Page 8 of His Pet
“Who is Lucian?”
“What, you don’t know the names of the animals you ripped from my care?” He sneers in my ear.
Lucian is a fucking lion.I cringe when I realize it. Oh my God, this guy is psychotic.
“I wonder if you’ll make a good friend,” he whispers then presses his lips to the shell of my ear. “Or just a good pet.”
“What?”
My eyes shoot open, and I’m jerked away from the elevator door. My legs give out, and Lorenzo catches me under my arms and begins dragging me to another room. I’m in a whirlwind of panic, and I can’t get ahold of my bearings enough to stand.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask in a shaky voice.
He doesn’t answer.
My eyes dart around the penthouse, searching for some answer, some escape from whatever the fuck this is.
Pet.
I can’t get that word out of my mind. I can’t shake off the way his voice dropped as he said it either or the demented look in his eyes.
Pet.
Pet. Pet. Pet. Pet.
He flings open a door at the end of the hallway and drags me inside. As soon as the door clicks shut, he drops me. I land hard on my elbow and bite my cheek hard enough that I taste blood.
“Oops,” he mutters as if it was an accident.
I groan and curl into myself on the floor. I feel so weak, so defenseless. Whatever they gave me, I hope I never have to feel again.
His footsteps leave me, and I lift my eyes to watch him walk around a bed to a mini fridge. We’re in his bedroom. The decor feels too much like him for it not to be his. It’s dark. The furniture is black, and the walls are a deep gray. There’s a white rug covering about half the room, and it stands out like it doesn’t belong. It’s a distraction of comfort against the darkness. Just like his suit is a distraction of elegance against depravity.
He grabs a bottle of water from the mini fridge then kicks it shut and sits on the bed with one foot still on the floor. He unscrews the cap and takes a drink, all the while staring at me. Is he waiting for something?
“Thirsty?” he asks and now I know what he’s waiting on. My mouth dries and my head pounds at the question. I’m struck with thirst to the point I’d drink from a swimming pool.
He smirks like he sees it hit me and crooks a finger to signal me. “Come.”
I eye the water bottle in his hand then start to climb to my feet.
“No!”
I fall back to the floor, sitting with my knees pulled up and my shoulders slumped.
His lips pull into a crooked grin. “I want you to crawl to me… like a good pet.”
“I’m not your pet.”
“You’re not?” His eyebrows raise in challenge, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or angry. His tone flips between relaxed and vicious so much that I can’t keep up, and even when he has a smile, the scar cancels out any comfort it might bring.
He’s crazy. That’s the most I can tell about him right now. Crazy and dangerous. Maybe even worse than that other guy who took me.
That thought sparks a memory of the angry man scolding his colleague.Would you stop playing with your food? You’re as bad as Lorenzo.
Shit, this is him playing with me, isn’t it? He’s really going to kill me.
Lorenzo