Stolen By A Sinner (Sinners #3) - Michelle Heard Page 0,1

room.

“Did I say you can leave!” he shouts after me.

My feet come to a faltering stop, my shoulders slump, and even though every muscle in my body screams at me to not turn back, I obey.

I always obey.

It’s either that or death.

Stepping back into the sitting room, I keep my eyes cast down, staring at the black fabric of the skirt that ends just under my knees.

When I hear the armchair creak beneath his weight, I peek up. Tymon’s gaze is narrowed on me. He sets his gun down on the glass table, then closes the distance between us.

Power radiates from his bulky frame, the loss of half his hair doing nothing to lessen how dangerous and cruel he looks. He has round cheeks and a mustache that curls up at the ends.

Apprehension creeps through me, and I clench my teeth, fisting my hands at my sides.

His meaty palm connects with my left ear, the familiar pain exploding over my jaw and neck. The force has me falling to the right, my hip slamming into the golden corner of the coffee table, my hand crashing into the tray. The hot tea stings my skin before instantly cooling.

Staring at the carpet, I breathe through the sharp pain in my right hip.

That’s going to leave another bruise.

I take a breath, my chest empty of emotions.

“You only leave when I give you permission,” Tymon orders, his tone not leaving any room for arguments. Not that I’d dare argue with him. I’m not that stupid.

“Yes, sir,” I murmur, still not moving from my spot on the carpet.

“The food better be here at six,” he demands.

Shit. That only gives me two hours.

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave!” he barks. It’s followed by him grumbling, “Piece of ugly fucking shit.”

Hearing the words is nothing new to me. I know I’m plain looking, and it doesn’t bother me. Beauty will only get you raped in my world.

Wincing from the jarring ache in my hip, I quickly climb to my feet. I gather the overturned cup, and tugging a cloth from my apron, I wipe up the spilled tea before scurrying out of the sitting room.

I try not to limp, doing my best to ignore the pain in my hip. Stopping in the kitchen, I set the tray down, then glance at Agnes, one of the other maids. “Have tea taken to the sitting room. I’m going to get dinner for Mr. Mazur. He wants seafood.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, her tone the same as mine – void of emotion.

Everyone who works under this roof has been conditioned to just exist for one sole purpose – to serve Tymon Mazur, head of the Polish mafia.

We’re his to do with as he pleases.

Leaving the kitchen that’s fit for a five-star chef but hardly gets used to prepare meals for Tymon, I take the set of stairs at the back of the mansion down to the maid's quarters.

The basement holds two rows of beds and a single bathroom where the four maids, three gardeners, and two butlers sleep.

This has been my home since I can remember.

The dimly lit space is where Mom used to whisper fairytales to me and where I did my homework by flashlight after fulfilling my duties. That was only until I turned sixteen. I never got to finish school.

Crouching next to my bed, I pull the box from beneath it and take out a pair of worn sneakers. I slip the polished black pumps off, and after stepping into the sneakers, I tie the laces. Tucking the pumps into the box that holds my social security card, a photo of Mom, the worn Cinderella storybook, two sets of uniforms, two sweatpants, two shirts, and a sweater, I slide it back beneath the bed.

At twenty-two, it’s all I have. A single box.

I hurry out of the maid’s quarters and quickly make my way to the grand foyer where Mr. Kowalski, the head butler, is standing by the front door to receive any guests Tymon might have.

All the staff came over from Poland, and at first, I learned the language, but after Mom passed, I couldn’t be bothered.

Mr. Kowalski is in his early seventies and dressed in a black suit, he looks like he’s lived a hundred years too many.

“I have to go to Aqua,” I murmur.

Mr. Kowalski lets out a heavy sigh as he pulls the credit card out of his jacket’s inner pocket. We only use the card for Tymon’s meals and anything needed for the mansion.

Handing the card to me, he