Richer Than God - Amelia Wilde Page 0,23

did it was an expression of such searing pain that I thought for sure he’d kill me. He thought someone he loved was dead, and he was prepared to tear down the building, beginning with me. It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to care that much about anything. Honestly, I didn’t know he was capable. The revelation still dogs me, nipping at my heels, digging claws into exposed flesh.

Brigit considers this, taking another sip of water. “What were you fighting about? Does your family know you own a whorehouse?”

So many parts of that sentence are laughable. “Of course. They couldn’t be prouder.” Another rush of emotion—what the fuck? It’s like she’s staring right through me with those big green eyes, seeing everything that I’ve tried to cover with expensive suits and smiles for years, for fucking years. It’s the taste of the word prouder in my mouth. That’s what it is. I haven’t even lied. My father would be proud, up to the moment he discovered that I’ve been keeping the women alive. “After all, my father brought me to my first hooker when I was twelve.”

Brigit gasps, horrified, one hand gripping the side of the table. Innocent thing. “Twelve? That’s not right. That’s… that’s abuse.”

“Is it?” Brigit can never know what’s really happening in this conversation. What’s boiling under my skin. “He was doing me a favor, in his way.”

I can still see that woman’s dark hair. The pink lace of her panties. The thin lines of pain on her ass from my father’s whip. I can still feel her throat under my hands and my father’s over mine. I can still feel her breath. How shallow it got, how close to stopping.

Brigit seems enraged on my behalf, which is as interesting a thing as I’ve ever seen. There’s fire in her eyes, in the set of her jaw. For me. And she has no idea what happened in that room. No one does, except my father Cronos, and the memory is rotting with him in his grave. Brigit’s anger is energizing. It makes me want to feel it too.

“You don’t let twelve-year-olds in here, do you?”

I give her a sharp look. “No.”

“Why not?” Her voice is hot, challenging. “Wouldn’t you be doing them a favor?”

“This is a strictly over-eighteen establishment.” I give her a onceover, letting my gaze linger on her tits, rising and falling with every breath. “You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she shoots back.

“Then what do you have to be concerned about?” I laugh then arrange my face into something resembling seriousness. “Is there something you’re concerned about, sweetheart? You can tell me, you know. I’m here to listen.”

“You’re an asshole.” Her fingernails dig into the tablecloth. She’ll ruin it if she’s not careful.

“Obviously.”

“I should leave.”

It’s an empty threat, and we both know it, but my entire body readies itself to block the door. “Go then.”

I’m watching her like I don’t give a fuck, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. Caring is not a default setting for a man like me. It’s not the fact that I care that has every detail of her standing out, my skin supersensitive to the clothes I’ve been wearing all day. The air between us thickens. The ice in my water clinks against the glass.

Brigit breathes.

“What will I find outside, if I go?”

“Clients arriving for the night.” In black, unmarked cars. The drivers will linger as long as they’re here, circling the streets of the city. The whorehouse comes to life while the sun sets, and outside, the men who fill my coffers wait for the perfect opportunity to come in and take their pleasure.

“So I could find one of them.” Breathless now, but she gets it under control. “I could do what I came here to do.”

I laugh again, and she reddens underneath her blush. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to—”

“Sell a virtually untouched pussy for a paycheck. I know.” I lean forward, like we’re at a business meeting. This is supposed to be a business meeting. “Go. Walk out of here right now, find one of the guests, and name your price. But when you’re finished, don’t come crying to me.”

I can picture them so vividly—the tears in her eyes. The shame. It’s like one of my paintings, stripped bare for me to look at without obstruction. But another instinct roars to life. No one else will make her cry. No one else will make her face scarlet