Corrupt - Lana Sky Page 0,7
one hand, they seem like the breed my mother used to loathe back in Cali—overly conservative busybodies. At the same time…
The child they painted seems well beyond the skill set of an ex-Sunday school teacher and an emotionally withdrawn businessman. Does he have any idea what he might have gotten himself into? I glance at him, surprised to discover that…yes, he does. His jaw is set, more determined than ever.
And in that lone expression, I see a hint of his daughter, and any doubt dies. Two creatures, easily misunderstood, requiring patience to read. Understand. Love. My fury returns, but wavers the longer I watch him, imagining him with Magdalene, unraveling her own guarded layers. The second he catches me staring, his expression softens, his voice rasping, “Tiffany, wait—”
But I don’t. Releasing him, I turn and head straight up to the bedroom, my heart racing.
Damn. Damn. Damn!
Chapter Three
It shouldn’t be so hard to maintain my anger toward him. Within the space of a few minutes, my thoughts have turned from “make him pay” to… “listen to him, you stubborn bitch.” Fighting to regain my resolve, I shower and change into a sinfully revealing negligee and a barely visible thong that by some miracle doesn’t snag on my healing piercing. Both make for impenetrable armor in this silent war, and when I strut back into the hallway, I’m determined to win the last battle at all costs.
And I nearly run into Vadim. But he’s…different. It’s as if the pleading man from downstairs transformed into a stranger in an instant. A disinterested stranger. His eyes skim over me with barely any notice as he promptly enters a nearby room.
And I nearly trip as my head whips around, tracking him. What the hell?
The room is the same one he pierced me in, I see as I follow him, driven by sadistic curiosity. What could distract him from his groveling?
Redecorating, it seems. The leather chaise is now against one of the walls, the medical instruments vanished. One of those heavy boxes lies open in the center of the room while Vadim rummages through it, apparently assembling something. It’s large and black made of wood. A table?
Square-shaped and about waist-high, it contains a divot with a soft cushion covered in red fabric and two silver fixtures on either side. A detail so unusual, I find myself inching forward just to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks.
Nope. The closer I come, the easier it is to identify those objects, positioned upright, made of silver rings—manacles.
And something inside me is brutally savaged by a wave of jealousy so fierce I sway.
“Preparing for your new fake wife?” I ask nastily, grasping for any form of retaliation.
He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he peers at a white booklet that I assume must be instructions. Then he adjusts something at the end of the odd platform with a silver wrench. He’s changed, stripping his suit for the white dress shirt and slacks. The look, paired with his current task, makes something inside me quiver, my throat dampening. Damn. He makes a buttoned-up Mr. Handyman look sexy.
But I’m not fooled.
To prove as much, I stomp loudly downstairs and steal one of Ena’s meals from the freezer. I eat while scowling and contemplate taking one of his fancy sports cars and attempting once more to send the poor man into bankruptcy.
Instead, I find myself bounding right back upstairs and towing the boundary of that mysterious room. He’s still here, assembling yet another unknown wooden structure. Sweat glistens on his brow, and he’s left the first few buttons of his shirt undone, exposing the scar along his throat. He looks so intent on his task, he doesn’t seem to notice me until I strut boldly to the platform.
Up close, I start to get an inkling of what it might be, and my heart skips a beat. The red cushion is the ideal size and width to comfort a woman’s torso if, say she happened to be leaning across it—and those manacles are in the perfect position to capture her wrists and keep her immobile.
Like some sexy, taboo pillory.
My heart sinks, poisoned by yet even more jealousy. I swear, my vision goes green. I can’t help myself. Like any scorned creature, I attempt to go right for his jugular.
“Nice to see that your research into kink won’t end with me,” I say coldly, placing my hand down within his line of sight. I can’t stop myself from fingering the curve of one of