Silence and then, “Let’s go. You should already be back there.”
I shoved away from the table, the legs of my chair scraping dramatically over the marble floors. It didn’t matter if I scarred them in the process. I hoped I did. It was a testament to how much I’d grown to loathe a mansion that was nothing more than a prison.
Gretchen was right to think I’d experienced both ways of being a kept woman. A pampered pet to my father. An abused dog to Callan. Both had stripped me of any means to fight. Both kept me chained to the expectations of my betters.
While anger flooded my veins, I walked behind her remembering the pride I wouldn’t allow anybody to wrench from me. Gretchen had been right about that as well. I’d forgotten my place, this battle, the ultimate prize Callan hoped to gain by kicking me down.
I’d sulked instead of plotted. Crumpled instead of holding my body straight. I’d allowed fear to defeat me rather than keeping my mind set on how to escape.
And, fuck, if that didn’t surprise me about the woman walking in front of me now. She’d managed to light a fire under me without saying anything specific. She’d reminded me of who I am.
Why?
I wasn’t sure the answer mattered, all that did was that I felt grateful to a woman I’d hated only an hour earlier. I felt a camaraderie even when I knew I shouldn’t.
Would I trust her now that she’d attempted to build me up?
Hell no.
But would I take her advice and line my thoughts with it? Would I remember to hold onto it with clenched fists and refuse to let go?
I hoped.
I was strong. I was proud. I was unbreakable.
At least, until we reached the hall leading to the family suite and music filtered out, a heavy beat of rap music underlain by several deep voices. Masculine laughter filtered down the hall, and every ounce of power Gretchen had given me bled out again.
My feet tripped with every bass beat against the walls, my heart lurched like a stalling car. We reached the door and Gretchen stopped so suddenly that I ran into her back.
Her head moved to glance over her shoulder at me, a brow arching until I’d backed off and squared my shoulders.
Satisfied that I’d gained control of myself again, she nodded her head in approval.
Gretchen’s voice was a hiss of a whisper, barely discernible beneath the music. “Remember what I said, Lisbeth. It’s the only way you’ll survive here.”
My throat felt full, tongue swollen. How I spoke, I wasn’t sure.
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
She grinned, the expression clipped and contrite.
“It’s not supposed to.”
The door popped open, music rushing through the widening crack as Gretchen walked through to drag me along with her.
The common room wasn’t filled with people, but it wasn’t empty either, several men standing or sitting in small groups of two of three.
Among them, Callan sat on the large leather couch, his scuffed boots kicked up on the table, a cloud of smoke pouring out of his mouth from a cigar he held. All eyes flicked to us, a few smirks and cocky grins leading to murmurs that crept across the space like fireflies, quick bursts of sound, of low laughter, each hint of it lighting up my nerve endings.
He was having some sort of party, and the only people in attendance were as big and broad as him, a smattering of brutish men, some with scars, a few with bruises.
Fighters, I assumed.
Every one of them.
Even Callan’s face showed an angry red smear blooming across his cheekbone.
“Mr. Rose,” Gretchen said, her voice loud enough to fight the thump of music. “I’ve returned Lisbeth to your suite as instructed.”
Only then did those whiskey eyes crawl my direction, a slow glance, dark eyelashes dropping to fan over golden skin before lifting again. I was entranced by him, so damn easily, whether from fear or ... what? I didn’t know.
He was beautiful…as usual. Dressed casually in a pair of dark jeans that hugged his thick thighs, and a dark henley tee that did nothing to hide the strength of his shoulders, the broad plane of his chest or the way his body thinned out into a tight, toned abdomen. The long sleeves were bunched up to reveal his corded forearms, every flex and contraction of his strength drawing my eye. Callan’s hair was damp as if he’d just recently showered, the inky black swept back