Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Ana

Everything feels different. Smells different. Sounds different. As I slowly float from a deep slumber to that perfect state of half asleep and half awake, I burrow deeper under the blankets. Perfect . That's the word that first comes to mind. Which means something's wrong because I don't ever remember feeling so perfect.

Panic has me bolting upright, blinking away the blurriness of rest. This is not my room. This is the place I was left by the man who bought me.

Patrick .

That's his name.A shiver runs through me just thinking about him. He's terrifying. And he's holding me captive. Even if he did let me go, I wouldn't survive five minutes out on the streets. I'm not sure which is worse. Being his prisoner or testing my luck on my own.

He left the bedroom door slightly ajar when he left, immediately after he told me to make myself at home. I won't pretend this isn't a luxurious room. It's warm in here. The cream-colored drapery and plush chair in the corner with a fluffy decorative cushion set on it only add to the appeal.

I listen intently for any noise, but after several minutes of sitting completely still, I hear nothing. He's not back yet. How long do I have by myself before he shows up? What will he want from me once he's here?

Sex?

He knows I'm a virgin. Is that why he agreed to the deal with my father? So he could take away my innocence? A man like Patrick could have any woman he wants. I'm not completely convinced I'd fight him if he decided he wanted me. Because even though I'm inexperienced, I'm not blind.

What would sex with Patrick be like? He's a broad man, but I don't know if that equates to being large all over.

Would he be demanding? Tender? No, I don't think he's the tender type. He's more the rough and dominant kind of man who does whatever he wants without worry of consequence. He proved that already when he traded me for money.

Shaking my head, I try to push those thoughts aside. Why am I thinking things like that? I don't want to have sex with him. I don't want to be his prisoner. The only thing that's happened today is that I got moved from one jail cell to another. At least this one is an upgrade. I'll no longer have to deal with my father's men leering at me.

The urge to pee becomes pressing, and if I don't move soon, I'm going to soil this beautiful bed. As quietly as possible, I make my way to the ensuite bathroom. After I lock the door behind me, I huff out a deep breath and rush to the toilet, barely getting my leggings down before my bladder lets go.

Holy crap. I can hardly believe my eyes as I look around. Who needs a pool when you have a bathtub the size of one? I only had a crummy shower stall in the bathroom at my father's. I hated it. All I ever wanted was a tub to soak under a mountain of bubbles and foam.

I glance at the locked door. Do I have time before he gets home? It's probably a bad idea. What I need to do is go find some cleaning supplies. That way, if he gets home and everything is pristinely clean, he might decide to let me be his maid to work off the debt.

As I wash my hands, I peer at myself in the mirror and gasp. Oh my gosh. I look horrid. It's been so long since I've seen my reflection. At some point, I just stopped looking at myself because every time I did, the deterioration was obvious.

Unable to stop myself, I splash cold water on my face and pinch my cheeks, trying to bring some color to them. I've never used makeup before, but I would kill for something to cover the dark circles framing my eyes. The gleaming white vanity has nothing but hand soap and a candle to offer. Maybe there's something I can use in the drawers to help my appearance. Hell, I'll even take a toothbrush as a win.

Score!

If angels could sing, they would be harmonizing perfectly right now.

Toothbrushes, toothpaste, floss, face wipes, a brand-new brush still in packaging, bandages, headache medicine, a nail kit, menstrual pads—three different kinds—facial moisturizer, a razor, tweezers.

It's like a woman's dream drawer. Although that means he has women here often. Right?

I don't like that thought. Not one bit.

Stupid.

Why do I care? I'm his prisoner. I'm nothing special to him.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I grab some stuff out of the drawer and spend the next twenty minutes doing more for myself than I've done in years. I file my nails, pluck a few eyebrow hairs, brush my teeth and my hair, and by the time I'm done, I almost look human again. Except for the dark circles.

There's also nothing I can do about my ragged clothes. I suppose this is going to be as good as it gets. I hope he wasn't hoping to come back and find me looking glamorous. He saw what he was paying for when he bought me like I was a show horse or something.

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away. I'm not going to think about that. Any of it. Not my father nor Patrick. I'm going to clean. It's one thing I know how to do, and it makes all my thoughts quiet.

As I wander through the spacious penthouse, I'm surprised by it. Thick carpets run through to the living room, giving it a warmer feel than if it were tile or marble flooring. Stainless steel appliances gleam at me when I walk into the kitchen. This place is immaculate . Which means he surely already has a maid.

My tummy drops, and my hope of being his cleaning lady dissipates into thin air. I'm still going to give it a shot, though.

When I finally find a closet full of cleaning supplies, I get to work and let all my worries and fearful thoughts fade away.

* * *

Just as I walk into the living room, wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves up to my elbows and holding a spray bottle of cleaner in one hand, the front door opens. I gasp as Patrick walks in, his arms full of bags.

He finds me immediately, his eyebrows drawing together as he frowns.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demands.

I bite my lip and look around, hoping to find a place to hide. I knew he would return at some point; I just wasn't prepared for it. This is bad. So bad. He looks upset. Slowly, I take a step back, unable to speak.

