Just Some Madman I Don't Know

At six in the morning, I fried the eggs just so, toasted the bread, and trimmed the crusts with practiced precision.

Cian didn't eat leafy greens. He didn't eat fully cooked yolks.

I remembered his habits better than my own birthday.

I made the sandwich with bacon, not the ham he'd always hated.

At seven, Cian came downstairs.

He paused when he saw the breakfast laid out on the table.

I stood by the dining table, hands clasped before me, my posture a study in submission.

"Breakfast is ready."

He walked over, his gaze landing on the sandwich.

The next second, his hand swept across the table, sending the plate crashing into the trash can.

The sound of shattering porcelain was deafening in the silence.

Cian's eyes were glacial. "Willow Donovan, what do you take me for? I stopped eating that trash years ago."

I stared at the food scattered in the bin, a dull ache blooming in my chest.

I had once complained his street-food diet was too coarse, forcing him to adopt my own refined tastes.

He had changed for me, shedding his old habits like a second skin.

Now, he sneered at the flavors he once loved.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize your tastes had changed."

I knelt to clean up the mess.

A porcelain shard sliced my finger, and a ruby-red bead of blood welled on the tip.

Cian didn't even glance at it, stepping over me to retrieve a bottle of expensive imported water from the fridge.

"There's a private poker game tonight. You're coming with me."

He took a sip of water, his tone flat.

"Given my current status... I don't think it's appropriate..."

"What status do you have?" he interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "A whore who sells her body, or the fallen Principessa of the Donovan family?"

The words died in my throat.

"If you're my property, you'd better start acting like it."

He tossed a black gift box onto the floor beside me.

"Wear this. Don't embarrass me."

That afternoon, a stylist arrived.

Inside the box was a tight, black slip dress.

There was barely any fabric to it. The back was cut impossibly low, the slit running all the way up my thigh.

It was something a stripper would wear, not a dress for a high-stakes game.

But I had no right to refuse.

I slipped it on and faced the mirror, lowering my gaze. The woman staring back looked no different from chattel for sale on the black market.

At eight that evening, we arrived at a discreet private club.

I entered on Cian's arm.

Through the haze of cigar smoke, countless gazes fixed on me.

"Isn't that Willow Donovan?"

"Some high-and-mighty Principessa she was. The Donovans are finished. I heard she's desperate to pay off that blood debt."

"Tsk, tsk. Dressed like that? Must be Cian Rourke's new pet. She used to have her nose so high in the air you'd think she'd drown in a rainstorm."

Cian acted as if he heard nothing, guiding me through the predatory crowd.

The family bosses who once bowed to me now gawked at me with lecherous, malicious eyes.

A portly Russian, a Capo named Petrov, ambled over with a glass of liquor.

"Rourke. Good taste," he rumbled, his lecherous gaze crawling over my chest. "The girl looks familiar... and what a figure."

I recoiled, trying to hide behind Cian.

But he deliberately sidestepped, leaving me completely exposed to Petrov's predatory gaze.

He took a sip of whiskey, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

"She's a handful, alright. If you like her, Petrov, I can have her pour you a drink sometime."

I looked up at him, searching his face.

There was no protection in his eyes, only a chilling, vindictive satisfaction.

"Then it's a deal!" Petrov boomed, reaching out to grab my waist.

I fought back a wave of nausea and sidestepped his touch.

"Ooh, a feisty one," Petrov noted, displeased.

"Taming them slowly is more fun, isn't that right, Willow?"

Cian's voice was a soft, terrifying caress as he turned to me.

I lowered my head.

"Yes, you're right."

Just then, Scarlett Montgomery swept in, a vision in a long white gown.

A sweet smile bloomed on her face when she saw Cian.

"Cian! I got held up, I'm so sorry I'm late."

Cian dropped my arm and strode to her, his own arm wrapping possessively around her waist.

Only then did Scarlett feign surprise at seeing me, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh, isn't that Willow? Long time no see. My, why are you dressed like that...?"

A flicker of triumphant malice crossed her eyes, quickly masked by a look of perfect concern.

"Have you been having a hard time? You've gotten so thin."

She stepped closer, and the hand holding her whiskey glass suddenly "trembled."

The amber liquid spilled down my chest.

I instinctively raised a hand to block it, my knuckles brushing her wrist.

"Ah!"

Scarlett cried out as the glass shattered on the floor.

She clutched her wrist, her eyes instantly filling with tears as she looked pleadingly at Cian.

"Cian," she whimpered, "I only wanted to say hello to Willow, but I suppose she's still angry that I have you now."

The room fell silent.

Cian stormed over, grabbing Scarlett's wrist to inspect it before turning his furious glare on me.

"Willow Donovan, are you looking for a death wish?"

A mixture of indignant rage and a heart-stopping chill sent a tremor through my body.

"I didn't push her. She spilled it on purpose."

"And why would Scarlett spill whiskey on herself?"

Cian sneered, his eyes filled with not a shred of trust, only pure, unadulterated disgust. "Apologize to Scarlett."

Scarlett tugged on his sleeve. "Cian, let it go. She didn't mean it, and everyone is watching..."

His gaze on me grew even colder. "Willow Donovan, don't make me say it again."

Whatever pride I had as a Donovan had long been ground into dust by this man.

I bent at the waist, facing Scarlett.

"I'm sorry, Miss Montgomery. It was my fault."

My quick surrender didn't satisfy him.

He pointed to a row of high-proof spirits on the bar.

"Since it was an accident, drink these to prove it. Finish them, and we'll call it even."

There were five or six different kinds of hard liquor.

I looked up at him. "Boss... my stomach... I have an ulcer. I can't drink that."

"That's your problem."

He put his arm around Scarlett and turned his back on me.

The room watched, hungry for the spectacle.

My hand trembled as I picked up the first glass.

The liquor burned a path down my throat, and a searing pain erupted in my stomach.

One glass. Two. Three...

By the fifth glass, my stomach seized in a violent cramp.

I covered my mouth and ran for the restroom.

I retched until my head spun, until all that came up was blood.

I wiped the corner of my mouth and stared at my ghostly reflection in the mirror.

From outside, I could hear the muffled laughter of men.

"Watching that proud Donovan Principessa on her knees? Now that's a damn satisfying sight."