Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Put this on and go back to your painting,” Tristan demanded.
Ophelia had no chance to reach for her mask.
Tristan had grabbed it the moment he heard the knocking and was placing it back on her face as he gave the demand.
This time she did not argue with his demanding overbearing nature, and turned right back to her painting.
Now that she was going to be looking for a husband, she had to protect her identity now more than ever.
“What is it?” She heard Tristan demand through his own mask when he opened the door.
“There is a problem, my lord,” Ophelia heard the guard answer, “One of the angels was assaulted, and the man responsible is causing a scene. We cannot get him to calm down and he refuses to leave.”
A feral growl erupted from Tristan’s chest; the sound sending another shot of that strange excitement through Ophelia’s veins.
“I’ll be right there,” Tristan stated, then shut the door.
Ophelia pretended to keep painting as Tristan came around his desk and forced open a drawer, but she couldn’t hold back her shock as she saw him draw out a black leather whip.
“What is that for?” She asked.
“Stay here,” he commanded, ignoring her question as he walked back around her and toward the door.
“Oh, that is certainly not happening,” she murmured to herself as she put her paint brush back down. She waited a few seconds after Tristan slammed the door shut, then made her way down hall, and peeked through the mirrored door.
The usual clusters of people gathered together throughout the room were now standing far off to either sides, watching the struggle in the center of the room with rapt attention.
The music had paused, as had the erotic aura that usually filled the club, and tension seemed to ebb from everyone as three three guards struggled to take down a masked man.
On the left of the struggle, two masked men and a woman were coddling another masked woman that was crying.
Tristan strode toward the man fighting his guards and without even slowing down, lifted his leg and delivered a powerful kick to the man’s chest. Ophelia’s mouth dropped open as she watched the man stop fighting and drop to his knees like a heavy sack of flour.
Tristan didn’t give the man time to catch his breath or recover before he unfurled his whip and lashed it out, the thing snaking tightly around the man’s neck.
A strange tingling formed in Ophelia’s lower belly as Tristan gave the whip a sharp tug that brought the man went down to all fours, and a wet warmth splashed over her inner thighs.
She’d always pictured Lord Perfect as a bit of a dandy.
A man so polite that he would never truly deign to dirty his hands- but in that moment Ophelia realized she had been very wrong.
She watched, her curiosity growing, as Tristan moved down to one knee, grabbed the man by the back of his hair, and whispered something into his ear. She moved a little out of the doorway, straining to hear what he might have said to the man that caused the disruption, but it was in vain.
Then suddenly Tristan shouted, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” So loudly that everyone, including his guards, jumped, and the man on his hands and knees quivered as he nodded his head.
“I understand,” The man gasped loudly. “I understand.”
Ophelia watched as Tristan then shot up to his feet.
He flicked the wrist of the hand that held the whip, and the tight leather rope unraveled itself from the man’s neck.
Tristan coiled it back up as two guards forced the masked man to stand.
He sagged between their hold, and walked with dragging steps as they began to lead him away.
Tristan then went to the sobbing woman and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. The moment he touched her, the woman threw her arms around his neck as if they were lovers, and Tristan held her tightly.
The sight sent a surprising shock of possessiveness through Ophelia, and she frowned at the feelings was suddenly tormented with.
It was Tristan! What did it matter that he had a lover? Why should she care?
Her mood fouled by the unfamiliar feeling, Ophelia almost missed the sound of the music starting again, the convergence of people going back to their fun- and Tristan leading the assaulted toward the mirrored door.
She jolted out of her unease when Tristan was only a few steps away, and hurried back to his office, shut the door, and picked up her paint brush.
She had barely gotten her breath under control when the door opened once more, and Tristan led the woman inside. Ophelia swallowed hard as she kept her eyes on the painting and resumed her work.
“You hired a different painter,” the woman said through her sniffling.
Without thinking Ophelia turned her head slightly, and was surprised to find that it was raven-haired woman from her first portrait.
