Something unholy burns in my chest. Something possessive. As if wrath and fire are made sacred and aiming for Bishop. Without time to strategize, I bid on the next girl, grateful it’s one we haven’t had out to the lake house before. Texting Edmond, I instruct him to come escort number eight-twenty-six back to the house tonight. It’s coming together—a plan. I fall back into a chair, panting as if I’d run four miles.
No one is looking at me, which is for the best. They’re all focused on bidding for Juliette, who is the only one staring at me. Her chin lifts high, and she boldly bats her eyelashes.
The need to leave assaults me. To move on. It doesn’t help my grandfather weaves through the crowded tables as Juliette dips her head and curls her lips into a seductive smile. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, holding my gaze. The men in the room erupt and throw out higher numbers due to it.
She’s equal parts sweet and dangerous—an invitation written in glances to play her game. It’s calculated each Market, her attempts to seduce me.
A masculine scream tears through the air, and both our heads snap toward it.
I whip around, finding Kenji holding a severed hand and leaning across the bar as if he has all the time in the world. One elbow rests in a puddle of spilled whiskey, the other holding the freshly severed hand by the wrist. A blade glints in his other grip, his sleek Japanese knife—a gift from his brother.
Behind the counter, the bartender wails, crumpled into the mahogany and clutching what’s left of his arm. The emcee lets out a sigh, annoyed. “This night is devolving. Let’s take a ten-minute break.”
Other EV members give Kenji a wide berth, and the guards slowly approach, all the while Kenji doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head, eyes calm and bored. As Graves bursts through the sparse crowd leaving, Kenji tucks the severed hand into a gold chalice waiting beside him.
Leave it to Kenji to make a scene when I’m trying to sneak off. Prick.
His gaze meets mine as I thread through the gathering group, trying to see what the commotion is. He lifts the cup, hand and all, and toasts my departure with a smile.
I exit the room and don’t look back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEA
He’s humming.
It’s soft and slow, from the adjacent room. A rendition of “You Are My Sunshine,” which is too sweet for what he’s about to do. The notes drift lazily through the air, bouncing off the cathedral-like walls as more a nightmare not a lullaby. He’s off-key too, and he couldn’t care less.
What’s he going to do with me? I hope Tonya’s okay.The thought slips in before I can stop it.Because I won’t be.
The room I’m in is enormous, which I’d expect from the mansion we drove up to earlier. I can’t see every corner from where I’m chained, but what I can see makes my skin prickle. Behind me, a massive fireplace looms, carved from stone with a mouth wide enough to swallow me whole. Iron chains wrap my wrists and ankles, running up to where they’re bolted into the wall above. Every small movement sends a metallic clank echoing through the room, the sound ricocheting off the vaulted ceilings.
My hands don’t reach each other, so I have to twist my wrists to itch and fight the metal’s rub on my raw skin. I’m sweating even though the air is blowing cold, and it stings where it drips down my tattered sores.
I work to inhale steady breaths to remain calm, but my heart thumps with each repetition of his hummed song. To distract from the agonizing wait, I scan the walls.
Oil paintings line them from bottom to top, their gold frames gleaming in the dim light. Stern faces and empty eyes watch me from all four walls like they’ve seen this before. I swallow.
Don’t think about it.
Block it out.
He may take from your body, but don’t let him take from your soul.
I chant in my mind as I’m sprawled out on the veined black marble floor. It’s cold, my knees are numb, and I eye the black leather sectional outlining a section of the room, wishing I were chained there instead.
This man’s living room is like some cruel ballroom. Across the room, velvet drapes hang tall and open over towering windows. I gaze out at them with a warped appreciation for the faint glimpse of streetlights and a few dots of stars.
I stare, attempting to savor being alone in the silence. Wait?—
It’s silent.
A chuckle fills the doorway, and I startle, chains smacking against the marble floor as I scurry back.
Bishop.
I only know the name because that’s how his guards referred to him. His black hair hangs down in his eyes, tamed by a wet-looking gel. Fine lines crinkle as he savors the sight of me bound. He leans in the doorframe, arms crossed over a tailored navy suit with a familiar gold tie. His cufflinks glisten, his shoes gleam, and the hungry curl of his smirk sharpens his otherwise untraditionally handsome looks. He can’t be older than forty. But the way his ravenous gaze lingers—he’s a man getting ready to play with his new toy.