"Shit," he murmurs as he drops the bags. "I didn't mean it like that, Ana. I meant, what are you doing? You should be resting."

He takes a step toward me. I start to tremble, but as he continues to get closer, I can't seem to move. When he's only a couple of feet away, he reaches out and takes the spray bottle from me. I can't find the courage to look up at him. I can barely remember to breathe right now.

"Why are you cleaning, Anastasia? Did you spill something?" he asks, bending his knees to lower himself so we're at eye level. He doesn't look angry. More like he's concerned.

My mouth suddenly feels like there's sand in it, so I shake my head. It's better to stay silent. If I don't speak, I won't say anything to anger him. That's the strategy I learned around my father to avoid his wrath.

Patrick sets the cleaner down and reaches for one of my hands. Almost as if in slow motion, he tugs on one of the yellow fingers until the glove slides off. Then he does the same to my other hand.

"If something is dirty, tell me, and I'll have my housekeeper take care of it."

I shake my head again, lowering my gaze to the floor.

A beat of silence passes before he slowly reaches out and tucks his index finger under my chin. He did that before. It frightened me the first time. I'm not used to being touched. Especially not in such a warm, reassuring way.

When he tilts my head back, our gazes meet, and I swallow heavily.

"Did you eat?" he asks quietly.

I give him a slow nod, surprised by the look of approval he gives me when I do.

"Good girl."

The muscles in the back of my neck, which feel as though they're about to snap, finally relax a bit. Good girl. Two simple words, but I'm melting over them. The urge to cry swells in my chest. I'm a mess from his small praise. This isn't good. Not good at all.

"I brought you a bunch of clothes and products that my boss's wife suggested you might need. The bathroom is stocked with all kinds of things, too. When my mom comes to the States, she stays in that room, so it's full of anything she might need, but you're welcome to any of it."

A heavy weight lifts from my tummy. Am I relieved he's okay with me using that stuff since I already did, or is it because it's his mom's room?

"Are you afraid to speak, or do you have a medical condition I should know about?" he inquires.

Taking a brave peek at him from under my lashes, I'm taken aback at his expression. He almost looks sad. I want to wrap my arms around his waist to make him feel better. He's my captor, though. It's not my job to comfort him. Besides, this could all be a ploy to get me to trust him.

He dips his head to force our eyes to meet as he waits expectantly. Telling Patrick the truth might anger him. Lying—and him finding out—could make it so much worse.

"Scared," I whisper.

Almost as if I slapped him, he staggers back, letting out a string of words in a foreign language. They don't sound like happy words.

Then he does something that shocks the heck out of me. He kneels in front of me so I'm having to look down at him instead of the other way around. His sandy-colored hair is messier than it was earlier, and I wonder how many times he's run his fingers through it today.

"Anastasia, I want you to understand some things. I need you to believe that I am not going to harm you. I didn't make the deal with your father for sex."

Ouch. That kind of stings. I'm not very pretty, but I still have feelings.

"I made the deal because he's a piece of shit, and I can't stand to see a woman be hurt, abused, or treated badly. You don't deserve whatever you've been through. Maybe one day you'll tell me what he's done to you. Maybe you won't, but I promise that you're safe here. I won't ever hurt you. I'm not going to rape you. Do you understand me?"

It feels like he's pleading with me. He sounds so genuine that I believe him.

I nod, studying his face and the way his short beard is trimmed and perfectly edged. Despite the coarse hair, his jawline stands out. He reminds me of the guy from High School Musical . I watched several episodes years ago when Gloria still worked for my father. She used to let me sit in the kitchen while she cooked and watch whatever I wanted. I had a huge crush on the actor. Gloria knew it, too. She'd always wink at me when I turned on the show.

"No more cleaning. I have a housekeeper for that. She cooks meals and stores them in the fridge every couple of days, so all you have to do is heat them in the microwave if you get hungry. I meant it when I said to make yourself at home. I'm gone a lot during the day, but she'll be here three days a week. If you feel safer talking to her, just let her know if there's anything you need. Her name is Helen."

He stares up at me patiently, and when I nod, he grins. It's breathtaking. When I accidentally return his smile, I've never been so glad to have brushed my teeth.

"I like seeing that pretty smile. I hope I get to see more of it." Then he rises and sighs. "I'll be in my office." He points down the hall to a door I haven't seen before. "I want you to eat something by six. Otherwise, I'll come out and feed you myself, okay?"

My stomach grumbles, and even though it's only been a few hours since I had that burger, I'm hungry again, so I nod. I won't argue when it comes to food.

"Good girl."

Those two words again.

"Keep this phone on you," he says, bringing me the device he left on the counter earlier. "And everything in those bags is yours. If you want to wash anything before you wear it, the laundry room is at the end of the hall on your side of the penthouse. I mean it when I say to make yourself at home, Anastasia. I have a feeling you haven't ever had the chance to do that before, but that's changing now."

Then he walks away, leaving me alone in the enormous living room with nothing to do except whatever I want. And I'm not sure if I'm scared or more excited than I've ever been in my life.