Page 5 of The Prey
“Wh-what do you want?” The words don’t come out half as strong as I want them to.
His full lips twist into a scowl as he drags his gaze back up my body, stopping once he reaches my face. “Did you really just ask me that?” He shakes his head like I asked him to buy me a new car or something. “What do I want? How about, how can I help you, Mr. Arturo, or can I get you something, Mr. Arturo? Now if you’re done wasting my time, you can start packing your bag.”
Huh? Packing my bag. What on earth is he talking about? I stare at him, hoping to convey my confusion without using words, but it doesn’t seem to work. He doesn’t explain, so I blurt out my question after a moment.
“What do you mean, pack my bags? I don’t understand.”
“For fuck's sake,” he growls, then turns his attention to my dresser. The same one I’m gripping the edge of. Without care, he rips open the top drawer. Shock morphs into embarrassment when he starts rifling around inside.
What the fuck?
“What are you doing? Stop that!” I place my hand flat on the drawer and attempt to push it back in so I don't have to see his long, graceful fingers clutching the lace and cotton of my underwear, but it’s useless.
He doesn't miss a beat, doesn’t even spare me a glance as he brushes my hand away and continues his assault on my underwear. After tossing a handful onto the top of the dresser, he moves to the next drawer down, where my shirts are neatly folded.
“Why are these all uniform shirts?”
If I had more balls, I’d probably say what’s on my mind at this very moment and ask him if he’s stupid or just oblivious. He has to know I do nothing but attend classes and work for him. I have no time for a social life. I refrain, though. There’s no point in instigating the beast.
Instead, I say mildly, “Because you paid for them, and all my wages go to attending school.”
I watch his forehead wrinkle, and he shoves his sandy-blond hair out of his face to crouch down, continuing to dig through my sparse pants drawer.
“What the fuck, Ely?”
I flinch at the stupid nickname, the one he adopted and keeps using simply because he knows how much I hate it. It’s the same name my father used to call me while he beat me. I don’t bother telling him the real reason I hate being called it; he’d only use it against me, and he doesn’t need more ammunition.
“Please stop calling me that!”
His features sharpen, and he freezes at my protest, and I swallow it hastily. “Never mind. I-I don’t know what you expect.” His lips settle into a thin line. I know that look. When you’ve spent a good portion of your life making sure you don’t piss others off so you don’t have to deal with another beating, you learn to read other people's facial expressions. And that expression tells me he’s on the cusp of full-blown rage.
“All you have is the employee-issued uniform; is that what you’re telling me?”
I swallow hard, my own anger and fear clogging my throat in a tight knot. I can barely squeeze out the words. “Clothes aren't important. Not as important as other things.”
He stands in one smooth motion, his frame towering above me. “You mean not as important as school and, say, the menagerie of pets you've been housing and feeding gourmet food to in the old groundskeeper’s cottage?”
Shit. Heat blooms in my cheeks. I was certain no one saw me sneaking in there. “It's not a menagerie. Just, like, one cat and a dog. Plus, they were sick.” I wave a hand, trying to distract him. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to argue with you about it.”
He takes a calculated step toward me, eating up the tiny amount of space separating us, and I keep my feet rooted into the ground. Even after months of being around him, there are still instances when he surprises me. You can never be too sure with him.
“The animals don’t matter. What matters is the clothing you don’t have, the clothing that I need you to have.”
“Why?” I try to strip the anger out of my voice, but by the way his eyes narrow, I know I've failed.
“Why must you always ask a million questions?” He snarls. “Because I have places to be, and you’re coming with me.” His annoyance makes a mockery of me, as if it's so inconvenient for him to be here rummaging through my meager possessions.
My chin lifts as my own annoyance flares to life, and I forget for a single blessed moment to be afraid.
“Well, this is what I have. If you don’t like it, I suggest you provide me with something else. Maybe Bel has something I can borrow?”
He cocks his head to the side and purses his lips, his full bottom lip poking out invitingly. Nope. Not even going to let my thoughts go there. I bet he’s a terrible kisser. No one in their right mind would take that invitation and saddle themselves with his emotional trauma or the repercussions of crawling into bed with him.
I’ve been around long enough to hear what happens in his bedroom. Thinking about it sends an involuntary shudder down my spine. I’ve had to listen to the screams and the moans; I’ve had to wash blood from his sheets. Sebastian isn’t the gentleman the world thinks he is, I’ll tell you that much.
I hold my head high while the urge to look down at my shoes and crumple at his feet tempts me. With nothing more than a nod, and in a deceptively calm tone, he says, “Let’s go see what she has in her closet. There should be something suitable, and considering I bought most of it, she won’t mind sharing.”
He gives me no time to react as he snags me by the bicep. I fight against his grip, but all I end up doing is tripping over my own feet as he hauls me behind him. I have to put in twice the effort to keep up with him since his legs are so long.