“Go ahead,” the thug said with a chuckle. “Nobody around to hear you. Nobody that cares, anyway.”
The woman wrenched herself away from his grip and started to run back in the direction she had come from, her high heels clacking hard with every step. Before she could make her exit, however, a second man emerged from the shadows offstage, blocking her escape. He was dressed in a similar fashion to the other man, but with a burlier build, and a coarse beard lining his heavy jaw. He slowly advanced, not saying a word to the woman, just staring her down with a look that made it clear he was no savior. She backed away from him, breathless with fear.
She was trapped now, trapped between two massive thugs smirking with wicked intent. It was all illusion, of course, an “insubstantial pageant,” as an ancient Terran dramatist had once put it. If the woman really wanted to get away, she needed only to leap down from the stage, and Slayn sensed those athletic legs were capable of leaping quite far indeed. Nevertheless, her acting brought the scene to life. The tension in her muscles. The slight quiver in her lip, which Slayn could see when he looked through his opera glasses.
This was getting good.
A third man appeared behind the first. This newcomer was the dominant member of the little pack; Slayn had sussed that out last night at dinner. Now, like his companions, the man was dressed in street clothes—leather and denim—and while, perhaps, he did not wear it quite as convincingly as his comrades, there was no denying his capacity for violence as he sauntered onto the stage with an easy, lupine grace.
The audience seemed to hold its collective breath. So did Inga, as she took the head of Slayn’s cock deep into her throat.
“Well, well,” the lead thug said. “What’ve we got here? You must be lost, sweetheart.”
The woman looked frantically back and forth at the men, who were slowly closing in around her like wolves.
“Please,” she said. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to get home.” She reached for her purse. “I—I have money.”
“It’s not your money we want,” the leader said.
“Then what…?”
“Oh, I think you know.”
The lead thug darted forward quick as a snake and seized the woman by her arms. Slayn’s cock began to throb with excitement. In his lap, Inga began to moan as she tasted the precum that was suddenly leaking out of him in such vast quantities. This was the part he wanted to see. Domination. Control. Taking without permission.
But the show took an unexpected turn. The woman did not scream or surrender as Slayn had expected she might. Instead, she did something even more arousing.
She fought.
CHAPTER 21
With a shout, Fairchild drove her knee up into Reece’s crotch, and he doubled over with a convincing grunt of pain.
There were a few startled gasps from the crowd.
Fairchild could have hit him full force if she’d wanted to. She knew Reece could take it. Mercs weren’t built like ordinary men. Their bodies could withstand all kinds of abuse, even in those regions that were typically more sensitive. Still, Fairchild held back a little. If they made the fight look too realistic, people might get suspicious—especially Slayn.
Judging from the sounds of the crowd, she may have already gone too far. Shit.
Fairchild wrenched herself away from Reece’s grip, which had slackened as soon as she had kneed him in the balls, and she spun to face Dutton, who was lunging at her from behind. Her sheath skirt was already hiked partway up her legs, and now it lifted even higher as she thrust a sidekick into her attacker’s body. The bottom of her high-heeled shoe barely kissed Dutton’s chest, but he sold it like a pro, flinging himself back as if he’d been struck by a bus.
They hadn’t choreographed any of this beforehand, aside from a very basic sketch of how things should go down. The fact that they were able to improvise so well was a sign of just how much they had bonded.
They were a team now.
A real team.
She spun again, this time to fend off Nash, who was rushing her from behind, but the young Merc was too quick for her. That’s what they pretended, anyway.
Fairchild could have thrown him if she had wanted to, just how she had done that time in the workout room aboardthe Allura, but that would have been a step too far. The audience hadn’t come to see a brawl.
And more importantly, neither had Slayn.
Fairchild gave them what they wanted, flailing her legs as Nash lifted her from behind, flashing the crowd in the process. Her lacy black panties and garters were a bit over the top compared to the simple business attire she was wearing on top, but this was a fantasy, after all. A dark fantasy, intended for the man she wanted dead.
As Nash manhandled her from behind, Fairchild cast a lightning-fast glance in the direction of Slayn’s box. The smile on his face suggested that he liked what he was seeing.
Fairchild shuddered with disgust.