“That is a shame,” she sniffled, “I liked the first one. The little nervous fellow.”
Ophelia smirked under her mask but said nothing. How would she explain that she and the ‘little nervous fellow’ were one and the same?
“Yes, well, it turned out the little fellow was a little too nervous to work with us,” Tristan replied, and Ophelia swore she caught a hint of amusement in his voice.
Tristan led the raven-haired to the chair in front of his desk, putting her in Ophelia’s plain view.
“Should I…?” She asked, motioning over her shoulder with a pointed finger.
“You stay right where you are,” Tristan commanded, “You have work to do.”
She glared at him, but obeyed. She had agreed to his rules after all, and that meant no arguing in front of his members.
“Angel, tell me what happened?” Tristan asked, his tone shifting to utter gentleness as he spoke to the raven-haired woman. Ophelia once more felt that strange sense of annoyance, but she pushed it back down and did her best to get back to the painting.
“He knew somehow,” the woman sniffled, “That you had hired me. I suppose he thought that meant I could not say no to him. However, I did not even tell him no! I simply told him that he had to wait. I was about to be engaged in another activity with someone else, but I would have taken him on after. He was just too impatient!”
The woman’s voice drew from sniffling to urgent, as if she was begging Tristan to believe her. Her tone cut through Ophelia’s possessiveness, and she felt the sudden urge to walk over and hug her. She seemed genuinely frightened.
“Calm yourself,” Tristan gently urged, “This is no trial, angel. I believe you. He had no right to attack you like that and he will be dealt with.”
“I was going to get to him, my lord, I swear it,” the raven-haired woman insisted.
“Hush now,” Tristan soothed, pulling her back into his embrace, “You do not need to defend yourself to me. Why do you not go home? Take the rest of the night off. Relax yourself.”
Questions started to form in Ophelia’s mind as she listened to the two of them talk, her curiosity for the club growing.
A knock at the door stirred them all, and Tristan called entry.
A muscular, shirtless man with, thick, long black hair just passed his shoulders, black trousers, and a black masked carved into a skull entered, and from behind her she heard the raven-haired woman giggle.
Ophelia’s eyes widened at the sight of him and recognized him as one of the guards that held the man that had been a victim of Tristan’s wrath.
She didn’t need to see his face to know that he was devilishly handsome.
“Pardon the interruption, my lord, Angel. I just wanted to see how you were faring,” the man said, closing the door behind him.
Ophelia turned to the woman and saw she was no longer crying. In fact she was looking much better now as her eyes hungrily ate up the sight of the new person.
“You know me, Ajax,” she replied, “I was just startled is all. I am fine. Truly.”
The man smiled, the points of his white canines flashing in the fire light.
“I knew you would be,” he replied. “What shall about it be then? Can I escort you home or would you fancy a tonguing from a hungry man?”
Ophelia’s mouth gaped at the blatant question, but from the laughs that came from Tristan and the raven-haired woman, she gathered that she was the only one surprised.
“Rattle me, darling,” the raven-haired woman all but purred as she walked to him, “Put me back in the proper headspace so I can go back to enjoying my work.”
“With pleasure, my beauty,” Ajax answered, taking her hand with a seductive grin.
They kissed with an intensity that made Ophelia blush and look away, and in doing so she caught Tristan’s gaze. It made her blush hotter.
“Take care of her, Ajax,” Tristan commanded.
“I will, my lord,” he replied.
Angel turned in Ajax’s arms and looked at Tristan.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue, my lord.”
“Always,” Tristan answered with a stiff nod.
The door closed, leaving Ophelia and Tristan alone again.
“You disobeyed me,” Tristan stated, breaking the silence.
Ophelia turned away from the door to look at him. How did he know?
He walked around her to the door and locked it once again, then took off his mask, revealing a look of annoyance.
“I told you to stay here, Ophelia.”
“I thought you wanted me to observe the club?” She asked.
“Not without my guardianship,” he bit back. “That was not something I wanted you to see.”
“Why not?” She asked.
