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Chapter 3

  • This literally could not be happening. This could not be my life. I could not be in some ridiculous mansion with the jackoff owner reaching for a gun to kill my father. No way in hell.
  • Before I even knew what I was doing, I flung my body in front of my father's.
  • "Well, you can't have his life," I said, my voice sounding very much like my teeth were clenched together because they were.
  • "You're not getting my daughter, St. James," my father insisted again, grabbing me and moving me away from him.
  • "What's to stop me from killing you and then taking her anyway?" Mr. St. James proposed, effectively shutting my father up. "Yeah, thought that would shut you up," he added and I had to curl my hands into fists at my side to keep myself from crawling up on his desk and clawing the skin off his face.
  • "St. James she's..." my father's voice sounded dipped in emotion and when I glanced over, his eyes were swimming. My father never cried. Never. Not once in my entire life.
  • "I won't hurt her, Mack," Mr. St. James said, sounding almost annoyed at my father's obvious distress. "Not in the way you're thinking anyway," he added and I felt my stomach flip.
  • Well, there was that at least.
  • "I'll do it," I said automatically. It was the only way. I wasn't going to lose my father; he was all I had in the world. Alright, so he wasn't the best role model and I spent a lot of my time as a kid worrying myself sick over the bills he never paid on time. But even when the house was a studio apartment with no lights and roaches in the sink, he filled it with so much love that I never wanted to be anywhere else. He was the only ever-present person in my life, the only person I could lean on when life felt too tough. I would not let the cold-hearted bastard in front of us take him from me.
  • "Prue..." my father hissed.
  • I turned to him, shrugging a shoulder. "You know it's the only way."
  • "No, honey. We will figure out..."
  • "Tick tock," Mr. St. James' voice called out, making me shoot a scathing glance at him.
  • "If there was another option, Dad, trust me, I'd be all over it. But it's either you die or I become chattel to some egomaniac." I heard a snort from St. James and rolled my eyes at him. "He said he won't hurt me."
  • "Honey, you don't know what he..."
  • "Nuh-uh-uh," St. James' voice broke in, drawing our attention. "No spoilers, Mack," he added and my father sighed.
  • "This isn't a movie; it's my life," I shot back at him.
  • "Not anymore."
  • That cut off the words on the tip of my tongue as I stood there and bit into my cheek. Because that was true. It wouldn't be my life anymore. I was right when I referred to myself as chattel. That was exactly what I was. I belonged to him. And, what's worse, I had no idea what that even meant.
  • But because he seemed like a bastard and his house had all the warmth of a glacier in the arctic, I didn't imagine my life would involve my usual trips to the coffee shop in the morning and my long, boring day at the bank, or going home to my economical, but cozy apartment where I would cook when I felt like it, order in when I didn't, and bake until my counters had no space left and I needed to start knocking on neighbors' doors to unload some of the sugary goodness.
  • Hell, I wouldn't exactly have been surprised if the jerk put a freaking chain on my ankle.
  • "Honey..." my dad said, reaching for my hands as he shook his head.
  • "She already made the deal, Mack," St. James cut in, drawing my attention to find his dark eyes on me. "She's going to clean up your mess as I imagine she has had to do quite a bit in her life already. You want this to be the last hard lesson she has to learn on your behalf, shape the fuck up. Miss. Marlow," he said, addressing me though his gaze literally hadn't left mine the whole time he was speaking to my father, "you have until ten a.m. tomorrow morning to get your affairs and order and report here."
  • He said it as he flicked a hand and turned away from us like it was the end of the discussion.
  • "Ah, Mr. St James?" I prompted, feeling my father squeeze my hand like he was trying to shut me up.
  • "What?" he barked, lifting his head with the gun in his hand, everything about his body language implying that he was annoyed by me. Why, then, he wanted me to work for him or something when he obviously wanted nothing to do with me was completely beyond me.
  • "I'm going to need more clarification about what..."
  • "You're going to go home, pack up the shit you need day-to-day, quit your job, sublet your apartment if necessary, throw out all your food and shit, say goodbye to your father, get some sleep, get your ass up bright and early and get the fuck back here by ten tomorrow morning. Do I need to be more clear than that?"
  • Quit my job? Sublet my apartment? Pack my shit?