Smiling politely, I say, “I’m just exploring.”
He leans closer. “Would you like a guide?”
The man is wearing an expensive suit, quite a bit older than me, I think, with a kinder, less threatening vibe than some of the members. Or maybe that innocent white mask is fooling me. Either way, I can’t imagine my eventual meeting with an infuriated Lachlan will go well if a man is accompanying me.
“I’m good, thank you.”
His mouth twists with disappointment, but he nods politely, stepping back as I pass him.
Descending the wide staircase to the fifth level makes me notice that the grandeur and elegance of each floor diminishes the deeper I go, as if the dark deeds require a starker feel. The floors here are black marble, shot through with streaks of gold, with walls the color of blood. Shivering, I remember the meaning of Dante’s fifth level.
Anger.
There are cages, some hung from the ceiling with chains, some on platforms with multiple openings. Two men are thrusting into a woman in a white mask in one of them. She’s moaning blissfully, shuddering as she comes. Barred walls hold a terrifying array of bondage equipment; whips and crops, manacles, and leather binding gear. I notice more of Lachlan’speople are strolling around this floor in their black masks, closely watching the action.
The compressed fury here makes my pulse pound. I’m not sure if my heart’s racing from fear, or anxiety, or… I don’t know. There’s heat roiling in my center as I look around. The thought of being bound and helpless has always appealed to me - what a man could make me feel if I was forced to give up control and just let himhaveme. I’ve never met anyone who I trusted enough to explore it.
There’s low, ugly laughter from one corner and several monitors are drifting in that direction. There’s a woman strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross and the men crowded around her are enjoying the aggressive whipping she’s getting from a musclebound creep in a red and black mask.
Heradiatescreep. His entire demeanor, the unhinged way he’s enjoying her suffering and the response of the other menscreamscreep.Her expression is anxious and sliding into panic by the time two of the monitors reach them.
One steps up to the woman, asking her quietly if she wants to use her safe word, the other approaches the man, who’s still gripping the cat o’nine tails and growling angrily.
“Fuck off!” he snarls as the monitor tries to speak to him. “The cunt is fine.”
“R- red,” she manages to gasp out, and the monitor reaches for the cuffs on her wrists.
I stifle a shriek as the creep slashes his whip across the back of the monitor, ripping a long tear in his black shirt, instantly saturating it with blood.
“I didn’t say you could touch her!” he shouts, raising the whip again. His buddies are standing back grinning, enjoying the show.
“Honor the rules of the Inferno or leave,” the monitor says calmly. I admire his courage, the man in the black and red mask looks one step away from strangling him with his whip. The other monitor, who’s bleeding from the lash across his back, releases the woman, leading her away.
“Fine!” Musclebound Creep shouts, “The slut was shit anyway. Who’s next for the Lord’s discipline?” His accent is Russian and from all the tattoos on his bare chest, it’s clear he’s Bratva.
The Lord’sdiscipline?Oh, for gods’s sake, what a loser.
Unfortunately, his gaze lands on me. “You! Bitch, come over here.”
Shaking my head, I take a step back. “I’m here to watch. You do not touch me.”
This is a mistake.
He roars, coming at me as he draws the whip back. Lashing it forward with terrifying speed, it wraps around my waist, yanking me forward onto my knees. The ends cut into the thin silk of my dress, splitting it open like tissue paper. He hasn’t cut my skin. Yet.
“You need discipline,” he rumbles, “and punishment, whore.” Fisting a handful of my hair, he yanks my head back, “A good, long strapping before you suck me off in gratitude.” I can smell the sour reek of his sweat, the acidic stink of vodka as he tries to rub my face against his leather pants.
The sting makes my eyes water and when I try to pull away, I can feel some of my hair ripping loose from my scalp.“Uberi otmenya svoi chertovy ruki,take your fucking hands off me!” I snarl.
For a moment, he pauses, surprised that I speak Russian and I drive my fist up - hard - into his crotch.
A panel in the wall opens and I realize it’s an elevator as three men stride out.
Ah, damn it. Lachlan’s one of them and he’s heading toward us with murder in his eyes. I’m not sure who he wants to kill first, the Russian, or me.
Chapter Thirteen
In which Lachlan sheds 250 pounds of ugly weight. Specifically, Arseni Petrov.
