Then his hand shot out and clamped around the back of my neck, forcing my face upward to meet his.
"Know your place, Margot. You're a toy I paid a fortune for. You don't get to give me orders."
His grip was crushing. The vertebrae in my neck—barely healed—crackled under the pressure.
Tears welled from sheer physical reflex, pooling at the rims of my eyes. I forced every last one of them back.
"Even a toy needs claws if it's going to tear apart prey for its master. Wouldn't you agree?"
I held his stare, a twisted smile curling at the corner of my mouth.
Christian studied me for several long seconds. Then he released his grip and let out a quiet laugh.
"Good. I look forward to the show. Don't disappoint me—or I'll throw you right back into that kennel."
For the next three days, I was confined to the top floor of the estate.
A private medical team stood on call around the clock, pumping expensive drugs into my broken body to piece it back together.
Every night, the old wound in my abdomen flared up, the pain so vicious it sent me writhing across the bed.
Christian sat on the sofa not far away, swirling a glass of red wine, watching with cold detachment.