Page 66 of Scarlet Thorns
“Bazdmeg,” he curses in Hungarian, glancing at the screen with obvious annoyance. The call gets declined with more force than necessary, his thick fingers jabbing at the screen like he’s trying to kill something.
But the interruption gives him ideas instead of deterring him.
“Where were we?” His hand returns to my shoulder, but this time it’s joined by the other one. Both palms settle on me with claiming weight, thumbs stroking along my neck in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Ah yes, our little arrangement.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say carefully, though we both know I understand exactly what he’s suggesting. My voice sounds steady, calm— a miracle considering my heart is beating against my chest like it’s looking for an escape hatch.
“Come now, Ilona.” His grip tightens slightly, not enough to bruise but enough to remind me how much stronger he is.“You’re a beautiful girl, alone in a foreign country. I’m a man with needs. We can help each other.”
The euphemisms make it worse somehow. Like he’s trying to dress up sexual coercion in polite language, make it sound like a business transaction instead of what it really is.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding—” I start, but he cuts me off by moving even closer.
Now he’s standing directly beside my chair, his body heat radiating against my side like a furnace. One hand slides from my shoulder to my back, fingers pressing through my uniform in a way that’s unmistakably possessive.
“No misunderstanding,” he says, voice thick with certainty. “You need extra money. I need… companionship. Very simple arrangement.”
This is the last thing I need.
My thoughts careen between panic and calculation. If I refuse him outright, what happens next? He’s my boss. My landlord. The man who controls both my income and my housing. One word from him and I’m on the streets with nothing but a suitcase and a rapidly dwindling bank account.
But if I find a way around this, what’s to stop him from taking what he wants anyway? I live in his house. Sleep in a room directly above his living area. He has keys to every door, knows my schedule, knows I have nowhere else to go.
The scenario plays out in my mind with horrifying clarity: waking up in the middle of the night to find him in my attic room. No one to hear me scream. No one who would believe me over a local business owner with ties to the community.
“I think we should keep things professional,” I say, trying to inject authority into my voice while my hands shake in my lap. “The extra shifts would be great, but I’m not interested in… anything else.”
His laugh is low, dismissive, the sound men make when they think women’s boundaries are suggestions rather than requirements.
“Professional,” he repeats, like the word amuses him. “Is it professional to live in my house for nothing? Is it professional that I feed you meals every day? That I gave you a job when you had no experience?”
Each question lands like a slap, intended to make me feel grateful instead of violated. Like his generosity comes with terms and conditions I never agreed to, like kindness can be retroactively transformed into debt.
“Accommodation is part of my pay,” I say quietly. “I work my shifts. I haven’t asked for anything I’m not willing to earn through honest work.”
“Honest work.” His hand slides lower on my back, fingers tracing the line of my spine through my blouse. “This could be honest work too. Many girls would be grateful for such an opportunity.”
The implication hangs between us like poison gas— other girls, previous employees, women who maybe said yes to keep their jobs or maybe said no and disappeared like Kata. The thought makes nausea rise in my throat.
“Tibor, please—”
But he’s moving again, positioning himself directly in front of my chair so I can’t avoid looking at him. His hands find my shoulders once more, thumbs stroking along my collarbones with increasing boldness.
“You are very beautiful,” he says, as if this observation justifies everything. “Lonely, I think. Far from family. It doesn’t have to be like that.”
I squirm in the chair, trying to create space without being obvious about it.
“I’m not lonely,” I lie. “And I’m not looking for… that kind of relationship.”
“Not relationship,” he corrects, leaning closer until I can feel his breath against my face. “Just… friendship. With benefits. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
The crudeness of it makes my stomach turn. He’s not even pretending this is about attraction or connection— just transactional sex disguised as mutual benefit.
I’m going to throw up.
“I need to think about it,” I manage, though thinking is the last thing I want to do. Thinking means acknowledging that my options are limited, that refusing him might cost me everything I’ve worked to rebuild.
“Nothing to think about,” he says, and suddenly he’s pressing closer, his hips moving forward until his crotch brushes against my shoulder.