Tristan looked down, pressed his lips together. Shook his head.
“That is not what I created the club for. I do not want you to think that such a thing happens often or that we condone such behavior from our guests,” he answered.
“I think you found out a man was hurting a woman and you punished him for it,” Ophelia stated, crossing her arms.
Tristan looked up at her, surprised.
“I am not a dolt,” she went on, “It is obvious that you do not condone such violence.
As if was not sure how to reply, Tristan just nodded.
“I am curious though,” she went on, “How many of these women are paid by you to be here? I thought this was a private club, not a brothel.”
Tristan looked unfazed by her question as he strolled back to his desk and took a seat.
“Not every member here is at the same skill level,” he explained.
“Some are natural or skilled in seduction, yes, that there are others that seek lessons in the art form. Many of the female members here are not eager to be teachers to the young men seeking to be lotharios so I hire my angels to take to the task. That is not all they do. Many of them enjoy an experienced dallying and they have to right to choose their partners. I pay them more than what they would ever earn on the streets and in my club they have more protections as well. As you witnessed earlier.”
Ophelia’s mind churned as she took in the new information.
“The women you had me paint that first night,” she finally went on, “They were hired, correct? That is why I was allowed to paint them as is?”
Tristan nodded.
“They are not as fearful of their identity being found out as our more noble members,” he answered.
“And they are paramours?” Ophelia asked.
Tristan nodded again.
“And you have bedded them?”
Tristan got through half of a nod before he stilled and his eyes narrowed.
“That is relevant how?” He asked.
“I am just curious,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Well, while I appreciate your curiosity for my work, I believe it is time for you to get back to yours. We only have a few hours of night left and that painting is to be finished before you leave.”
Ophelia rolled her eyes as Tristan made his way back to the no-nonsense, practical version of himself. Still, she knew he was right. He’d paid her in advance, and she owed him a finish painting.
Tristan stayed behind his desk, watching her from his chair for the rest of the evening. There were no more interruptions from other but there was no more conversation between the two of them either. A tension of sorts had filled the room and Ophelia could not find a way around it.
It wasn’t until she finished with her painting that she spoke, and even then, Tristan came toward her without a word and stood a respectful distance from her as he took the painting in.
“It is perfect,” he said at last.
Ophelia sighed inwardly. Not long ago she did not give a single care if Tristan approved of her painting or not. Now, she was starting like his praise.
“Stay here,” he commanded before she could answer him. “I will go get your escorts.”
“You wish me to leave already?” She asked, surprised at the twinge of disappointment she felt. “I could at least sketch out the third painting.”
“No, you have been here long enough,” Tristan stated. Though she knew he meant no offense, Ophelia felt another twinge of disappointment as he said so. She was not ready to return to her new reality.
When he returned with two guards he only waved a hand toward her in farewell, and she in return simply curtseyed.
As she was taken through the main room, she looked around, and it was as if the earlier disturbance had never happened.
Men and women were entwined together on lounges once more.
Some were moving provocatively on the dance floor to some exotic and slow rhythm.
Soft sighs and moans of pleasure echoed around her.
All was back to normal- or, as normal as an erotic club could be, she supposed.
In the cool night air of the quiet street, Ophelia drew in a deep breath and stopped.
The guards immediately stopped with her, and waited.
It annoyed her right away. Her mind had been a flurry of thoughts all night, and she just needed a moment to herself in the cool air before she went any further.
“The carriage is right there,” she said, pointing to it just a few steps away. “You do not have to wait for me.”
“Our orders are to escort you directly into the carriage, my lady,” one of the guards replied.
She tsked her tongue in annoyance, her head beginning to throb.
She let them lead her the rest of the way and as soon as the door was shut, they turned and left her.
With their backs to her and the street empty, Ophelia pulled off her mask, pressed her hot forehead to the cool pane of the window, and looked back at the perfectly normal where Tristan’s den of debauchery was nestled.
Some things, she realized, were not at all as they seemed. The same, she supposed, went for people too.