“I travel often. She meets my needs,” Rhys replied. “For now, at least.”
She was prepared to be talked about rather than talked to, just like at the party, but it was off-putting. Almost reflexively, her gaze lifted. For a split second, her eyes collided with Álvarez’s.
Just as quickly, she lowered them again, slipping back into her role even as her skin crawled. But she had dared to be human too long.
Álvarez said more sharply, “Perhaps your muse would join mine. She is quite lovely. I’m sure my other guests would appreciate a demonstration of her deference and the training you laud.”
The room hushed. Everyone present knew what this challenge was about. Not friendly competition. This was apissing contest between the two most powerful men in the room, and they were using her to crown the winner.
Coming here, she knew she’d have to wear the mask of subservience, to perform in her role with Rhys, but she hadn’t expected to become part of the dinner show. She’d been on display at the club, voyeurs watching as her submission was tested. She could do it again, and would, for Natalie.
But thank God it was Rhys, and thank God for all that practice. She had an ally in him, at least, a safety net the other women were never afforded. Because of that, she couldn’t fully understand what the muses felt, but she would never forget the eyes that had found hers in the crowd.
Rhys didn’t rebuff the challenge. He leaned into it. “If she must join the display,” he said, as smoothly as his host, “let her be paired.”
Álvarez tilted his head. “Paired how?”
Rhys gestured toward the terrace where a muse posed on one of two pedestals beside the doors. Her arms were raised, in one hand a golden sphere, in the other a gold candelabrum.
“As part of a matched set,” Rhys explained. “It will suit her, don’t you think?”
For a heartbeat, Álvarez simply regarded him. Then his mouth curved with unmistakable delight. “An excellent idea.” He actually applauded. “Symmetry is always pleasing. Competition, even more so.” His eyes gleamed with malevolent delight when he asked Rhys, “Shall we have a little contest? My muse versus yours?”
The guests leaned forward, their interest instantly piqued.
“What are the rules and the stakes?” Rhys asked.
“We shall see who can hold the longest without faltering,” he continued lightly. “You have the advantage of a later start, but I have Seven, who has done this before.”
It took a moment for Gaby to understand, then she bit the inside of her cheek to contain her gasp of horror. Álvarez took their freedom, their humanity, and, in the final humiliation, stripped even their identity by assigning them a number.
“The winner earns a reward. And the loser…” He paused for effect. “Faces consequences.”
“Something entertaining and unpleasant, I’m sure,” someone called.
Gaby felt the blood drain from her face as laughter rippled through the room. These people were sadists, but not the kind she knew from Devil’s Pointe, who respected consent and limits and safewords. For this crowd, cruelty was the point, along with the power to inflict it. And she was about to enter their twisted game.
Rhys’s fingers wrapped around her upper arm as he led her forward. Before placing her on the empty pedestal, he ordered, “Arms up,” and whisked off her dress. When her head cleared, she glanced at the woman on the other pedestal. She didn’t have a stitch on. Gaby didn’t protest, though she really wanted to, when he pulled her panties down to her ankles and lifted her out of them.
He set her on the two-foot-high base, and their eyes met. Concern and frustration in his. All Rhys, not a shred of Blackwood. She decided to put her faith in him. What else could she do except play the game to win?
Someone handed him a matching candelabrum. When he wrapped her fingers around the cool metal and positioned her arm just so, it felt heavy in her hand. More so, when he lit the candles. The flames flickered, partly from the ocean breeze drifting in through the open doors, and partly from nerves.
“Breathe,” he urged softly, dipping his head toward the last taper as though struggling to coax the wick to light. “This is as faras it goes. I'll dismantle every man in this room before I let them have you.”
She believed him. God help her, she believed him. And that belief allowed her to narrow her focus. Not to weight or wax or flame, but to a single point: her breath.
The guests drank, laughed, and argued about art, politics, and acquisitions over their crème brûlée. All while she stood motionless like a fixture.
Some excused themselves from the table and went outside to smoke. Others approached. Not to speak to her—a candle holder, that would be insane, if not beneath them. Instead, they inspected her from all angles, as though appraising her value.
One man tilted his head and stroked his beard as he looked her over. “This one has toned arms and remarkable posture,” he murmured to the man beside him. “I’ll bet twenty she’s the winner.”
“I’ll take that bet, but why don’t we make it fifty thousand to keep it interesting?”
Gaby almost dropped the brace of candles. She thought they were talking two digits, not five. More wagers followed in amounts that showed these people had money to burn.
Another guest leaned close to light his cigar without even looking at her face. She didn’t flinch, although, inside, every nerve screamed.
