“Long Island.” She sounded distracted as she flicked her fingers at him, covering his nude body with a white robe.
The fabric hung stiffly off his shoulders, and the coarse fibers scratched his skin. With snap closures instead of a belt, it looked like a hospital gown.
“Why am I here?”
“For the party, of course.” She held her arms out, showing off a strapless gown in a shade of green that clashed terribly withher hair. “I told Henri to wait,” she added under her breath, her irritation unmistakable. “He’s a thousand years old. You’d think he could wait one more day.”
Shaking out the hem of her skirt, she jerked her head up and stared at Sammy expectantly, as if seeking his agreement.
He gave her nothing.
He had never heard of this Henri person, but he could guess a few things about him.
Old. Wealthy. Powerful. The type of person who knew what he wanted and was used to getting it by whatever means necessary.
“Come now. There isn’t much time, and we have to get you ready to meet the guests.”
Sammy stepped back and jerked his arm away when she reached for him. “No.”
“No?” Her voice dipped low and dangerous, and her eyes flashed with challenge. “I’m sorry.” She took on a saccharine tone laced with thinly veiled condescension. “You seem confused because it sounds like you think you have a choice.”
Sammy clenched his fists at his sides and struggled not to wilt under her penetrating glare. He knew the price for defiance, remembered well her creative punishments for his insolence.
But he wasn’t a kid anymore. Maybe he didn’t have the power to fight against her, but that didn’t mean he was helpless anymore.
He just had to survive until Dominic came for him.
Planting his feet, he forced himself to hold her gaze. “I’m not going.”
“You always were such a crybaby.” She sighed and reached for him again. “We really don’t have time for one of your tantrums, Samuel.”
He took another step back and searched her face for something,anything, redeemable. Instead, he found only indifference beneath a layer of practiced neutrality.
“Why are you like this?”
It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He really wanted to know what had happened to make her this way. Or had she simply been born without empathy, compassion, or common decency?
“Like what?” Valerie flipped her hair and pulled her painted lips into a semblance of a smile. “Beautiful? Rich? Desirable?”
“A bitch,” he deadpanned.
“Language!”
Her shriek ricocheted around the room, and sharp, searing pain lanced across his back, ripping open his skin and tearing a strangled scream from his throat. Before he could even catch his breath, the invisible whip cracked again.
Then again.
Over and over, cursed barbs clawed at him, the unrelenting tempo forcing him to his knees.
Sweat beaded along his hairline as heat rushed to his face, and his heart pounded frantically, the sound throbbing in his ears. His torso jerked with every blow, his muscles seizing with the effort to keep him upright.
“Is that it?” He knew he shouldn’t provoke her, but anger made him reckless. “Is that the best you can do?”
The skin stretched taut over his jaw and cheeks as he strained against another lash of the whip. Slumped forward, shoulders sagging, he curled his fingers against the stones and bit back another scream, unwilling to give her the satisfaction.
But while she might make him wish he were dead, she wouldn’t actually kill him. She needed him too much. He also doubted she would leave any lasting damage.
Her buyer wouldn’t like that.