Page 93 of Savage Enemy

“The next highest bidder is Stefano Vignali,” he said. “Well, technically he’s the highest, but you will never see him again. I don’t care if he offers me the fucking moon. If this meeting with the Russians doesn’t go as planned, I have no problem selling you to sex traffickers to get rid of you…

“And sweetheart, you don’t want to know what they do with disobedient little bitches like you.”

Then Saul turned on his heel and left the room.

Aris did not.

As soon as the door closed, I backed away from my brother. I understood what came next.

Saul knew I’d been with Stefano at the ball.

Worse, others had brought it to his attention.

This meant Aris would get away with more than usual.

“Leave, Aris,” I ordered.

He let out a low, sinister chuckle.

“Oh, I can’t leave yet, sister. Not until I’ve punished you. You need to learn your lesson.”

“Lesson for what, exactly? Shaming our father at the ball or pointing out your lack of real manhood?”

He bared his teeth at me.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, you little slut?”

I wouldn’t get out of this without more cuts and bruises or worse. It was already a done deal. The best chance I had was to piss Aris off more. When emotional men got angry, they got sloppy. For Aris, that meant a few things.

Either he lost his temper and knocked me out faster than he intended, so my pain wouldn’t last long.

Or he might injure me where it did finally affect my looks.

The Russians wouldn’t care about a red welt left on my face by Saul’s hand, a temporary mark. But if Aris broke my nose or tortured me in a way that left permanent marks, that would be a different story.

A woman—even an unmarried one with a child like me—could only be physically damaged so much before becoming completely worthless.

Either way, I wouldn’t get out of this room without more pain, but I could try to lessen it or make it count for something.

I hoped he left a deep scar on my fucking face.

“You heard me,” I said. “You’re not a real man, just a little lapdog. Your daddy shouts a command, and you go fetch like a good little boy. Do you think if you’re obedient, he’ll finally love you? Do you think that’ll make him forget you’re a sick, fucked-up asshole who likes to wear Mom’s old shoes?”

“You shut the fuck up!”

He leapt at me and slammed an uppercut into my ribcage faster than I could take another breath.

I doubled over and wanted to drop to the floor. It hurt like a bitch and forced all the air out of my lungs.

It wasn’t enough. He needed more provocation.

I coughed, increasing the pain, then forced myself upright.

“I’ve been wondering. Do you”—I coughed—“go full drag now, or do you still lie in your room, tugging on your tiny dick while sniffing the used stilettos you buy online?”

Yes, my twin had a foot fetish and liked women’s clothing.

Truly, I couldn’t have cared less. My words weren’t about how it made me feel. It was about provoking him, using his perversions and the shame that turned it into his weakness.

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