Counsellor (Acquisition Series Book 1) (4 page)

“Thank you, Miss—?”

“It’s Stella Rousseau,” Vinemont said. “Go ahead and get the quilt room ready for her. I would have told you earlier, but I wasn’t sure if she’d accept.” The cold smile crept back into place as Vinemont continued assessing me.

I bristled. “I think you
were
sure. You knew all along, you bastard.”

Farns coughed delicately. “Oh, well, I’ll just go get everything straightened out for you, Miss Rousseau.” Farns gave Vinemont a strange look, almost pitying, before taking my bag and heading toward the sweeping stairs.

I peered around, ignoring Vinemont. The house was just as beautiful inside as out. Antique wood and plaster work graced every surface I could see. The floors were a warm honey color, reflecting the light of chandeliers and sconces that bathed the rooms in warmth. The furniture was dark, providing a contrast and making everything look even more luxurious.

The room to the right had couches and an elegant writing desk. The one to the left appeared to be a music room. A piano, guitars, and a few other instruments were displayed. I realized the wall paper was actual sheet music, pieces pasted over other pieces until the room was a paper mache made of melody and harmony.

The Rousseau home back in town was large. This house would have swallowed it whole and come back for seconds.

“When you’re finished gawking, we can get down to business.” Vinemont was still sizing me up, maybe deciding how badly he intended to treat me. I didn’t know. Everything was so foreign, so overwhelming. Even so, I forced my spine to straighten. I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.

“Fine.” I glared back at him.

He turned and walked past the staircase, leading me deeper into the house. The grandeur didn’t end. Paintings and rich tapestries lined the halls. Some of the artists I recognized, others were a mystery, but I wanted to stop and inspect each one. Instead, I followed my captor. He drew me into a dining room with two bright crystal chandeliers overhead. The table sat at least two dozen people.

He went to a sideboard with a decanter and glasses atop it. “Have a seat. Want a drink?”

I was confused before. Now I was utterly lost. “A drink?”

He looked at me over his shoulder as he poured perfectly. “Yes, Stella. In everyday parlance it means a liquid refreshment. In this context, I’m suggesting an alcoholic beverage.”

Asshole.
“Yes.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Whatever you have.”

“We’ll have to work on your tastes.”

I winced at the thought of Vinemont working on anything of mine.

I sank down into the nearest chair and lay my head on the back of my hands.

“What is this?” I mumbled. I wasn’t sure if I was asking him or me.

“This is you and I having a drink as we discuss the contract. I assume you brought it?” He put a glass next to me, setting it down with a slight clunk.

He took the seat across from me.

I dug in my purse and pulled the pages out. “Yes.”

“Good. Have you signed?” He took a drink from his glass, appearing nonchalant. He didn’t fool me. There was eagerness in his eyes, the spider hungry for its next meal.

“No.”

“But you’re here, so I assume you intend to sign it?”

I leaned back and returned his direct stare. “Why won’t you just let my father go?”

“Because he’s a criminal.”

“So are you.”

He drained his drink. “No, I’m not.”

“So slavery is legal all the sudden? No one told me we’d revoked the Emancipation Proclamation.”

The corner of his mouth twitched the slightest bit, as if his cruel smile wanted to surface. It didn’t. “The real question, the one you keep avoiding, is whether you believe your father is a criminal.” He stood and poured himself another drink before returning to the table.

I took my glass and turned it between my palms, the condensation wetting my fingers. Back and forth. “He’s not.”

“Then you really are as dumb as I think you are.”

“That’s fair, given I already know you’re as evil as I think you are.”

He smirked. “Evil? You haven’t seen anything yet, Stella.”

“Funny, I feel like I’ve already seen more than enough.” I gave him a pointed look.

He pushed back from the table and walked around to my side before picking up the contract. His scent enveloped me. I could feel him, his eyes on me, as he stood at my back. He bent over and smoothed the paper with his large hand. I noticed a series of scars along the back of his wrist. They were faint, barely noticeable, but there all the same. A crisscross of damage marking his otherwise perfect hand. I had the wild instinct to run my fingertip along the scratches, to see if he really was made of flesh and blood. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

“Just so happens I have a pen right here, Stella.” He slapped down a fountain pen next to the signature page.

He leaned in closer, his mouth at my ear though he never touched me. “Sign it.”

I closed my eyes, hoping I would open them and the nightmare would be over. It didn’t work. The paper with my signature line was still in front of me, held in place by his strong hand.

I picked up the pen and poised it over the page. “Are you going to hurt me?” I hated the weakness in my voice, the weakness of the question, but I had to ask.

His warm breath tickled my ear. “Definitely.”

My hand began to shake, my resolve faltering.

