When she doesn’t move, I reach out and take her wrist. Her skin is ice-cold. I pull her gently but inexorably away from the wall and lead her to my large, high-backed chair at the head of the table. I sit, and without ceremony, I pull her down onto my lap.
She gasps, a small, stifled sound, and goes utterly stiff. She is perched on my thighs, her back ramrod straight, every muscle locked in a silent scream of rebellion. She feels like a bird caught in a hand, with its heart hammering against its ribs.
I can feel the eyes of my guests on us. This is a performance now, a show of ownership. My arm slides around her waist, my hand splayed across her lower stomach, holding her in place. The grip is firm, undeniable, a cage of flesh and bone. It is a message to Leo and Oscar:Mine. Do not look.
But it is also carefully measured. My hand rests on her stomach, not higher, not lower. It is possessive, not explicitly sexual yet. I am not joining in their revelry; I am establishing a boundary.
“Behave for me,” I murmur into her ear, my lips almost brushing the delicate shell. “Be still, and be quiet. It will be over sooner.”
I feel a slight tremor run through her, but she obeys. The rigid tension doesn’t leave her, but she doesn’t struggle. Her compliance is its own kind of victory.
To further the distraction, I reach for a plate of ripe strawberries that had been part of the dessert course. I select a perfect, red berry and hold it to her lips. “Eat.”
She turns her face away slightly; a tiny act of defiance that makes my grip tighten infinitesimally.
“I said, eat,” I whisper, the warning clear in my tone.
Slowly, hesitantly, she parts her lips. I place the strawberry on her tongue. She chews mechanically, her eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall, where a tapestry depicting a hunting scene hangs.
“Good girl,” I praise her quietly. The words are for the benefit of my guests as much as for her, a Master complimenting his pet.
Beside us the scene has changed, escalated. Oscar has Julie bent over the edge of the table, his trousers around his ankles, her silk dress shoved up around her waist. Her face is turned to the side, her expression vacant as he grunts and moves against her. Leo is more leisurely, still in his chair with Felice straddling him, her back to his chest, his hands roaming over her body as he moves her on his lap. The air is filled with their grunts and moans, along with the cloying smell of sex and cigars.
I watch lazily for a moment then look back at Grace’s flushed, embarrassed face.
“Look at me,” I command softly when her eyes flicker toward the grunting noise Oscar is making.
Her wide, terrified eyes meet mine. In their depths I see the reflection of the fire, the horror of the room, and a bewildered confusion at my actions. Why am I protecting her? Why am I shielding her from this when I am the architect of her captivity?
“You are doing well,” I tell her, and this time, the praise is entirely for her. It is an acknowledgment of her endurance. With my thumb I make slow, subconscious circles on the silk over her stomach.
I feed her another strawberry, then a piece of dark chocolate. I keep her attention anchored to me, my voice a low, continuous murmur in her ear.
The noises across the table reach their crescendo and then subside. The animal grunts are replaced by heavy breathing and low, satiated laughter.
My guests rearrange their clothing. The women, now used and discarded stand up, their faces carefully blank as they smooth down their dresses. The illusion of the elegant evening is clumsily reassembled.
Leo looks over at me, at Grace still held rigidly in my lap, at the plate of food between us. He grins, a lewd, knowing thing.
“Saving the best for yourself, Antonio. A man of taste, to the very end.”
I give him a thin, complicit smile. “Indeed.” I say before getting to my feet and pulling her with me. “Gentlemen, enjoy my hospitality. I have an early flight in the morning.”
They both grin back at me, eyeing Grace up and down, and it’s clear on their faces that they think I’m taking her off somewhere else to fuck.
As we leave the hall, Grace becomes more panicked, physically shaking in my hands. I don’t bother to explain myself; I don’t need to. I’m her master, her owner, I can do with her what I like.
I meet Clara by the stairs and hand Grace over without another glance. She can sit in her cage for the rest of the night and think it all over. She can ask herself why I haven’t just fucked her, she can agonise over the fact that right now, I’ve chosen being on my own to spending any further time with her.
The jet touches down on the sprawling estate’s private airstrip, the engines whining as they slow to a halt. I step out into the crisp, cold air of the American countryside, the scent of pine and damp earth filling my lungs. But there’s something else; something darker, more insidious. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A musty, cloying odour that clings to the back of my throat.
Death.
It smells like death.
I shake the thought away, chalking it up to my imagination and lack of sleep. The estate is vast, manicured lawns stretching out in every direction, dotted with ancient oaks and marble statues. The grandeur is undeniable, but it feels hollow.
Konstantine is waiting for me in the sunroom, seated in a high-backed chair by the floor-to-ceiling windows. His once-imposing frame looks diminished now, his skin pale and drawn, his movements slow and deliberate. The heart transplant has taken its toll but his eyes, those piercing, ice-blue eyes still burn with the same intensity.
