Page 48

Had I just gone through with my stupid baptism, none of this would be happening right now. The need to cover myself, to skitter underneath the nearest table like a mouse, is overpowering. But Daemon’s grip on the leash is firm. “Stay still,” he commands. To me. To the room.

When he snaps his fingers, a rolling table appears. It almost looks like a cabinet, except there are no drawers, and on the surface are four metal loops sticking out near each corner. I barely have time to take it in before Daemon’s unhooking my leash. Black claws extended, he traces a sharp line from my navel to the center of my breasts, before hooking one underneath my bra. The sound of ripping fabric fills the room and my breasts slip free of their cups, exposing me to everyone.

Instantly, the cool air has my nipples tightening into hard points. Daemon grazes his long claw over one of them, and my breathing hitches. “So sensitive,” he purrs before moving on to the next. “Does that feel good?”

No.

Yes.

Not with all these people watching me.

Biting my bottom lip, I stare down at my bare feet while answering him. “Yes, Sir.” I can’t see his smug smirk, but I can imagine it as he unlaces the side of my pants and they drop shamefully to the floor.

I’m not wearing panties, and already my thighs are slick with need, glistening underneath the spotlight. I clench my legs together so the crowd won’t see, but Daemon cups me anyway before showing off his wet fingertips to the audience. My cheeks heat, and just when I feel I can’t take the scrutiny anymore, his body forms a barrier between me and everyone else.

He doesn’t ask if I’m alright; he can’t. But I can see the question in his glowing, pupilless eyes. I swallow and nod, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Get on the table,” he instructs. “On all fours.”

I scramble onto it, banging my knees against the sides with bruising pain. It’s awkward and clumsy, and I hear the crowd snicker as I struggle to get into position. But Daemon doesn’t help me—not even when the wheels roll, and I collapse stomach-first onto the hard surface.

Fuck.

I shriek in pain. Before I have the chance to recover, Daemon’s fisting my hair and pulling me up onto my hands and knees. Panting, I barely hear the first lock click into place, but I feel it in the way my arm can no longer move. Daemon has taken the loop on my wrist cuff and bound it to a loop at the corner of the table. A little golden lock spears through them, glinting burgundy under the heavy spotlight.

Click.

Click.

Click.

He snaps his fingers, and three more locks fall into place, pinning my other wrist and both ankles. Metal rattles as I struggle against the bindings, pulling over and over again. They don’t budge. Panic rises in my chest, tears burning the edges of my eyes as I yank as hard as I physically can.

The supple leather cuffs don’t chafe, but they don’t give either. I’m stuck, knelt before him in supplication like he’s a god. I peer up at him through blurry eyes, my ratty hair shielding me—albeit only slightly—from the rest of the room. There’s a pause, and I know he’s giving me the opportunity to bail out and go home.

Again, I don’t take it. Because not only do we need to complete this mission, but some fucked up part of me is enjoying this. The humiliation shouldn’t turn me on. The exposure shouldn’t turn me on, and yet all I can think about is that ache between my thighs, and how much I want him to ease it.

Daemon paces around me, his dress shoes clicking across the tiles. My legs are spread for easy access, my sore knees throbbing against the table’s hard surface. I crane my neck to look at him, but still can’t, not really. Just his profile.

“You’re so pink and wet,” Daemon says. To demonstrate, he slides a claw up my middle, and I jolt at the sensation, the cuffs rattling beneath me when he reaches my clit. At first, he rubs me in a slow, teasing circle, and I arch my back, wriggling to get closer. Unable to stop myself, I moan at how good it feels. But then he grabs my clit and pinches—hard.

I jump, and the cart lurches forward, rolling me toward the crowd. An incubus with spikes poking through his red face stares straight at me, his flaming eyes predatory, but before I can crash into him, Daemon grabs the cart and pulls, sending me careening to an abrupt halt.

The incubus doesn’t take his eyes off me, and he’s close enough now that I can smell the alcohol on his breath. At least a dozen incubi surround him, some with humans, some without. Their eyes glow in the near darkness, but my grounding stone doesn’t buzz.

“I’m sorry,” Daemon says loudly, without a trace of remorse, as he strokes my sore clit. “Was that tender?”

Sniffling, I nod.

When he squeezes it a second time, I yelp in pain, and the spike-faced incubus sneers at me.

“I couldn’t hear you,” Daemon says, making no effort to pull me away from the audience—then again, that’s kind of the point. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up.”

I cough to clear my throat. My voice still comes out a low squeak. “Yes, Sir. It’s tender.”

“Hmmm… Then I probably shouldn’t do it again, huh?”

I shake my head furiously, but Daemon doesn’t like that. He pinches me so hard I see metaphorical stars. Again, the cart rolls, but he catches it just before I can collide with Mr. Spike-Face.