She attempted not to move, not to let him know in any way that, even now, she wanted his hands to start stroking her flesh again. Instead, she focused in on his story to distract herself from her painful desire. Massacre? What was the point of this? “One of the women displeased the king, and he slit her throat right in the middle of the ballroom. The others, fueled by drugs and the sight of blood, went just a little wild, and the killings began. It didn’t stop until the eleven women they’d stolen and three members of the household staff were dead. And still, little rabbit, the music played on.”
He removed his hands from her skin and got off her, and God help her, she suddenly missed his warmth. When he spoke, his voice was casual. “Like the man I told you about, and yet very different, I collect things as well, little rabbit,” he said. “As you have nothing to offer that I might take with me, I should like you to create something. A poem. A note. A drawing, perhaps. Something personal to frame and hang in my gallery. Something to make me smile and remember this interlude.”
Interlude? What a sick joke. What the fuck was he talking about?
The mattress lifted as he stood. “The paper and pencil are on the desk. I paid a king’s ransom for both. Please make it worthwhile. You’ll be asked to leave both behind. The powers that be determined that writing utensils were against the rules once out of view. Secret messages and all. It wouldn’t be fair now, would it? Once I leave, you may remove the blindfold. It’s been a pleasure, little rabbit. I hope you take something of our time together with you as well.”
She waited, her breath hitching as she heard the door open and then softly close. Noelle ripped the silk blindfold from her eyes, simultaneously rolling over and sitting up. She tossed the small piece of silken fabric aside and blinked at the empty space before her, sure she could see the outline of the man in the air before her as though he’d disturbed the atmosphere and it was taking a moment to fill back in the space he’d just occupied. Stupid.
You’re so hot when you’re mad. The words hung in her head similar to the imagined outline of him. Even in her haze, they’d seemed odd. Or maybe it was because he’d said them at the precise moment he had—on the heels of her unbidden and oh-so-telling moan—that they’d imprinted on her brain that way. But also . . . they hadn’t fit the persona she’d assigned to him. They sounded more like some current teen than a sophisticated man who wore cologne that probably cost more than the rinky-dink car she drove.
The man by the door remained still, staring straight ahead, his firearm held by his side. Noelle brought her hands to her naked breasts, jumping off the bed and quickly dressing in her filthy clothes. She took a minute to pull herself together as best as possible, eyeing the singular piece of white paper on the table, a pencil sitting beside it.
She took the few steps to the desk, then picked up the pencil and tapped it lightly as she assessed the sharpness of the point. She considered using it to lunge at the man with the gun behind her, but he’d likely shoot her before she had a chance to turn and make it across the room. Would Evan hear the shot from below? Would he realize right away that he was now completely alone?
No.
She leaned over the desk, writing out a short poem, and then she took several minutes to sketch an accompanying piece of art. It was juvenile both in content and in lack of talent, but it gave her a small burst of satisfaction all the same. I hope you take something of our time together with you as well. She paused, something occurring to her as the words he’d emphasized pricked at her mind.
Would I . . . break . . . the rules?
You’re so hot when you’re mad.
She left the paper on the desk, gripping the pencil and turning slowly toward the tiny eye of the camera peeking from high up on the wall. Why hadn’t they hidden this one? Did they want them to know they were being watched up here? Was it meant to add to their humiliation? She stared, wondering how many sets of predatorial eyes stared right back at her. It made the hair on the nape of her neck stand up.
Noelle raised the pencil held in both hands, hesitating only a moment before snapping it in two. She narrowed her eyes, gritting her teeth as she pictured her hatred like a ball of flame flowing from her eyes and leaping through the lens of that tiny eye, straight to whomever was on the other side as they burst into flames.
Her chest rose and fell as she took in swallows of air, lowering her hands and then tossing the broken pencil to the floor. She waited a beat, then two, but no repercussions came in response to her mini temper tantrum. Perhaps they had enjoyed it.