Chapter 60
The silk is cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my own dread.
It’s a deep, blood-red dress. A garment designed not for warmth or modesty, but as a display case. The neckline plunges past the swell of my breasts, and the fabric clings to every curve before whispering away just above my ankles with a long revealing slit.
I feel more naked than if I was wearing nothing at all.
Every inch of exposed skin prickles with a sickening vulnerability.
Antonio had the maids ‘prepare’ me. I’ve spent almost the entire day being washed, preened, shaved and prepped in ways I don’t even want to contemplate.
As I stand before the full-length mirror in his dressing room, I don’t see myself.
I see a doll, a mannequin arranged for a private viewing.
My makeup is perfect; my hair is styled beautifully, but I know in a few hours I will be a complete mess.
My hands are trembling so I clench them into fists at my sides, the bite of my nails into my palms a tiny, sharp anchor in the swirling sea of my panic.
The door opens without a sound. Antonio steps in, already immaculate in a tailored dark suit that costs more than most people’s houses are worth. His eyes sweep over me with a cold, appraising glance that misses nothing.
There is no approval in his gaze today, only assessment as I quickly sink to my knees and drop my head forward.
He walks toward me, a predator in a civilized skin and stops close enough that I can smell his cologne; a mix of sandalwood and something darker, far more complex.
His fingers, cool and dry, turn me around before lifting my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his in the mirror. Our reflections are a study in contrast: his power, my powerlessness.
“They will be here soon, Pup,” he says, his voice a low, smooth murmur that slithers over my skin. “Our Grand Master, the U.S. Chapter Lord and two men from the Senate. All men of consequence.”
I try to swallow, but my throat is a desert. I can only nod, a tiny, brittle movement. All I can think of is Magnus Blake; how utterly terrifying that man is, and these men are just as powerful. Just as dangerous.
My father was meant to be one of them.
The thought is fleeting, like a flash of grief for a life, a piece of happiness I couldn’t cling onto.
His grip on my chin tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Tonight, you will need to be perfect. You are a reflection of my taste, of my control. You will speak only if spoken to, and your answers will be minimal. You will keep your eyes down. You will kneel where I indicate, and you will not move unless I command it. Do you understand the absolute perfection I require from you tonight?”
I find my voice, a thin, reedy thing. “Yes, Master.”
“And you understand,” he continues, his eyes hardening into chips of obsidian, “that if you disobey, if you embarrass me in any way, the punishment will not be a mere correction? It will be severe. It will be something you remember every time you think of stepping out of line. Do you understand that, Pup?”
The threat is not veiled, it is a blade held to my throat. Images flash in my mind; the cold basement room, the sting of the crop, the terrifying, unknown depths of his cruelty.
A full-body tremor wracks me, and I know he feels it.
I nod again, my vision blurring. “I-I understand. I’ll be perfect.”
He releases my chin, smoothing a hand over my hair as if calming a skittish animal. “Good. Now, compose yourself. They are arriving.”
He leaves me there, staring at the terrified woman in the mirror.
No, not a woman. A dog.
That is what I am. A mindless whore of a dog.
I take several gulping breaths, trying to force the air into my frozen lungs.
The low hum of masculine voices drifts from the grand foyer.
I recognize the sonorous, accented baritone of the Grand Master for all the times he has spoken with Antonio.
Another voice, sharper, more nasal must belong to Charles, the Chapter Lord.
The other two are unfamiliar, but their tones are just as assured, just as laden with unspoken authority.
My heart thumps louder and louder as I realise, it’s time.
I walk on unsteady legs to the top of the curved staircase, my hand slick on the banister. Below, in the cavernous reception hall, the men stand like a council of Kings. Antonio is at the centre, the gracious host. He glances up, and his eyes command me down.
Every step is an agony of self-consciousness.
The dress feels thinner with every descending stair.
I can feel their collective gaze lift to me, a palpable pressure.
I keep my eyes fixed on the polished marble floor, on the intricate patterns that seem to swim beneath my feet and threaten to make me topple over.
I am a spectacle, a whimsical toy for them all to amuse themselves with, and I hate it.
Antonio doesn’t introduce me, he simply gestures to a spot on the Persian rug beside his chair at the head of the table. My place.
