Blood Ties (Dinero de Sangre #2) - Lana Sky Page 0,2

murmurs, sauntering over to him with a familiarity that has me clenching my jaw so hard it aches. Her manicured fingers run down his arm in a gentle caress. “I’m yours until Tuesday—”

“Not now.” He bats off the hand she tries to place on his chest. “Get out.”

She blinks at his stern tone, but scampers obediently into the hall. I can’t help but wonder if she also has had a taste of his temper. His collars. His whip. His cock.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” Domino warns, turning to face me. He must have snatched the pair of slacks in his hand from the closet. As he tugs them on, his eyes rake over my body, devoid of the hunger he displayed last night. He looks conquering instead. A general, surveying land he’s already claimed as his. The way my father would look out at the city of Terra Rodea as he gave his political speeches.

“Nothing he said factors into my arrangement with you,” he adds, his voice low and tight. “Don’t assume that you leaving here negates what you owe me, Ada-Maria. You are mine until the moment I choose to release you.”

For a second, I’m not sure if that was a promise. Or a request.

Then I see how his eyes blaze, and I know for sure—it was a threat.

“Why sell me, then?” I croak. “If you still think you own me?”

It’s dangerous to play word games and semantics with him. A part of me can’t resist anyway. I’m as genuinely curious of the answer as I am terrified by the implications of what he means.

I own you.

“Money and blood are two very different currencies, Ada-Maria.” He steps forward, brushing his hand along my cheek. There’s no warmth in the motion. It’s as chillingly possessive as the way he held me last night, cock buried deep. “I recommend you not forget that. Now get dressed.”

He turns for the hall, and I sigh, still clinging to the bedsheet. My stomach lurches at the thought of trying to make it to my room with just this thin slip of material to cover myself with.

Only as he crosses the threshold does Domino call back, “Pick your clothing from my closet. Not yours.”

I remain rigid on the edge of the bed. From his closet. Does he mean for me to wear his clothing?

Warily, I stand, creeping toward the portion of the room in question. As I open the door, I realize the request wasn’t intended to limit my options.

Hanging neatly beside his modest selection of masculine apparel is an array of dresses and other clothing items sized for a woman.

The strangest part is that I can’t tell if they all were taken from my closet or newly purchased with my body specifically in mind. The general color scheme is familiar—white, black, and cream—but with a new, bold hue that catches the eye, the same color he made me wear after he whipped me.

Red.

He must have had these brought here recently. Perhaps Ines snuck them in during those twisted moments when he had me on the balcony, naked in the jacuzzi. I wouldn’t be surprised if, while buried inside of me, he lorded over the knowledge that he’d soon deploy another method of control, just as damning as his collar.

Fuck him.

Anger seems irrational to feel in lieu of everything else—like terror—but I embrace it fully as I tear through the nearest selection of hangers. Deliberately, I overlook anything remotely feminine and focus only on what I know to be his—the shirts and pants and boxers folded neatly in a built-in chest of drawers.

At random, I pick a gray button-down and a pair of black boxers I have no chance in hell of fitting into properly. It’s the principle of the matter.

Unwelcomed visitors aside, my original plan hasn’t changed when it comes to Domino Valenciaga. My only means of defeating him lies in trying to seduce him. Unnerve him.

Then stab him.

Stab him.

Stab him—repeatedly with his own knife, all while gazing into his eyes so that he knows I was the one who twisted the blade. Me.

Ada-Maria Lucia Pavalos.

I will have the last laugh. God, I swear I will. Until then, he can lord over my body as he pleases. I won’t break.

“You will use this bathroom.”

I flinch as his voice drifts from the direction of the bedroom. I find him there, casually lifting our torn, damp clothing from the floor. A grunt of appreciation dies in my throat, and I hate myself for the way