Page 36 of His Dark Pact

“That was before you were my maid. Maids are here to clean and serve. They will ask permission prior to sitting at the master’s table.” He picked up his cutlery. “Ah, pigeon. One of my favorites.”

His most recent request definitely stretched her enthusiasm, but staring at him, she realized he was deadly serious. If she wanted to sit down and actually eat the meal she’d been ordered to bring him, she’d need to ask for permission.

“Please, may I sit down and eat?” She pushed the words out in one long, harassed breath, hoping it would be enough, but really... she should have known better.

“Not like that.” Kyle placed down his knife and fork. “Stand in front of me in that thrilling outfit and asknicely.”

He pointed to the spot he meant as his focus fell on his starter.

Thrilling?

“You really want me to do this?” Suddenly, she wanted to run up the stairs and rip the outfit off. Why had she been foolish enough to wear it, and what had she expected him to do when she did?

The unrelenting questions ricocheted around her mind, taunting her.

This was what she got for playing his perverted game, and it was what she merited. By playing straight into his hands, she’d already handed over a portion of her dignity and self-respect. Kyle was only helping himself to the rest.

She lingered on the idea of bolting. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned the route back up the stairs to her room and how quickly she could change back into her comfortable joggers, but she didn’t move a muscle. Kyle was being a prick, but his money still represented the best chance she had at clearing her debt and moving on in the world. She clung to that hope, the way a shipwrecked person at sea might cling to the remnants of their broken vessel. It was all she had.

“Yes, Amy.” His fork collected a piece of meat he’d sliced from the pigeon’s breast. “And you’d do well to address me properly.”

Swallowing back whatever remained of her pride, she edged closer in his direction. “Please, sir.”

An image of the black-and-white version of Oliver Twist that she’d seen as a child filled her head. The main character had needed to beg to survive in that book, but she’d never related to his plight until that moment.

“Yes.” The weight of his attention landed on her, his blue eyes spearing her flaming skin.

“Please, may I sit at the table and eat with you?”

She wasn’t even hungry anymore, but he had her now, regardless. Whether she wanted the pigeon and was offered anything else to eat or not, she was suspended there by the sheer force of his knowing glare.

“You may.” He gestured to the food. “Your pigeon is getting cold.”

Chapter Twelve

Exposure