My entire body reacts. I close my eyes, hating the sound of my own heartbeat, hating her for hearing it.
I'm drunk.
Why am I letting her do this to me?
I grind out, "You think you can just show up and expect me to fall in line?"
Her lips graze my ear. "I don't expect it. I require it."
My cock pulses against the brick. My skin tightens to the point of suffocation. I turn my head an inch, contemplating if I should push my mouth against hers.
She pins her challenging gaze on me, egging me on to do it.
Don't!
I threaten, "You're two seconds away from?—"
"The Underworld is ready for you. Walk," she commands.
"And if I don't?" I challenge, breath still uneven.
Her smile deepens, wicked and intimate. "Like I said. I'll drag you."
Too curious to leave, I shrug. "Fine."
Valentina leads me to the back of the alley, and we pass through an unmarked door. "You first," she offers, pointing at a staircase and smirking.
The space between my ears pounds. I move down five flights of stairs with her on my heels. I finally step out into a candlelit corridor.
She moves in front of me, leads me down it, and reaches for a red skull mask on the wall. It's the same as Sean and Zara's branding mark. She orders, "Put this on."
"Prefer not to."
"Do it. Or we can't go in," she adds.
I stare at it.
She shakes it in her hands. "Nothing to be afraid of. It's just a mask."
"Fine." I yank it from her and slip it over my face.
Her lips twitch. She tilts her head.
"Happy?" I ask.
She doesn't answer and opens the door.
Black stone walls rise high into shadows that swallow the ceiling. Hundreds of candles flicker in waves, casting warm light across masked faces.
The crowd stands shoulder to shoulder. A long stone platform dominates the far side. Behind it, six men in matching silver-skull masks and robes sit with gravels.
"Judges?" I mutter.
Valentina puts two fingers over my mouth and gives me a warning look.
A gong fills the room, vibrating between us. The wall in front of the men's table lowers to the floor, revealing a stage.
It has three elevated stone pedestals, each occupied by a woman who looks like she stepped out of some forgotten mythology. One glows under the light, her white-blonde hair braided to her hips, her skin almost luminescent. Another stands draped in gold fabric that clings to her figure and shines against her deep-bronze skin. The last has violently red hair and a leather dress, hewn so tightly to her curves it looks painted on her. Their arms are in the air, tied by a thick rope attached to the vaulted ceiling.