“But that doesn’t mean you won’t like it.” He reached around me, his hard chest pressing into my back, as he steadied my hand with his own. “Sign it, Stella.”

His voice was somehow hypnotic, seductive. Instead of loathing, something else bloomed inside me. It was sick, wrong. Even so, I leaned back into him the slightest bit, searching for some sort of comfort. He didn’t withdraw.

His hand was warm, unlike his heart. He pressed down until pen met paper, the ink spreading like blood from a wound.

I should have tried to fight him, to burn the house down and run. But the wall of muscle at my back told me just how futile such thinking truly was. I would have to use other tools at my disposal if I wanted to make it through this ordeal.

I took a deep breath.
For Dad.
I moved my hand under his, making the swirling signature that bound me to Vinemont, that made me his, his to rule and ruin, for a year. When my signature was finished, the last letter inked, he leaned in even closer, the tips of his lips pressing against my earlobe, raising goosebumps down my neck and lower.

“Now you’re mine, Stella.”

With that, he seized the papers and stalked from the room.

Chapter Five

Sinclair

Fuck.
That was
not the way it was supposed to go. I paced around my study as Farns escorted Stella up to her room. What was I doing? It didn’t help that my erection was siphoning blood away from my brain. No wonder I couldn’t think straight.

I went to the closest half bath and locked myself in. I unzipped my pants, angry at the complication my dick was causing. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This transaction was solely business for me. Something that needed to be done. The same as it had been for other generations of Vinemonts. The same as it had been for centuries. I wasn’t a special fucking snowflake. I was a Vinemont.

Of course, the last Acquisition had been done by my mother when I was still a small child, but I don’t remember it going so badly straight out of the gate. She had followed the rules, respected the tradition. She was a true Vinemont, whereas I was standing in a water closet with my cock bossing me around.
Motherfucker.

I pulled the traitorous length from my boxer briefs and began stroking. If I could just squeeze out a release, I would be able to calm down and do this the right way. I closed my eyes and saw her red hair, the way it fell around her shoulders as I’d stood behind her, the way it was begging to be fisted as I fucked her mouth.
No
. I forced my eyes open and looked at my own reflection.

I wouldn’t think about her, not like that, not anymore. The time would come when I would fuck her, but not out of any real desire on my part, except for the desire to fully break her.

I fisted myself harder, pumping up and down as my hips bucked. An unwanted image of her guileless green eyes flitted across my mind. It was then my balls drew up tight and my cock jerked, shooting my seed into the delicate, hand-painted sink. Once I was done, I placed my hands on either side of the vanity and took a deep breath.

I had to maintain control. It was the only way to win. This year’s Acquisition prize was mine for the taking. All I had to do was stay strong. I stared at myself in the mirror, willing the mask back into place. Once satisfied I was what I needed to be, I straightened.

I cleaned up, rinsed my seed down the drain, and tucked my cock back in. With this little momentary insanity behind me, I knew I would be able to maintain, to win, to ultimately defile Stella Rousseau.

Chapter Six

Stella

Farns led me
to an upstairs bedroom. He flicked on the light and showed me inside. The room was large and somehow light. I thought I’d be led to a cell with shackles and a metal bed. But no, this was a sweet country bedroom, even homier than my drafty room in town. It was along the side of the house, and two expansive windows filled one wall. Quilts hung along the other walls from floor to ceiling.

They were displayed with pride, some folded on racks and some spread out and exhibited. I scrutinized the nearest one with tired eyes. It bore a repeating pattern of a little boy in overalls and a wide straw hat. The fabrics were mixed, though all seemed well used.

“That one dates to 1897, I believe.” Farns stood behind me.

“Does he collect these or something?”

“No, miss, he doesn’t. His mother did, as did her father, and so on up the Vinemont tree.”

“Who made them?”

“This one was done by a great-great grandmother of the late Mr. Vinemont. The rest were done by other Vinemont women and sometimes men, if they had the knack of it.”

There were so many others, some done in a similar style, others with art deco influences, some oddly modern. The room was a mix of old and new.

“This one,” he pointed to a smaller square of material that was far darker than the others in the room, “was done by Mr. Sinclair’s mother.”

I ran my finger down a particularly straight seam. There was no pattern to the material, just jagged edges on blue and green fabric. The stitching was a deep crimson, discordant and striking.

“I didn’t think people who have been rich forever bothered themselves with being useful.”

“Forever is a long time, Miss Rousseau. Most things aren’t quite so constant.” He gave slight bow and left, clicking the door shut behind him.

I needed more than veiled information, but I was too tired to follow Farns and ask questions. He wouldn’t give me any real answers, anyway. Still, I went to the door and opened it. It hadn’t been padlocked from the outside or anything. They had a strange way of keeping prisoners.

