“One of the performances is starting,” Maisy said suddenly, clutching my arm. “I’m so excited for you to get your first taste.”
Hector and Jeffrey’s eyes flashed in unison, lips curving as they watched me.
Three nuns filed into the dining area, following their priest. Or rather, their God—Kingston.
Something pulled my attention to the right, where I caught Wes staring at me as if I’d angered him. His eyes were cold, his body rigid. I swallowed, and my heart sank on pure instinct, a reaction to his intense displeasure. It took me two long seconds to snap out of it and remember I’d done absolutely nothing wrong.
What the hell was his problem?
I returned my attention to the show.
“Kneel,” Kingston said, so authoritative, my own knees twitched.
The three women knelt in a semi-circle at his feet, heads bowed.
Kingston reached into his black robes and pulled out a knife.
7
NOVA
Light reflected off the sharp blade, held inches from three kneeling women. I gasped, unable to stop myself. Hector chuckled softly and took a step closer, his arm brushing mine.
My heart hammered. I glanced around, but no one else was alarmed, their eyes locked on Kingston. The scent of melting wax and smoke grew stronger, my vision hyper-focused on Kingston’s knife cutting through the center nun’s clothing, right down the front.
The girl didn’t flinch. She didn’t make a sound. Her eyes were locked on his, full of pure bliss.
Her breasts bounced free, large and perky, nipples erect. My breath caught at the sight, and I fought the urge to look scandalized with multiple pairs of eyes on me. It was like they were trying to shock me, expose me as being a dreaded vanilla prude.
I didn’t want to prove them right.
Kingston teased his sub’s nipple before violently pinching until she let out a pained moan. “Who is your God?”
My body was doing that horrible thing again.Betraying me. I became hyperaware of the space between my thighs.
“You, my Lord,” she said, eyes brimming with tears as he continued his torture.
Is this what we’re calling PG-13 these days?I wondered.
“Confess, whore,” he spat, letting go of her nipple to fist her hair and jerk her head back.
She stared up at him and winced as she spoke, barely above a whisper. “I’ve had impure thoughts of another, my Lord.”
He grinned, but it didn’t match the ice of his light blue eyes. His Scandinavian features were lethal and ruthless.“Who?”He dragged her away from the others and forced her to look out at all of us.
This was a performance, I reminded myself. It wasn’t real.
My mind rebelled against the reminder, remembering the men of my past who were controlling and possessive in a way that wasn’t negotiated.
Yet, my body rebelled in a different way, a familiar ache returning, demons demanding to be satiated by everything I ran from and denied.
I fought the urge to shift or move. The muscles in my lower stomach tightened. My accursed writer’s brain began to drift—casting myself in the role of a brutalized devotee.
“Who,”the man snarled again, gripping her hair tighter. Her breasts heaved, and I tried not to lower my gaze to her exposed core.
To my horror, when the girl rose a shaking finger, it was pointed directly at a man in the back of the room.
Wes.
