Araminta stepped out of the bathroom wearing one of Alfonse's dress shirts. It swallowed her frame, the cuffs hanging past her fingertips. Her hair was wet, slicked back from her face.
Alfonse was sitting on the edge of the massive bed. He had loosened his tie. Two glasses of whiskey sat on the nightstand.
He held one out to her. "Drink. I don't like women who shake."
Araminta took the glass. The amber liquid burned all the way down, settling like a hot coal in her stomach. It gave her a buzz of artificial courage.
She set the glass down and stepped between his legs. Her hands moved to the buttons of the shirt, fumbling slightly.
Alfonse caught her wrists. His grip was iron.
"Don't act like a cheap whore," he said, his voice rough. "I want you to come to me because you want to. Not because you're paying a debt."
"I have nothing else to offer," she whispered.
"You have yourself."
He pulled her down.
The encounter was a battle. There was no romance, no gentle words. It was a reclaiming. Alfonse touched her as if he were memorizing her, erasing the invisible fingerprints Javen had left on her soul.
At the peak of it, overwhelmed by the intensity and the sheer, raw power of him, Araminta buried her face in his neck and bit down on his shoulder. Hard.
Alfonse groaned, a guttural sound against her ear. He didn't pull away. He pressed closer, driving into her with a renewed, possessive fury.
Afterward, Araminta lay curled at the edge of the bed. Her body hummed with a strange, aching exhaustion.
Alfonse sat up and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled blue in the dim light. He picked up his phone, tapped a few times, and then tossed it onto the duvet.
"Intel verified," he said, smoke drifting from his lips. "Doyle Industries is leveraging debt they didn't disclose. They will lose the bid."
Araminta sat up, clutching the sheet. Her eyes gleamed. "When will you destroy them?"
"Patience," Alfonse said. "The cat plays with the mouse before the kill."
He reached for his wallet on the nightstand and pulled out a sleek, black metal card. He flicked it toward her. It landed on the sheets.
"Payment," he said. "You can go."
Araminta stared at the card. The name ALFONSE WOLFE was embossed in silver. Shame flushed through her, hot and prickly. "I'm not a prostitute."
"Everything has a price," Alfonse said coldly. "You need money for your brother. Take it."
The mention of Griffin silenced her pride. She picked up the card. It felt heavy.
"Can I stay here?" she asked quietly. "Just for tonight?"
"No." Alfonse crushed his cigarette out. "Obsidian Manor doesn't house strays. Unless you prove you have more value than just a warm body."
Araminta stood up. She felt hollowed out.
Elena entered moments later with a set of clean clothes-jeans, a sweater, a coat. Araminta dressed quickly.
She looked at Alfonse one last time. He was apparently asleep, his arm thrown over his eyes. But she knew he was awake.
She walked out of the manor into the grey dawn light. The wind was biting.
As she waited for the car Elena had called, she took out the black card. This was her weapon, but it was also a leash. Every transaction would be a report back to him. She had to be smart.
A news alert popped up on the burner phone she'd borrowed earlier.
BREAKING: DOYLE INDUSTRIES STOCK PLUMMETS 10% AFTER FAILED BID.
Araminta smiled. It was a small, cold smile.
She looked at the black card in her hand. Alfonse had given her a weapon.
She hailed a cab on the main road. "State Sanatorium," she told the driver.
She had to get to Griffin. Javen was wounded, and wounded animals lashed out.