I pressed the door shut and eyed the bed. It was a four poster affair with a fluffy white comforter and welcoming pillows. I went to the closet and found it mostly empty. Farns had deposited my bag inside. Quilting fabric and thread were perched on the upper shelves, far from my reach.

I pulled out some toiletries from my bag and took them to the en suite bathroom. It was large for such an old house. Soaking tub, small walk-in shower, vanity, and toilet. I arranged my items in the cabinet and along the sink before getting ready for bed. It was odd, doing these things in a strange house, but I did them anyway. Brushing my teeth and changing into a t-shirt somehow put a veil of normalcy on the whole sinister affair.

I returned to my bag and dug out the knife. Tape still lingered on the blade. I pulled out the third drawer of the bedside table and affixed the knife to the bottom of the second drawer, just like at home. No one would find it there. It was like an insurance policy of sorts. I didn’t intend for it to ever spill my blood again. But Vinemont’s? That was a definite possibility.

Once satisfied it was hidden, I sat down on the bed. It was plush, luxurious. I was through the looking glass—nothing made sense and everything seemed somehow backwards. Was it a trick? Would Vinemont drag me from my bed after I’d fallen asleep and throw me into a musty dungeon?

I rubbed my eyes, too confused and exhausted to ponder what would happen in the next few minutes, much less in the hours to follow.

I got up and hit the lights. The darkness was almost a comfort to me, like it was cloaking me from prying eyes. I crawled into the unfamiliar bed, sliding between the smooth sheets. They smelled like linen and faintly of detergent. Clean and cool against my skin. These things, this room, they were all meant to seduce me, just like Vinemont’s voice in my ear. I wasn’t in a fairy tale. Vinemont wasn’t my prince.

I snuggled in deeper, hugging an extra pillow against me. It was down-filled, soft and fluffy. I breathed in deeply and let it out. I would enjoy what I could while I could, because I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Sleep fell like a curtain in front of the stage, slowly obscuring me from view.

***

A knock at the door jarred me awake. Light streamed in through the windows, giving my cell the appearance of a traditional Southern room.

“Who-who is it?”

“Farns, miss.”

“Oh, come in.” I sat up and pulled my blanket to my neck.

He opened the door and took only a single step inside. “Breakfast is ready downstairs. I wanted to let you sleep for a while longer, but Mr. Sinclair has requested your presence.”

“I haven’t even showered.” I pushed my hair back from my eyes, knowing it was a tangled mess.

“Even so.” He didn’t look at me. In fact, he looked everywhere but in my direction. Modest much?

“Fine. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” I paused, realizing I had no idea which way to go to get down to breakfast.

“I’ll wait while you ready yourself and then I’ll escort you, if you’d like,” Farns said.

“Yes, please.” I dropped the blanket and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

Farns backed out of the room and eased the door shut with a soft click.

I rose and stretched before going to the bathroom, washing my face, and running a brush through my hair. Presentable. But why should I be? Maybe when Farns said “breakfast” he really meant “guillotine” or “the rack.” I had no way of knowing at this point. Were his kindly words and face just another put-on like Vinemont’s?

I donned another pair of jeans, a tank top, and a cardigan. I wasn’t sure about shoes, so I put on some sneakers. I sat for a moment to collect myself, to try and sort through what was true and what was the lie. It was impossible. I only knew one thing for certain—Vinemont was my enemy. Anyone connected with him was suspect, if not an outright danger to me. With that cold thought, I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and went to the door.

Farns was, as he promised, waiting outside. “Right this way, miss.”

I followed him down the long hallway. I peered into rooms as I passed. They were all bedrooms in this part of the house, each with a different theme. Some were flowery, others done in rich, dark fabrics.

“So, do you treat all your prisoners like this?” It came off even more snide that I’d meant it to. I was testy, angry, a seething bubble of emotions that seemed to have simmered overnight while I slept and only now erupted at my surface.

Farns stopped and then took another step, as if unsure whether to continue. “I’m not entirely sure how to answer that.”

“Why? I’m sure I’m not the first slave Vinemont has owned.”

“I, ah. Well, miss, you are the first Acquisition we’ve had for the past twenty years, if that’s what you mean.”

“Acquisition? I keep hearing that word. What does it even mean? Is it some code so you don’t have to say ‘slave’?”

He turned toward me, his eyes kind. He made it hard for me to be cross with him. “I take it Mr. Sinclair hasn’t explained the Acquisition trials to you yet?”

“There are
trials?
”

“Yes, there are.” Vinemont strode down the hall toward us. “And if you would come downstairs to breakfast, I would explain them to you.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “What’s the rush?”

“Farns.” Vinemont’s gaze darkened and he waved the butler away.

