Chapter Twenty-Three
G reyson had warned me that leaving this room would be devastating. I wasn’t sure that was true but had no choice but to trust him.
I sat in one of the chairs, tugging the cape around me for comfort, left with nothing but my own thoughts.
Perhaps he’d gone to placate Jewel—tell her that he couldn’t present me tonight and make up some excuse.
This was a different kind of fear.
For the first time, I found myself exhilarated by it. Greyson made everything more thrilling. My heart raced, skin buzzing with anticipation, every part of me screamed I should run—but I couldn’t.
I needed to stay, to see how this unfolded. I was hoping for the chance to get what I had come here for—more answers.
This was a changing room, and soon, it might be filled with guests putting on their costumes, transforming into something provocative.
I’d ventured into Pendulum for the sake of uncovering the sordid mysteries of Hadley and her hidden world. For answers to the misjustice of the death of two men.
Was Pendulum above justice?
What I had seen already made the peril undeniable. These people weren’t just powerful, they were ruthless.
Even now, as I strayed outside my comfort zone, I was being tracked by my brother. He had probably sent Greyson in to get me. Totally embarrassing.
How could I ever craft a story worthy of Julia Sterling’s attention if I wasn’t allowed to infiltrate the very places where it began?
The door opened and I stood up, bracing myself, expecting to be able to leave now.
Greyson stormed in and right behind him walked a young brunette wearing a red bodice. She was so damn pretty and tall, and her figure was similar to mine. I felt a stab of jealousy hit me at the thought they might be lovers.
We stood looking at each other.
Another man came in and shook his head when he saw what I was wearing.
I’d seen him at my brother’s house on the same morning that Greyson had come around after his ex-girlfriend had died in his pool.
The snake tattoo on his hand was unforgettable.
“I’m Atticus,” he said, eyes full of empathy. “It will be okay.”
“What’s happening?” I asked nervously.
“We could just go,” said Greyson to him.
Atticus shook his head. “This is the only way.”
Greyson approached the brunette. “Say nothing of this.”
“Sure.” She looked at me, intrigued.
“How long have you been a member of the High Chamber?” asked Atticus.
“A year.” She looked proud of the fact.
“You know the rules. We need obedience, and your silence. Do this, and you’ll be rewarded.”
“What do I have to do?” she asked.
“Everything,” said Greyson.
I blinked, trying to decipher their conversation.
“Do I become your sub afterwards?” She looked at Greyson and then Atticus.
“We’ll discuss this later,” said Atticus.
“Obey,” snapped Greyson.
She hung her head.
And just like that she was compliant—making me feel like I’d invaded their space.
Atticus motioned. “Turn around.”
She turned her back on the men.
Greyson glared at me. “Take everything off.”
Frowning, I started to refuse, my mouth going dry.
But then, as I watched her stripping off her clothes, I realized what was happening. Greyson came over and began untying my bodice.
It was fleeting again, this rare intimacy between us, his fingers working the catches at the front of my bodice, and our eyes meeting now and again as though in silent communication.
With a tug, he had the bodice off me. I stood there with my arms crossed over my breasts to protect my dignity. Not her, though. The submissive seemed at ease with her nakedness.
Greyson gave her my corset, and I was given hers. He assisted me with my outfit, tugging the strings of the red bodice and helping to resecure the catches. Atticus helped the woman who could have been my doppelganger in a mask.
She was going to be me.
Watching her carefully, I tried to figure out if she realized what would happen. I stepped forward, ready to protect her, tell them it should be me facing the consequences.
“Listen,” I said, “you don’t have to do this.”
Atticus snapped his hand up. “Not now!”
“I’m fine,” she said to appease me.
“Thong.” Atticus gestured for her to take it off.
Was he really asking her to walk in there half-naked?
She did so without argument, tugging the strip of fine material down over her hips and her thighs, lifting her tanned legs to ease it off, revealing a fine strip of pubic hair.
Atticus took it from her and shoved it into his pocket.
“Remind me it’s in there,” he said, amused.
“You understand what is being asked of you?” said Greyson.
“Yes, sir.” She looked over at me again.
“Don’t look at her,” he snapped. “Look at me.”
His command gripped her like a flipped switch. Her eyes glazed over, and her body sparked to life, every curve taut, her jaw slack. She stood entranced, bound by some unseen force.
“I’m ready, sir.” She balled up her fists.
“What’s going on?” I mouthed to Greyson, knowing they were going to force her to take my place.
Greyson walked over and gripped my arms. “I’m locking the door. Don’t make a sound.”
The woman pointed to a portrait in a frame. “Watch through there.”
There was something unsettling and eerie about the Parisian painting of a naked woman standing in an empty room.
What’s she referring to? Is there something behind it?
“Don’t,” said Atticus, the look on his face saying, “ You won’t want that in your head.”
I was wise enough to remain silent and not disagree, unsure if I wanted to even know what they were referring to.
Greyson searched the room and then found what he was looking for, a long silver chain. He brought it over to the submissive and attached it to her collar. She let him, remaining quite still. As he stood before her, masterfully soothing her, she became lulled, sinking into subspace.
I’d heard of it but never witnessed it, until now.
This was my brother’s world.
Greyson gave a nod of thanks to Atticus and handed him the end of the chain. Atticus led the submissive across the room. She moved gracefully, as though time itself bent to her will, each step unfolding in slow-motion, like a supermodel seduced by a god.
That’s what these men were here for, to be gods of erotism, making their own rules and living out their fantasies.
Atticus led the submissive out of the room.
Suddenly, we were very much alone again.
“Are you staying?” I asked Greyson, not wanting to be left behind.
“I’ll come back for you.”
“What are they going to do to her?”
“Willa.” Greyson narrowed his gaze on me. “You craved admission. Well, consider yourself irrevocably accepted.”
We shared a look, and I realized he didn’t want me to know what went on in that other room.
Were they heading into the High Chamber?
I glanced toward the painting, the one she’d hinted would reveal all that was about to happen.
“Don’t,” said Greyson. “Just don’t.”
He glanced back at me briefly before leaving the room.