Chapter One Hundred

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My legs refuse to move.

And my arms.

And quite possibly my heart, as well.

Hell, even my eyes can't bring themselves to blink, completely bulged and glassy, as if they're large marbles sitting in my face. My spine turns to ice, feeling insanely rigid and stiff. I think I just might snap right in half if I even breathe too hard.

Maybe it's a good thing my lungs just decided to quit on me, too, then.

My brain is having serious trouble processing the words in front of me. My mouth goes incredibly dry, and I can't even bring myself to swallow to relieve the parched sensation. I just stand there for several seconds—or maybe it's several minutes, I don't know—unable to look away from the piece of paper.

Reserved for sub.

Reserved.For.Sub.

R.e.s.e.r.v.e.d. f.o.r. s.u.b.

Every single letter in those three unsettling, heart-stopping words loop around in my head over and over again until that's all I can see. Everything else fades away, and I experience the most chilling, sobering moment of clarity I've ever had.

This is for real. Like, this is really, really happening.

I don't have time to ponder further or freak out like I want to, because Frost's deep, commanding voice quickly brings me out of my prolonged brain fart.

"You're wasting time, Ramona," he says. "I don't like to be kept waiting and you've already done plenty of that tonight."

I almost jolt at the severity of his tone and the words. I swear I can actually feel the soundwaves of his voice oscillating over my skin, sending goosebumps flying every which way. I don't dare meet his eyes, terrified of what I might find in them. I clutch hard at my jeans, feeling renewed stinging in my palms.

I'm scared to move a muscle.

I don't want to sit there.

I know I signed the contract a while back so I've technically consented to this already, but jeez Louise, it's so much different actually living it than seeing it inked out on paper. Physically sitting there would mean completely accepting a very particular and very frightening role; one which I'm starting to have serious doubts—and more than a bit of remorse—about right now.

I can't bring myself to walk, to do anything else but stand there like an idiot.

"Ramona," he calls calmly. A little too calmly.

I turn to face him with all the hesitation and wariness in the universe. I know my discomfort is written all over my face, but he's clearly shown that he doesn't give a shit about how I feel, so I don't see the point in trying to put on a brave face.

"I've told you before that I sincerely dislike repeating myself." His tone is menacing now, stern and laced with an unmistakable threat. "Now, sit," he says, pulling a chair back as he holds my gaze, glaring at me without a trace of apology. "I won't ask you again."

I don't need to be told twice.

Um, apparently you do, Einstein, the voice in my head mocks. I want to roll my eyes at it.

Okay, fine. I don't need to be told thrice. Happy?

I slowly make my way over to the designated chair, each step jostling my bladder and threatening to let urine escape. I sit down warily, sinking into the large, cushioned leather chair. With deep, shaky breaths, I struggle to pull myself and the chair closer to the table, even as my bladder protests each and every quipped, jerking motion, wondering what kind of mind-fuck this is.

First, he gives me not just my own room, but an entire frickin' wing of his mansion, and now this?

What's he playing at?

Why such a grand display for a woman you barely know and are paying to have sex with?

Hell, why offer me dinner at all?

Why is he going all out like this?

He takes the seat directly opposite mine and I watch him like a hawk, curiosity driving me to search for answers in his body language, but mostly because my nerves are shot to hell and my basic instincts need me to be aware of every single thing that's happening around me. He moves calmly and effortlessly, as if he doesn't have a care in the world while I'm here on the verge of jumping out of my own skin.

Fucking bastard.

Countless empty seats surround us on either side, emphasizing the fact that we're alone; a reminder I sure as hell don't need.

We face each other, and despite the girth of the table separating us, I feel unnervingly vulnerable and open to his scrutinizing eyes, as if I'm under a microscope.

His microscope.

My eyes inadvertently find their way back to the folded paper to my left, but I can't see the words from here. But I know he can. And what a sight it must be.

Abruptly, I get this sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought of how many times he's done this before; how many other women have been in one of these chairs—or perhaps this very chair—with a sign that read 'Reserved for sub'.

Not their names.

Not any personalized information.

Nothing customized to them specifically.

Just this impersonal sign.

Suddenly, I feel so...so...generic. Interchangeable.

Replaceable.

Well, no shit, you moron! Of course you're replaceable to him, the voice in my head scolds. Why is that news to you? And what the hell are you feeling bad about it for? Isn't that a good thing?

I almost nod 'yes', but manage to stop myself just before my head moves. I may be used to talking to myself all the time, and used to all the quirks and habits I've developed as a result of that—nodding included—but I realize that would make me look mental. Then again, I probably am. I mean, I'm here, aren't I?

But, yeah. That's absolutely right; the fact that he sees me as just another piece of ass is absolutely a good thing. It means that, pretty soon, the novelty between us will wear off and he'll get bored and move on to someone else. I'll get my money and put this whole fiasco behind me. This will all just be some distant, unwelcomed memory, and I won't ever have to see those icy, scary eyes ever again.

I just hope to God I won't need therapy after this. Or at the very least, he pays me well enough so I can afford a pretty damn good shrink if I do.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding?

When I do.

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Eme and the hearts @EmendedHearts 💕