Devoured (Devoured, #1)(27)

I focus all my attention on the contents of the bag—a cell phone and a Samsung tablet—so I don’t spend too much time dwelling on his easy effect on my body. “Mine to keep?”

He deadpans. “I’m giving you a house. Don’t push your luck, Sienna.”

“What do you want me to do now?” I ask.

His mouth draws up into a grin. Oh, he’s got me right where he wants me and he’s abso-f*cking-lutely loving it. I curse at myself for ever showing my timid nature around him two years ago, yell at myself for showing balls for long enough to go on his radar. When I return his look—an expression that makes my face hurt—his smile fades. He gestures his head toward the leather couch.

“Sit down, Si, and take those god-awful chopsticks out of your hair.”

I slam my bottom down on the couch and drag the pretty silver hair accessories from my red locks, letting the tangled strands fall in a mess around my shoulders. Lucas is by my side, standing over me, in a matter of seconds. His hand hovers by my face, as if he wants to run his fingers through my long hair, to tug on it, but then he clenches his fingers.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he promises. “I’m not going to have any physical contact until you f*cking ask me to.”

“Maybe I won’t,” I say. And, though I know it’s cruel, I find myself swishing my hair over my shoulders, and running my fingers through it in an effort to comb out the tangles. I sense when his body goes stiff. He mutters something to his self. I make out a few words like ass and red. “You said that I’m submissive to everyone but you, so maybe—”

“There’s no maybe to it,” he growls between bared teeth. “By time you leave me—if I send you away—you’ll grow a damn backbone and the only person you’ll ever answer to will be me.”

What does he mean by if he sends me away? I want to ask him, but he begins talking, taking long strides back and forth while he explains in detail everything we’re going to do over the course of the next ten days. There’s a photo shoot tomorrow for a magazine spread. Then a film crew is coming in from Los Angeles the day after tomorrow. They’ll be filming him, outside of his personal space, for a documentary that’s being released for a movie about the future of rock and roll. That’s on day four, Sunday—

Wait—day four?

When I stop him to ask if he has his days mixed up he shakes his head to each side. “Don’t interrupt. But to answer your question, since you accepted my offer early on yesterday, I’ve decided to be nice and give you credit for it.”

Well this is unexpected. I clack my teeth together, side to side, so I don’t show how surprised I am that he’s taken time off my . . . work schedule. I’m ridiculously grateful, because what he’s decided to do will give me an extra day with Gram once I’m able to return to her cabin.

“I’m not a total douchebag, Sienna. I do give a shit what happens to you and just so you know, I’ll never, ever humiliate you. That’s never my game.”

There’s a lump in my throat and I choke out a thank you.

Then his mood changes and he raises an eyebrow almost mockingly, saying, “Now, no more interruption or I really will punish you.” I open my mouth, but he holds out a finger in front of him, stopping me from speaking. “God, when will you listen? No, I’m not going to physically punish you because that requires . . .”

When he nods his head, giving me permission to speak, I whisper, “Touch.”

“And the only way I’ll do that is if . . .”

“I beg.”

He grants me a smile and then continues giving me a play by play of the schedule for each day after Sunday. Day nine will be a recap of everything I’ve learned and on the final day, ten, he’ll conduct a small assessment. Of what, I’m not sure. “Nothing f*cked up or”—he raises his eyebrow wickedly—“too strenuous.”

Yeah, right.

“Now, tell me what I’ve just told you,” he says.

I make it to day four, knowing that I’ve left out important details, and then I completely falter. “I-I don’t remember.”

“Verbal training,” he reminds me, and I flush.

“Sorry, Lucas.”

I’ve not called him Mr. Wolfe or Sir like he’s asked me to, but instead of pointing this out or correcting me he seems to shrug the mistake off. Maybe today counts as like an orientation. “Let’s try this again, this time”—he pulls a long strip of dark fabric from the same desk drawer he found the Best Buy bag in—“let’s try this.” He hands it to me, making sure our skin doesn’t touch.

“A blindfold?”

“Yes, a blindfold.”

“I won’t be able to see. And then—”

“You don’t have to see anything to listen. To speak. To learn.”

I feel like an idiot for even trying to protest because he has a point. I don’t need my eyes for any of those things. Sifting the cloth back and forth between my hands, I ask, “And you want me to put it on right now?”

“Why else would I give it to you?” Lucas demands, in a husky voice, wiggling his index finger to let me know he’s ready for me to follow through with his request. Hesitantly, I press the fabric to my face, over my eyes, shivering at how soft it feels, how very dangerous.