The Pawn (Endgame #1)(40)

“Yes, Avery. I tasted your pretty virgin cunt. You came against my fingers. Less than…”—he pretends to count—“twelve hours ago. Do you think I forgot?”

My chin lifts higher even as I take another step back. “You’re acting like you did.”

His steps are slow and graceful as he rounds the desk. “I’m acting like a man who got what he paid for. Excellent service. Would you like a review on Yelp? Five stars.”

I flinch. “Fine, push me away. Because you’re scared of what happened.”

“Scared?” he says, tasting the word. “I was taking it slow for you, little virgin. But if you’re ready for more, I’ll be sure to show you what scary things are waiting for you.”

“Not sex. The way you held me after.”

“You were shaking,” he says, his voice almost soft.

“Have it your way,” I say, my teeth gritted. “It’s only sex between us.”

“No, little virgin. It’s only money between us.” He reaches back to pick up the file folder. After a considering glance, he hands it to me.

It’s like he’s offering me a coiled snake, and I have to take it. I have to take it or I have to admit that I want there to be more between us than sex, than money. Of course I don’t. Not with him. He ruined my father. He’s a criminal. He goes against everything I believe in, but it would have been nice to have affection between us for the thirty days I’m here. Twenty-eight days, now.

I open the file folder, blinking at the stream of small black-and-white numbers. I’ve learned to be somewhat literate with investment accounts and bank statements since my father’s attack. Lord knows I’ve learned how to read a bill. But I’m not sure what this is.

“An escrow account,” he supplies. “It contains your percentage of the money from the auction.”

My heart clenches. I stare at the paper as if I’m reading it, but I can’t see anything. This is how I felt when the verdict came back guilty, when the call came from the cops about Daddy. When I sold the beautiful silver pendant with my mother’s birthstone. An emerald. Daddy gave it to her the birthday before she died.

The file folder is clenched so tightly in my hand I’m surprised I’m not crushing it. Somehow I manage to close it and hold it at my side. My voice sounds hollow. “Thank you.”

He said there’s only money between us, but he’s a fucking liar. In the air there’s rage and revenge, betrayal and lust. I may be innocent, as he called me, but I know what I feel.

“You’re excused,” he says, his voice hard. “I’ll call for you when I want you.”

Like I’m some kind of servant. Like I’m a maid, brought in to clean whenever he makes a mess. Like I’m a maid for his cock, barely a warm body to wipe himself.





Chapter Twenty-One





It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s better this way.

Because if I don’t have my lies, what will I have left? Gabriel reminded me where I stand with him. Someone to serve him, something he purchased. I can keep him at a distance regardless of what he does to my body, as long as he doesn’t cradle me close like I’m something worthwhile again.

I should be focused on Daddy, anyway. He’s the reason I’m doing this. I call Mr. Stewart at the nursing home using his personal cell phone. He assures me that my father is in excellent health, which seems like it must be a lie until he conferences in the day nurse.

“Hello, pumpkin.” My father’s voice sounds rusty, tired, but undeniably aware.

“Daddy? Are you okay?”

“I’m working on getting better.” He gives a hoarse laugh. “They’ve got some good meds hooked up. And there’s this devil of a physical therapist coming every day now. I’ve called him every name in the book, but I managed to sit up on my own yesterday.”

My breath catches. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t you worry about me. You focus on your studies.”

With a sinking heart I realize he thinks I’m at school. “Oh. Right.”

When Mr. Stewart comes on, I can’t help the strange sadness that creeps into my voice. “He sounds great.”

“It’s very common,” he says, his voice sympathetic. “We see it all the time. Family wants to tend to their own, but it’s a huge burden, a constant stress, and all without the necessary training. Our nutritional counselor has worked with a private chef to develop meals that are best for him. And the physical therapist is our very best.”

Somehow that makes me feel worse, even though I know that doesn’t make sense. I was killing myself making sure my father’s meds were right, that his IV was right, that he was comfortable and clean. And it had all been making him worse because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. These trained people know what they’re doing. And the only way I can afford them is by fucking Gabriel Miller.

Only after I hang up do I see the string of increasingly urgent texts from Harper.

It’s me. What’s going on??

Justin just called me. He might have cried. He’s very drunk. CALL ME.

Were you in an auction? Type OMFG for yes or n for no.

Pigeons. Flags. Letter in a bottle. All acceptable forms of communication in this FUCKING EMERGENCY.