I sink to my knees, the movement practiced from countless dinners like this, though never with an audience of this magnitude.
The silk shifts across my thighs and I desperately want to grab hold of the hem, to wrench it across and cover myself but I can’t.
Instead I fold my hands in my lap, keeping back straight, head bowed, making myself as small as possible.
“This is Titus’s daughter, is it not?” One of the men asks.
Antonio murmurs a reply.
The man tilts his head, making a point of examining me. “And the mother is in Oblivion?”
“She is.” Antonio says.
“Stupid bitch is getting her karma for disobeying my orders.” The man I know to be Konstantine comments. “Titus of course paid for his arrogance in a far quicker manner.”
“And the daughter is now your whore?” A different man says, amused.
“My Pet.” Antonio corrects, dropping his hand to settle on my head. “She has spent many months learning her place.”
I shut my eyes, I can’t help it as the sound of their triumphant laughter echoes around me.
Antonio takes my arm, pulls me up, and we walk through to where the grand dining room is. The men all take their seats and I take my place once more, kneeling on the floor.
A fragrant smell fills the room as servants start bringing out the first course, and the conversation changes as if I no longer exist.
“The situation in Kavaria is concluding more swiftly than anticipated,” Konstantine says, his voice filling the room as soon as the servants are gone. “The President has a flight scheduled this evening, and the news will announce his death before sunrise. A tragedy for the nation.”
The other men laugh, though I note Antonio does not. I’m certain he has played a part in that. My father told me often about how many pies Antonio has his fingers in, that he can point to any place on the map and list off all the ways Antonio Macrae has either helped or hindered it.
I focus on the pattern of the rug, tracing the intricate vines and flowers with my eyes, trying to disappear into them.
Antonio picks up his spoon. Between sips, he dips it back into his bowl and then holds it out to me, not even looking down. “Here, Pup.”
I lean forward, opening my mouth quickly, anxious not to spill any of the content down my dress. The soup should be delicious, a delicate lobster bisque, but it tastes like ash.
I take the morsel and retreat back to my position as I struggle to swallow it.
He does it again and again, feeding me bits of seared scallop, tender filet mignon, roasted asparagus.
Each time I am hyper-aware of the other men, of their occasional, fleeting glances in my direction. Their eyes are not lecherous; they are observational. As if noting the training of a fine hound or the obedience of a prized falcon.
I am a testament to Antonio’s dominion.
The talk above me shifts from assassination to assets.
“The mineral rights are the true prize,” one of the men I don’t know says.
His voice is crisp, educated. “The lithium deposits there are the largest untapped reserves in the world. With the government in chaos, our subsidiaries can move in and secure the contracts before any real opposition can form.”
“Precisely,” Konstantine murmurs before he takes a sip of the vintage Bordeaux that Antonio has poured for him.
“But we must not appear overeager. Let the dust settle, let the world mourn their lost leader for a few months. Let the aid agencies and news vultures pick the carcass clean. Then, our attention should turn north and east. Their neighbours are weak, their governments corruptible. This instability is a door, and we have the key.”
Antonio murmurs his agreement. “A measured approach is wise. We plant the seed now, but we harvest the entire region later.”
I stay a silent, trembling statue as they dissect countries and economies with the detached precision of surgeons. They speak of millions of people as pawns, of nations as game boards. The sheer scale of their casual power is utterly terrifying.
And all while I am here, sat at their feet, being fed scraps from my Master’s plate.
Would my father have done this, would he have sat at this polished table and spoken in such a detached way about millions of people’s lives? In my heart I know the answer to that, and I know my mother would have sat beside him, silent and dutiful.
The dinner plates are cleared. A port is poured, the deep ruby liquid catching the light from the crystal decanter and looking closer to blood in this moment.
The conversation becomes lower, more relaxed, but no less heavy with import.
I feel a tiny, foolish flicker of hope. Perhaps it is almost over. Perhaps they will leave and I will have survived by being invisible, by being perfect.
Then Konstantine sets his glass down with a soft, definitive click. “Shall we retire to the smoking room for cigars? The business of the evening is concluded, so now just a little pleasure remains.”