smoke and fear. My arousal dies fast. The cage clicks shut and the weight of it settles against me, a constant, maddening pressure that I’ll feel with every step.
Dami pockets the key, leaving me to button up my pants.
I’m starting to get nervous about his reaction to the man we’re going to meet. Hearing Strike speak fondly of my father might set him off. And speaking of fathers, that brings me to a delicate point.
“What was your father’s name?” I ask.
