Condemned

27 | Sam

At the top of the stairs, I almost lose my nerve.

I may look the part. I'm clean and polished, and the silk of my black dress is so delicate and form-fitting, it doesn't leave much to the imagination. The "V" of the neckline dips more than halfway to my belly button, and the leg slit is almost hip-high. I've pinned up my blow-dried hair into a twist that looks harder to accomplish than it was. I finished off my "bad girl" ensemble with the only lipstick shade that was provided—a deep rose red.

As per Ishmael's suggestion, I took my time getting ready. No amount of time, though, could prepare me for the actuality of the stairs. It's decadently carpeted in a Persian red, and I'm wearing spiked heels.

Or what might be waiting for me at the bottom...

I haven't even seen many shows or movies like this, where the girl is transformed, in one manner or another, and tries to lead her male "adversary" toward an end that is most desirable or advantageous. We're not talking about a chaste kiss or a marriage in this case. This is next level. In my house growing up, I wasn't even permitted to watch this stuff. Sure, I took a few risks, at friend's houses or with boys, in secret. Minor league stuff, but I usually paid a steep price for it anyway. He always knew or suspected the worst.

My stepfather was wrong about me more often than not, but if there are a few nails in a board and you take a thousand blind swings with a hammer, you're bound to hit the mark.

I don't even know what I'm realistically hoping to achieve here. My old guidelines are useless, and "punishment" seems unavoidable. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. No matter what I choose, if the choice is even mine, do I really think this Ishmael will just let me go, after all this time?

On the third to last step, my anxiety, ill health, and low blood sugar get the better of my typically good coordination. My heel gets stuck in the carpet and the banister is too far out of my reach. I should hit the bottom of the stairs with a thud, but strong, well-dressed, previously imperceptible arms are there to catch me. It was all a blur of light and movement.

At the speed of, like, sound, and with the skill of a ballroom dancer, he sweeps me into a cradle hold, like it was meant to happen.

I wish my dress settled as gracefully as my body did. A spaghetti strap slips from my shoulder. I scoop it up as fast as I can, but if his eyes are anything like his legs and arms, he's caught a glimpse of pink flesh, more than just my burning cheeks. I don't even bother to correct the slit of my dress. Most of the extra fabric—and there isn't much—is trapped between me and his arm, and my leg is fully exposed.

"You've made quite the entrance. It would take more time and effort to forget than seems fair." His ghoulishly dark gaze sweeps down me, lingering on my thigh for a touch longer than the rest. His arched eyebrow seems intrigued in the way you'd expect of a voracious male. His eyes are harder to read. If he is capable of regret, there may be a hint of it. Even if that's the case, there could be any number of reasons for it, and there's no guarantee that any of his intentions are "good."

"You make it sound like I won't get another chance." He could probably run in circles around the head game I'm attempting to play, but still, what do I have to lose?

"Although I am sure my reputation precedes me, I am Ishmael, the master of this house." Almost as if he's a gentleman and this is too much, too soon, even for him, he sets me on my feet before I'm mentally prepared for it. "We only get one first impression, I'm afraid," he says, responding to my comment. "Let us feast and give thanks for the triumphs we attain while the occasion endures."

With my hand tucked around his arm, he escorts me through the foyer, beneath a crystal chandelier, dimly lit, and into a fire-lit sitting room, like we're the host and hostess, about to entertain a roomful of guests.