Farns hesitated and then obeyed, retreating back the way we’d come until it was just Vinemont and me. He wore another pair of dark jeans with a black t-shirt, his inked vines snaking down his arms from beneath the fabric. In the morning light, I saw they were a deep green, small leaves done in an emerald, and vicious thorns done in almost black.

He gripped my upper arm and yanked me to walk alongside him.

“Hey—”

“You are testing my patience, Stella.” He stopped and pushed me up against the wall. His eyes bored into me. “Don’t ask Farns questions like that. He can’t help you.”

“I can ask whatever the hell I want.” The cocktail of emotions roiling inside me had made me bold, even in the face of Vinemont’s wrath.

His gaze travelled over my face, down to my lips and then back to my eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

He gripped my hair and pulled my head to the side. His mouth was at my ear again, his Southern drawl whispering darkly to me. “I thought I made it clear that I own you now. You do as I say. If you don’t, I’ll make sure your father feels the brunt of your punishment.”

He stepped into me, pressing my back into the wall and crushing me painfully. I yelped at the sudden aggression. He clapped his free hand over my mouth. I hit ineffectually at his sides, his back. I even tried to knee him, but he took advantage of my efforts and pushed one of his large thighs between my legs and lifted so I was straddling him.

“Fuck.” It was a gravelly whisper.

My heart beat faster and faster, panic welling up inside and drowning out any other emotion. He was going to hurt me. Right here, right now in this sunny hallway.

He pulled my hair harder and harder until I thought he would rip it out. I stopped struggling.

“Better. Here’s how this is going to go, Stella. You are going to stop trying to make trouble. You are going to do as you’re told. This year will pass by much easier for you if you just follow my orders. You can fight me.” His lips moved down to my neck, a hairsbreadth from making contact. “And I’m not going to lie, I like it when you fight. It makes this easier for me. But you won’t like the results.”

He released me and backed away. He ran a hand through his hair as he continued to stare me down. My heart hammered, demanding that I run as far and as fast as I could.

He licked his lips, reminding me of a hungry killer that had scented blood.
My
blood. I shivered under his gaze, hating that my nipples had hardened from the sensation of him rubbing against me.

Vinemont stabbed a finger in the air in the direction he’d come. “Go.”

I bolted from the wall and tore down the hallway. I found the stairs to my right and maneuvered down them so quickly I almost fell on the second landing. His steps sounded behind me, heavy and deliberate.

I whirled when I reached the bottom, my stomach growling from the smell of food on the air. I turned right, spotting the front door. I didn’t make a choice. My body made it for me.

I ran to the door and wrenched it open. I took off across the porch and down the stairs. The morning sun made the wide expanse of grass seem manageable. The air was crisp, fall had finally settled even this far south.

My sneakers barely touched the pavement of the driveway before I was treading on the soft earth. I ran as hard as I could. I was small. I would make it to the trees and hide. Just curl up somewhere in the roots of a cypress or maybe even climb and hide in the branches. Maybe Vinemont was lying about having the judge in his pocket. Maybe I could go to the police or someone else. I was desperate to believe it as I hurtled through the sunlit lawn.

None of my hopes were true, I knew that, but I didn’t care as long as my legs kept pumping, carrying me closer to the salvation of the tree line. I had to get away from him, from the terror, from the flare of unwanted heat he sparked in me.

My lungs began burning, making me painfully aware of my need to stop and take deep gulps of air. I didn’t. I pushed myself harder, ignoring the pain in my side, ignoring everything except the approaching sanctuary. I’d made it more than halfway across the emerald field.

I fell. Hard. Arms had encircled my waist and dragged me down so I was lying on my stomach. The grass had softened the fall, but not much. The air whooshed from my already tortured lungs, and my ribs felt on the verge of cracking apart and spearing the organs inside. The smell of fertile earth and verdant green invaded my nose, but his scent mixed in as well.

He was on my back. He gripped my arm and pulled me over roughly. He straddled me, his thighs against my hips. I couldn’t see his face. The sun was high behind his head, blinding me. I screamed and tried to slap him, scratch him, draw any sort of blood I could. He captured my wrists easily and pinned them over my head. He leaned over me, blocking the sun yet showing me the scorching anger in his eyes. He was fierce, far worse than he had been upstairs.

“I warned you, Stella. I told you.” His breaths were shuddering even as I gasped for air.

He transferred both my wrists to one of his hands and drew back his palm to strike me. I held his gaze. I wanted him to feel it, to know how much I loathed him, to know what I thought of his twisted soul.

His eyes opened a little wider at my stark stare.

“Fuck!” He stayed his hand and, instead, slammed his fist into the ground next to my head. He let out a roar, guttural and full of pent up rage.

He let my hands go and sat back, crushing my thighs. His head was thrown back, as if he were pondering the shape of the lazy white clouds above instead of thinking about how to hurt me. I lay still, once again blinded by the sun.