“It is,” the redhead replies with a perfect little smile. Her gaze drags down my frame and back up like she’s reading a menu she doesn’t plan to order from. “Never been to a Haus of Sin before?”
“No. I’ve only heard a few things.”
“What did you hear exactly?” she asks, voice sharp enough to slice.
Her hair is pulled so tight that the bun looks painful. Her eyeliner wings upward, making her eyes too big, too intent. Her lips shimmer a dangerous red.
“I heard it’s for private clients,” I say carefully, every old service industry instinct screaming at me to tread lightly. “The kind with very specific tastes and very deep pockets.”
Her smile barely widens, all predator now. “How did you end up here?”
The question lands like a slap.
My chest tightens, Jeremy’s voice echoing in my head. Too chubby. Too soft. Too much. “You make it sound like I’m lost.”
Her gaze flicks over me again, cool and cutting. “Sweetheart, you don’t look like you belong here.”
Heat flares in my chest. Not shame this time. Anger. I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me snap.
Movement upstairs catches my attention.
A woman with chocolate curls and a pink velvet corset strolls into view. Her confidence is effortless, her body openly celebrated. Beside her stands a shirtless man who looks like sin sculpted with purpose.
“That’s Asher, the Stag,” the redhead murmurs, her voice dropping as if she is sharing privileged information. “And that’s Delia, the Doe. They service our high-rolling clientele. The Sin Room gets unforgettable.”
“I see,” I mutter, even though I really do not want to imagine it.
She smirks. “We use forest names here. I’m Deanna. The Fox. There are ten of us.”
“Ten of what?”
“Hosts and hostesses. We live here through winter and give our clients the escape they desire.”
The rumors click into place.
Bondage.
Power play.
Seduction curated like luxury art.
“Like I said,” she purrs, “you do not belong. You are already unraveling.”
I square my shoulders. “I’m here to cook. My credentials earned me this job.”
“Well,” she replies, her gaze raking over me like I am a clearance rack mistake, “it certainly was not your other assets.”
Ah. So that is the game.
My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. Rage simmers hot and sharp, but I force it down. I will not break in front of her.
A male voice cuts cleanly across the lobby. Smooth. Controlled. Unimpressed.
“Deanna, always such a pleasure watching you make friends.”
Every muscle in her face locks.
I turn around and freeze.
