Page 7 of Brutal

I walk into the bathroom. Drake flicks on the lights, and I try not to let my awe show.

The room is huge. One wall is all window, but this high up, there’s literally nobody who would be able to peep through. A large shower with multiple shower heads and clear glass walls runs along one wall. I realize the stone texture inside the shower has a small trickle of water going along it.

A fucking waterfall feature, inside the shower.

I glance at the large tub in the other corner, which appears to have jacuzzi jets. Several plants are set out near the tub, right up against the windows. Near the large, two-sink vanity is an ottoman which has a tray of oils and lotions set on top.

This is nothing like the small, three-by-three shower, no window bathroom I’d had before all of this.

I turn to look at him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Shower first,” Brutal directs me. “Just to rinse all the grime off of you. Then I’ll get you into the tub and we’ll go from there.”

I unbutton the coat and set it on the counter. I take the flip flops off nearby.

Nudity used to be something I’d dreaded. So many people have seen me naked now—this man has seen me naked, even—that it barely registers.

I walk into the shower and stop when I don’t see a standard handle for the faucet. I pull on it, and I’m surprised when it’s instantly warm, at the perfect temperature.

He moves the tray and sits down on the ottoman, watching me. “Tell me about yourself,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest.

I almost don’t hear him over the water, and I pretend I didn’t. The water feels so good, and I focus on scrubbing myself clean with the luxury soaps and shampoos. I’d much rather get clean and enjoy the warm water than converse with the kind of man who buys women.

After a few beats, though, he repeats, louder, “Tell me about yourself.”

It sounds more like an order now.

Without turning around to face him, I answer, “My name is Mimosa. I’m twenty-two years old. I was born in New Bristol.”

That’s the extent of what I want to tell him.

Brutal is quiet, and for a moment, I think he’s going to leave it at that. But then there’s a bit of cool air and a massive presence behind me, and I realize that the sound of the water had cloaked his movements as he’d stripped and gotten in behind me.

He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close to him. “You know, I’m the sort of guy who gives orders and gets answers,” he says, his voice low and almost conversational. “Good answers, not ones a fucking robot could give. Did something about this situation make you think I just wanted your fake name and fucking age, Mimi?”

I tense, clenching my fists. Soap runs down my breasts as the water rinses me off.

“Call me Mimosa,” I repeat. “And I don’t know what answers you want. I’ve been ‘working’ like this for the past few months. There’s nothing else important about me.”

His fingers find my nipple and pinch hard enough to make me gasp. “Observation number one, you still have too much attitude for someone who worked at that hellhole.” Even though he doesn’t actually voice a threat, I can still hear the warning in his voice. “Observation two, you think I’m just another client to satisfy and be done with.”

I bite my lip to swallow a sound. He’s expecting an answer, though. I just need to figure out which answer that is.

“You saw what I’m like,” I answer as steadily as I can. “If you didn’t like it, you didn’t have to buy me.”

His fingers dig into my breast, nails sharper than I would’ve expected. “Oh, is that so? I knew you were a pain in the ass, so I didn’t have to buy you? So it’s my fault you’re a brat, Mimi?”

I whimper in pain and shake my head. “No! But…” No, never mind. There’s no point in arguing with people like this. “I’m sorry. What do you want, Sir?”

It isn’t even hard to keep the sarcasm from my voice. I’ve had far too much practice at pretending to be meek and obedient.

Or maybe I just did become empty.

Brutal’s cock bumps against my back as he moves in, arm circling me and pulling me against him. “First thing you need to know about me is that I get bored very, very easily. And I think it’s pretty safe to say you don’t want me to get bored with you.”

“Why?” I ask, both curious and afraid. “What happens if you get bored of me?”

He slides his hand down my stomach, teasing the light layer of pubic hair. “I’m not going to sell you,” he murmurs. “I’m not going to let you go back to that life, or to the one before it. I’m going to find ways to keep myself entertained, and if you survive it, that’s great. If not, well…”