Page 4 of Owning Emma

Chapter 3

EMMA

“What are you doing?”My dad’s voice boomed from my bedroom door. His face was red with anger, and his skin had a sheen of sweat over it. He was getting himself worked up, and I understood why, but that wasn’t good for his health.

“Calm down; your blood pressure is probably through the roof right now,” I told him, knowing I didn’t have to answer his question. It was obvious what I was doing.

“You’re not going.” His words and tone would generally leave no room for arguments, but this time, neither of us had control over the situation.

“I have no choice; I have to go. The deal has already been made.” I forced the words out calmly, but inside, I felt anything but calm. I was terrified. A free mouse tossed into a cage. I had no way out and absolutely no idea how I would survive this.

“We could have figured something else out. I just needed some time.” He sat on the chair in the corner of my room, defeat written all over his face, and I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I couldn’t. He made these choices, these decisions, without me, and now I had to clean up the mess. I had to face the consequences.

“You don’t think he gave you time?” I was trying so hard to reign in my temper.

“Look, I know I made some bad decisions, I get it, but I heard Roman was easier to work with than Krank, and I couldn’t let you go to Krank. He would have you stripping at his club before the night’s out.”

“So, Roman was a better choice?” I asked.

“I didn’t know he would take you instead!” My father’s voice rose, but he had no right to direct his anger in my direction.

“Well, now you know, don’t you? If I don’t go, it will only create more problems. This is the best option. It won’t be forever, and it will help lower what you owe,” I explained as I tossed a few pairs of jeans into my bag.

“I don’t like it. You’re not like them, you’re good.” He rubbed his hands over his face, either in frustration or defeat.

“You don’t have to like it; you never seemed to care what I liked when you made these deals with the devil,” I pointed out, searching under my bed for a spare bag.

“It wasn’t supposed to get this far; it was simple loans. The bakery was falling down around us; it needed the repairs.” His explanation was valid, but still no excuse. He could have come to me, and we could have figured it out together, worked through whatever issue we had. Instead, he got us in a hole and secretly kept it from me. I was angry, no, I was furious, that I had to find out the moment some oversized thugs came stomping into the shop, making demands.

The bell rang out the residential entrance below, but neither my father nor I wanted to move. We stood there, staring at each other, knowing that this was the moment everything changed, my life, our relationship, the future of our shop. It was all slowly eroding, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

My father rose slowly, knowing that he had no choice, and eventually, whoever they sent, would find his way inside. He gave me one last glance before he left, leaving me to finish packing for the destiny he created for me, one I only volunteered for to save my life, to protect our lives.

I made quick work of packing the rest of my clothes and undergarments I would need into my empty bag. I wasn’t sure what I needed or how they expected me to dress, but I didn’t own any leather like the girls I’d seen with their type or the short tank tops that threatened to expose nipples. I didn’t know what they wanted for me; I didn’t know what they expected, but I wouldn’t let them change me, change my morals and my worth.

There were footsteps outside my door, giant steps moments before the mammoth blond from earlier appeared in my doorway. His eyes wandered over me, taking me in from head to toe. “You ready, Cardigan?”

“Excuse me?” I responded, more than a little annoyed that he thought he could call me whatever he wanted and pissed that I didn’t even know the lingo enough to know if it was an insult.

“Are you ready?” He reached his arms up, resting them on the top of my doorframe, tapping the wood. It took him no effort, no stretching, just a casual pose as if it’s normal to be so freakishly tall that reaching the ceiling was average standards.

I didn’t bother answering his question. The less I had to deal with him, the better. Instead, I reached down, picked up both my bags, and walked toward the door, hoping the baboon would move out of my way so we could get this over with. He didn’t budge one inch as I approached. Instead, he continued to stand there, staring at my sweater like my clothing was foreign to him.

“Are you going to move?” I finally asked after it became apparent he had no intention of budging.

“Not until you put those down,” he drawled out slowly as if he had all the time in the world to wait.

“Are we not leaving?” I adjusted the weight in my hands, trying not to let him see that the weight was getting heavy for me.

“Oh, we are leaving, Cardigan. But, a lady doesn’t carry bags.” His body seemed relaxed like he had all the time in the world, but the fingers tapping nonstop on the frame above his head let me know of the impatience that bubbled just under the surface.

His hazel eyes narrowed on me like he knew I was about to talk back, and I was. I may be willingly going with him, but I would not make it easy on him. “I don’t know what type of helpless women you are used to, Mr . . .” I paused, not sure if I learned his name, and if I learned it, I most likely didn’t care enough to remember the insignificant syllables.

A smirk curled up one corner of his mouth as if he thought I was more amusing than infuriating. “Shaw,” he offered as if that one-syllable word should hold all the meaning in the world to me.

“Shaw,” I repeated, testing the words out, letting them fall from my lips for the first time. I was not pleased with the pleasure and rightness I felt by saying them. “Well, Shaw, I’m not sure what type of helpless women you are used to, but I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own things and managing myself without you standing over me, throwing me your demands and expecting me to follow them.”

He sucked in a deep breath, letting the silence settle over us before he let the breath out in a giant whoosh. Taking his arms down from where they were resting above his head, he slowly strolled into the bedroom. Putting his hand out toward me, he demanded, “Give me your bag; it’s getting late.”