Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35448 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35448 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Mr. Philipe meets my gaze again. And something in his eyes tells me he knows a lot more than he’s letting on. I glance at the mirror, then back at him.
My goodness. Was he watching me?
Mr. Philipe takes Ethel by the shoulder and guides her out of the room.
“But sir,” she says, looking back at me. “Really, sir.”
“Ethel. Get out. Right now. I’ll deal with Emily.” Greedy. Dark. Dangerous. “I’ll punish her as I see fit.”
The door latches closed.
He takes a step toward me.
The heat of his huge body warms me, even from a foot away.
“You screwed up,” he growls.
I swallow hard. Tears still sting my lids and I sniff, my nose starting to run. My breath comes out jagged. I try to stop my tears, but I can’t. “I’m sorry, Mr. Philipe. I am. I just...”
The muscles in his jaw work like angry waves under the short dark scruff. Another step toward me. Close enough to smell the sharpness of his cologne. Close enough to see the tiredness in his eyes. “I’m not fucking interested in apologies. You know the rules. Or do I need to teach them to you?”
Instinct tells me to step back. One step, two. The edge of the mattress digs into the backs of my thighs. My hands are shaking harder now. In my blurry fear and desire, I feel the need to keep justifying myself. “She gave me stipulations, but she never specified…”
“Fuck that. You want to get all legal with me? With our little verbal agreement?” His words are tinged with anger. Violence. “How about I specify for you. You won’t cook soft-boiled eggs. And I won’t let my maid fuck herself in my bed. That clear?”
Oh my goodness. “You were watching me.”
“You’re goddamned right, I was. Today. Yesterday. Every day.”
I dig my fingernails hard into my palms to steady myself, but it doesn’t work. My entire body is trembling. I can’t stop the waves of fear rolling through me.
He slips his phone from his pocket, and glances down, then shows it to me, swiping through his photos. One after another of me doing housework, me in my room, me taking a walk on the grounds. They’re grainy, like they’ve been zoomed in from a distance or through glass.
Or…wait, a mirror. Mirrors I should say. This house is lousy with them.
Me, me, me, me, me. Me when I thought I was alone. And he was watching all the time.
“Tell me how that makes you feel. Seeing this.” More photos of me zip past, a flipbook of me being watched.
I am horrified. And shocked. And fascinated.
Why would he watch me? Why would he care?
“How does it make you feel, knowing that I know exactly what you have in your room? That I know that you look at Sense and Sensibility, but I don’t think you read it. I know that you keep sketches of a kitchen garden under your bed. I know that you want to raise chickens because I’ve seen your sketches for a henhouse. I know that you call your teddy bear Jess. I know that you never wear white panties. And I know that you put exactly two squeezes of the wildflower honey in your tea. I’ve so far counted, and numbered on my own sketch, one-hundred and fourteen freckles on your cheeks and nose. But after today, up close, I know I’m going to add a lot more. Tell me how that makes you feel.”
Every fiber in my body thrums and vibrates. For perhaps the first time in my life, I feel not just visible, but exposed. “It terrifies me.”
“It should,” he growls.
“Who are you?”
He shakes his head. “Wrong. I talk and you fucking listen.”
That voice of his, it stills me instantly. It gives me no choice. Not just to listen. No. But to obey. “Yes, sir.” The title slips from my lips, like honey in warm tea.
He looks me up and down. Waiting. Watching. “Call me Dane. But sir sounded pretty fucking nice as well.”
“Dane,” I say, barely above a whisper. I like the way his name feels in my mouth. Dane. But I’m too scared to say it again. “What else do you know? About me?”
“I know you hate cauliflower but eat broccoli like’s it’s fucking chocolate. I know you like to touch your toes in the shower as your body wash slides off your skin. I know you count on your fingers when you need to add numbers together. I know there is a story in your eyes I will know one day.” He pauses, taking a slow breath like he’s taking me in, considering something, and my eardrums pulse as I wait to hear his voice again. He snaps his lips together on a sniff, giving me the last bit. “I know you finished your period six days ago.”