Page 111 of Crushing Clover

“So, what happens to her when I’m done paying the debt?” I tossed the envelope on the small table beside the chaise he usually chose when he was out here.

He shrugged. “I’ll arrange for her to be sold. Still not taking a shine to her? That’s disappointing.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“You’re my heir, and eventually you’ll need an heir.”

I stared at him. As soon as he was dead, I’d have a fucking party, then donate his grotesque wealth to every charity he turned up his nose at. I wouldn’t let his filthy money pollute me or my life any more than it already had.

“I don’t care if you keep your little boyfriends on the side, but they make you look weak. Even if you’re the top, everyone will assume you’re the bottom.”

“My personal life is none of your fucking business.”

He waved away my statement as if it was a wasp encroaching on his drink.

“Everything about you is my business. That’s why I took Clover for a long, rough test drive before handing her over. Had to make sure she was worthy of my boy.”

I bit my tongue. Sure, I was fucked up, but Warren was worse. What the fuck had his father put him through? He never spoke his name.

“Who are you going to sell her to?”

“I don’t care. Whoever offers the highest price, I suppose. Probably some illegal brothel that will work her to death.” He toweled his hair dry. “Does that bother you?”

I didn’t reply. Unfortunately, I was pretty sure it did bother me, but Warren was the last person I’d tell.

A vision rose to mind, of Clover tied to a bed, getting used by man after man until she died of neglect. I pushed away the thought, feeling sick. I didn’t want to keep her forever, but she was still a person.

“Maybe we can come to some other arrangement. Still two more months.” He brushed past me. “I have a meeting in five.”

He left me standing there, staring after him.

The money we’d scraped together, he’d left abandoned on the table for a servant to retrieve for him—an afterthought.

Just like I’d always been.

Chapter 23

Saint held the bite of food between his fingers, brows raised with impatience. I’d watched him work on the meal with Rush, and had seen everything they’d put into it. I’d obediently tasted it but still had no desire to eat it.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want this, bootlicker,” Saint grumbled. “We could be feeding you garbage, but we’re feeding you foie gras. You should be thankful you’re not locked in the basement or something.”

I shifted, my knees protesting at the unforgiving bite of the stone floor.

“She doesn’t want it,” Lucky muttered. “Leave her alone. I’ll make her a grilled cheese or something.”

“She’s not a fucking child. She should be eating what we eat.”

“All of us have things we don’t like, Saint,” Rush said quietly. “She tried the salsa we made the other day, even though it burned her mouth. Let it go. There’s no point in fighting every time we eat.”

“There’s no point in fighting every time we eat, but we wouldn’t be fighting if she was reasonable.”

“She can’t handle certain flavors.”

“I’ll give her a fucking flavor to worry about.”

What the hell did that even mean?

Worried, I accepted the second morsel from his fingers and chewed, eyes watering. The consistency made me ill, but he was right. There was no point in fighting about it. Obviously, it was something they enjoyed, and it wasn’t poison.

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