Page 17 of Unorthodox
Little does he know, in fucking up my business, he’s given me something much better than money.
Still, he thinks he has time to come for her, and if he could match what I’m getting from her buyer, I’d give her up.
But he can’t.
She’s never going home again.
Ben drops the bacon on the plate with a sigh, bringing my attention back to them. I cock my head, wondering where he’s going with this. Addison didn’t look at him, hasn’t made a sound. Hasn’t moved a muscle.
She needs to eat, because she’ll be in the gym midmorning. I personally like to fast before my workouts, but I eat enough in the evening to compensate.
Addison, according to Ben, doesn’t eat nearly enough, even when he feeds her. But right now, he’s not feeding her. I wonder when the last time she ate was. Probably the dinner I had Mamie feed her.
I watch as Ben grabs her chin, lifts her head. Her long hair falls down her back and I can see her side profile. She has a straight, small nose, sharp cheekbones, a slender neck. I know all of this by feel, but seeing it is incredible.
She’s the perfect pet. And she keeps her gaze averted, not willing to give in to the mind game Ben is playing.
He runs the palm of his hand over her face, and I see a tremble move through her body. Still, she keeps her eyes on the floor.
I glance at the bacon on Ben’s plate, wondering if that was the final test before he feeds her.
Letting go of the playing card, my hand shifts to the gun on my hip, even though I’m not sure why. It’s a habit to carry a gun everywhere, even in my house. A habit to reach for it instinctively, even if my mind doesn’t register the reasoning.
One evening I came home from school and slipped on my mother’s blood on the bathroom floor of our one-bedroom apartment, a year after she had taken me and Oliver to the States, away from my father.
Oliver was nowhere to be found.
Since then, I’ve never gone without a gun.
I brush my thumb over the grip as Ben rubs her face once more, in an almost tender gesture. But I know men like Ben. Men likeme.
We are anything buttender.
And when he lifts his hand, I know I shouldn’t be surprised. When he hits her in the face and her head spins to the side, I know I shouldn’t so much as blink, but I do.
I blink, and I move. Because she followed the rules, and he broke them.
My hands are around Ben’s throat so fast, I don’t even remember putting them there. I shove him against the wall beside the table, hear his head crack as it connects with the wall.
His blue eyes are wide, surprise written all over his face. For a man like Ben, I imagine he doesn’t get surprised by much. But his boss’s hands around his throat? Guess that’ll do it for him.
I don’t ask him anything as I squeeze his neck so hard, I wonder if I could actually pop his head off. His face turns red, but the best part is he doesn’t lay a finger on me.
He knows if he does, he’s dead.
I don’t like to be touched. I do the fucking touching. Choking. Killing. Whatever.
He opens his mouth to speak and I loosen my grip marginally, so he can get the words out. “She was defying me,” he rasps.
People lie to my face a lot. Comes with the business. Usually, I blow their brains out afterward, but Ben is good at his job. My clients never complain about the pets they get from him. In fact, they spread the word in our underground world so fast, sometimes I have trouble filling demand.
“Max, her eyes weren’t on the floor—”
Before he can finish that sentence, I let go of him, grab my gun, hold it under his chin, and pull the trigger.
Two lies are just two too many.
My ears are ringing, and bits of blood and bone and brain are all over me as I step back from Ben and his body crumples to the floor with a dull thud.
