Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,20

arms.

In response, I flip him off.

His broad shoulders rise in an inhale before he exhales in finality. “Have it your way then.”

Playtime is over, and I instantly regret my words because Saint leaves me alone, wondering if Boss goes by another name…and that name is Master.

This is the only kindness I can show her because where she’s headed, he will show her no mercy. She’ll be expected to submit, and if she doesn’t…he will kill her, regardless of how beautiful she is. And she is…beautiful.

Day 4

Twenty-six cans of tuna fish. Eight lemon pepper. Seven honey barbecue. Five herb and garlic. Six ranch.

Forty-eight ounce tin of classic roast ground coffee.

A bottle of vodka.

There are three hundred and sixteen panes of wood decorating the ceiling and walls.

I know all this because I’ve been stuck down here for two days. Forty-eight hours of utter hell. I ache. Mind. Body. And soul.

After that very strange evening when I was sold to a pirate for two thousand dollars before Saint slit his throat and then spanked me, all to teach me a lesson, he left me down here in hopes the solitude would break me—it didn’t.

He visited every hour, proposing the same thing—submit. And each time, I replied the same way—fuck you.

The visits became less frequent, and before long, it seemed I was the only one who could stand my own company. But that suited me just fine as I needed the quiet to process everything that has happened.

I don’t know much, but what I do know is that Saint intends to give me to someone named Boss. That’s why he kidnapped me, it appears. But the thing is, I have no idea who Boss is, so I don’t know how he knows me.

Yes, my face may be recognizable to some because of my modeling, but it’s not like I’m in the league of Victoria’s Secret models. Besides, my audience is more homegrown and not European, which is where we are clearly heading.

I also can’t deny that talks of submission, breaking, obeying, and the spanking are very troubling. Whoever Boss is doesn’t want a companion…he wants a slave, and apparently, I fit the bill.

Swallowing down my fear, I reach for the bottle of water left for me by the Russian with the birthmark, who I have named Mark. He also left a bucket and some food close by, cementing that I am indeed a prisoner.

Reality has set in, and my bravado is slipping every single minute I am caged down here. The fight in me is slowly fading because each sunrise brings me closer to my doom. And that’s why he’s left me down here covered in my attacker’s blood…to break me.

The hatch opens, and like a vampire confronting the breaking dawn, I shrink backward, protecting my eyes from the bright light. I know it’s him, and a small part of me, a part I loathe, is relieved he’s here.

When I see him, all dominating and commanding, I blush, thinking about the control he showed when he threw me over his knee. But I soon forget such ridiculous thoughts. “I’ve been too lenient with you. We need to set some ground rules,” he states, ducking as he walks down the stairs to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. I hate how refined he looks and smells.

I could ignore him, but I desperately want to take a shower and change my clothes, so I simply arch a brow, indicating I’m listening.

He pulls up a chair and spins it around, so he’s straddling it. I can’t believe that after four days, I still haven’t seen his face. “Thanks to the shit you pulled, we’ll now be spending a lot more time together.”

I lick my dry lips. “What does that mean?”

“It means, everything has changed. So if you disobey me…I punish you.”

My mouth parts, and I half laugh in disbelief. But when I see that he’s serious, I blanch. “Excuse me?”

“You talk out of line…I punish you.”

“Wha—”

“You try to escape again…I punish you,” he says, interrupting me to prove my point. “We clear?”

“Where are we going?”

He inhales through his nose, clearly annoyed I’m not acknowledging his ground rules. “I said, are…we…clear?” His pause between each word is a warning.

“Very,” I snarl, glaring at him.

“Good. You will no longer address me by my name. From now on, it’s мастер.”

I have no idea what that word means, but it’s no doubt Russian as it rolls freely off Saint’s tongue. He can’t be serious. But when he taps his boot