is hot with it. But Leo does nothing. The flames from the candles burn in the black centers of his eyes. He sits up tall, his fork held so carefully in one hand that I’m afraid for it.
Or maybe I’m afraid for me.
At the sound of his name, Leo’s jaw tightens.
The door behind me—the one Mrs. Page keeps coming out of—opens, and the pattern of her steps falters. She feels it, too. I’m aware of a shadow in the other door. Gerard. He’s been in and out, holding the door for Mrs. Page and carrying things for her.
I try to catch her eye when she puts the dessert plates down in front of us.
She won’t look at me.
“Close the door when you go out.” Leo’s voice is deadly even.
Mrs. Page pauses, halfway to standing, then completes the movement. “Can I bring more water? More wine?”
“No. Leave.” Leo keeps his eyes on me. Mrs. Page takes our empty plates. Leo drops his fork at the last second and she takes that, too.
My heart beats fast, heels lifted off the floor, ready to run. Gerard closes the door to the hall. Mrs. Page is gone in a heartbeat, the kitchen door swinging behind her.
“Get up.”
“What did I say?” Releasing my grip on the table seems like a bad idea. But then, so does staying in my seat. I push my chair back and stand up. “Tell me what I said.”
Leo blinks, and his face is transformed. He’s angry, yes—I can see it in the skin around his eyes. But taunting, now. Skin-deep. He uses this anger. He doesn’t just feel it. “It doesn’t matter, darling. What matters is that you signed a contract.”
The backs of my arms pull tight with goose bumps. “I thought we were having dinner.”
“There are no exceptions for meals.” He laughs. “Did you think you would be excused from your obligations as long as you had food in your mouth? Come here.”
He pushes his own chair back, creating space between his body and the table. It’s obvious where I’m meant to go. Two days ago I might have hesitated. Now my feet start moving before the fear can settle down.
It feels too close to the table, and too close to him. He’s tall even when he’s sitting down, and I don’t know what to do with my hands next to this cruel, beautiful devil.
“Take your clothes off.” I reach for the dress. Pull it over my head. The lingerie he bought me is a perfect, delicate fit, and I feel the smallest drafts from the air on my skin. On my nipples. Leo tests one with his thumb and I shiver. “You look better in something other than rags. Do you think,” he muses, “that I meant for you to leave anything on?”
“I thought you might want to take the lingerie off yourself.” Lie, lie, lie. I didn’t think. I just obeyed him, because that’s what I agreed to do. Because I’m too afraid not to. Because I don’t want to admit that part of me is afraid that I want to do what he says. That I get some kind of sick pleasure out of it.
A dangerous grin. “What a good girl. You thought so hard, and you were almost right.” Why? Why does it hurt to hear him be so mean, so mocking, and why do I want him to do it again? “If I have to take it off, then it won’t survive the taking. Do it yourself, and do it now.”
There’s not enough room for the way my body has to twist and turn to get out of my shoes and panties and bra. Leo doesn’t make it any easier. He lets me brush against his legs, lose my balance, catch myself in time to keep from touching him. Stand up, with a hot face and a racing heart. Let it happen already. Let it happen.
He stands up too, towering over me. Leo strokes three fingers down the side of my neck and then his hand is there, firm, on the boundary between holding and choking.
It happens again. My body goes still, all the tension concentrated under his palm. Leo looks down into my eyes. It’s a searching look. I don’t know what he hopes to find. He’s close enough to kiss me. The inches between us stretched tight. If he kissed me this way—if he did—
Leo looks away, and the loss of his eyes on mine causes a tumbling sensation. He keeps his