Her shoulders burned, and her arms trembled. It wasn’t the strain or the nudity that shamed her, but the way they so easily dismissed her. She was utility. Decoration. A novelty for a bet. Nothing more.
Her arms were about to give out when a man stepped close, his hand brushing her belly—deliberately. Her muscles recoiled, but she held on, somehow. If he touched her there again, or more intimately, brushing a nipple or much lower, all bets were off.
Rhys’s voice cut cleanly through the air. “Don’t touch what isn’t yours.”
The man laughed softly, hands lifting in surrender. “Of course, Blackwood. You’re right. My mistake.”
Gaby didn’t move. Didn’t look. Rhys’s presence, as much as his vow to dismantle, held her together where her strength was fraying.
Across from her, Álvarez’s muse stood just as rigid, her expression carved into stillness. Until the guest who’d harassed Gaby drifted toward her—casual, entitled, and much too close.
There was no Rhys to intervene for her, however. With his advance unchecked, he went back for seconds, cupping her breast.
She flinched. It was small, barely visible, but the effect was immediate. Hot wax splashed on the guest’s hand. He shouted, jerking back as the flame guttered.
The room froze.
Álvarez rose slowly from his seat.
The silence that followed was louder than a shout.
He did not look at the Number Seven, who had failed him, or at the guest who caused him to lose. He looked at Rhys with a long, cool appraisal before stating, “It seems we have a winner.”
Polite applause followed, restrained and uncertain. Gaby saw the truth in Álvarez’s eyes. He was furious. Not because the guest had overstepped or been burned. Because he had lost. Worse, because Rhys was the one who bested him.
The smile he offered the room was all teeth, no warmth—a mask stretched over humiliation. He didn’t quite pull it off. Álvarez inclined his head with forced grace. “The evening concludes here. I believe we have exhausted its… pleasures.”
His gaze darted once more to his muse. She was trembling now, eyes wide. Then he turned away.
Consequences would come. The knowledge lodged heavily in her chest as Rhys helped her down. The moment her feet touched the floor, her knees wobbled. Her breath came too fast, too shallow—her body rebelling now that statue stillness was no longer required.
Rhys adjusted his grip. To anyone watching, it would look like control, but his touch was gentler than they could know.
“You did well, Camille,” he murmured, tepid praise for anyone listening. Then, for her alone: “Hold it together a little longer. I’ve got you.”
Chapter 20
Gaby barely made it to the bed before collapsing on the edge. “That was brutal,” she muttered, closing her eyes.
Even without her comment, Rhys could see the toll the challenge had taken—arms limp, head lolling, fatigue etched into every line of her posture. He wanted to go to her, to ease the strain in her muscles, but he was ever mindful of the cameras.
He removed his jacket and attended to his own comfort first—in Álvarez style—before approaching her.
“Turn,” he ordered as he sat beside her.
Her eyes snapped open, confusion clouding her expression.
“I’m pleased with your performance, Camille,” he said. “A little reward is in order.”
Use of her alias triggered comprehension.
“Thank you, Mr. Blackwood,” she said, slipping back into her role despite her exhaustion, and she turned to give him her back.
He settled his hands on her shoulders, thumbs pressing in. She let her head tip forward, hair sliding over one shoulder, as he worked the muscles held too long in an unnatural position.
“I don’t think my arms will ever be the same,” she whispered, part sigh, part groan.
His thumbs pressed deeper, kneading the tight band of tension. Rhys leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. It would read as a master rewarding his muse’s obedience.
