15. LYLA
Chapter fifteen
T he moment I burst through the back door of The Sacrifice, the noise swallowed me whole—bass thrumming like a pulse, distant laughter, muffled shouting from the stage.
I didn’t slow but flew down the hallway.
Carlos barely looked up from his phone as I passed. Good. I didn’t want any trouble. I was already cutting it too close.
I took the stairs two at a time and reached the dressing room in under thirty seconds, yanked open my locker, and stripped fast. I shoved my clothes and bag inside and slammed the door shut, then turned to my rack of costumes, grabbed the skimpy black silver-trimmed two-piece, and hurriedly pulled it on.
At least the club supplied the costumes.
My fingers trembled as I clipped the top. I twisted my hair into a tight knot and wrapped it in the black tie I always kept around my wrist when it wasn’t in my hair. After a quick application of stage makeup, I was ready to go on. On time, thankfully.
I padded barefoot down the hallway to stage left, where one of the crew handed me the aerial pole without a word. My muscles tensed as I gripped the smooth metal, and I took a deep breath, my mind relaxing. I could do this routine with my eyes closed.
The spotlight blinked on, and the music started to play.
I ran two steps and vaulted high.
The pole swung me in a wide arc, catching the light as I rotated into center stage. The crowd blurred beneath me—silhouettes of men with drinks in hand, their heads tilted upward in hungry fascination.
Every pose, every rotation, every slow descent was designed to make them squirm in their seats. My body knew just what to do.
So I performed. Let the music guide my movements, let the lights blur the edges of my fear. The spotlight tracked my every movement. I extended my legs, tightening my core as I hung inverted and began to spin.
Then I saw him.
Ciro Delgado—here in person!
He was seated directly in front of the stage, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Even sitting there relaxed, he loomed like a king.
The lighting accentuated the deep scar over his right brow.
His jaw was thick, his face craggy and brutal.
Not handsome. Not even close. He oozed power, wealth, and violence.
Flanked by his men, he didn’t need to say a word to make the entire room nervous.
My stomach dropped.
I missed a grip with my inner thigh and slipped—but then caught myself. Turned it into a spin. Tried to pretend it was planned.
My pulse throbbed in my neck.
Focus, Lyla.
Don’t think. Don’t panic. Just move.
I’d only seen him once before, from a distance.
But now…he was here, right in front of me.
My mouth grew dry as I wrapped my legs around the pole again and smiled. I swallowed my fear. Forced it down.
I locked eyes with Delgado.
And I performed.
Not for the room.
Only for him.
I rolled my hips with intention, arched my back in that way I knew men couldn’t get enough of. I slid down the pole slowly, letting gravity do its work. My thighs parted, and I dipped forward, rotating into a sensual pose before climbing again.
I was an actress.
And tonight’s role was that of an obedient girl willing to be kept.
My heart screamed in protest.
But I smiled and kept moving.
And when the music slowed to its final beat, I dropped to the floor, landing on my knees and spreading them wide before him. I crossed one wrist over the other directly in front of my center, just above the tiny scrap of fabric that passed for the bottom of my costume. A silent offering.
Then slowly, sensually, I lowered my imaginary cuffed hands to the floor, keeping my wrists crossed, and slid forward, ass in the air.
I let my hips roll with a deliberate rhythm—one that mimicked how a woman moved when she was on top and pleasing a man.
I leaned forward an inch, then another.
Until my forehead touched the stage.
For several heartbeats, I held the bow, breathing through the terror as I surrendered to him completely.
Then slowly…I dragged myself upright again and sat back on my heels. My arms stayed crossed low in front of me, right over my crotch. With as much sensuality as I could muster, I tilted my head and looked over at Delgado through my lashes. And smiled.
Submissively.
He smirked—just barely—then raised two fingers and tapped them twice on the table before standing.
Without a word, he turned and walked out.
He’d decided—for now—that I was useful enough to keep breathing.
I didn’t move until the spotlight cut out.
Then I quickly rose to my feet and scampered offstage. For a couple of minutes, I lingered there in the darkness to get control of my breathing and anxiety. Then I exited the backstage area and made my way down the hallway. As I walked past Carlos, he smacked my ass hard, and I let out a yelp.
“The boss told me to let you know…he was pleased.”
He walked away before I could respond.
I stood frozen in the corridor. My lungs still couldn’t catch up, and my thoughts were on fire.
I’d performed like my life depended on it.
Because it had.
I didn’t know if I had saved myself. But I’d given him my submission. I’d given him everything I had to give.
And now I knew just how closely the devil himself was watching.
Cold air slapped my cheeks, biting through the thin hoodie as I stepped into the alley to head home. I shivered, but I didn’t know if it was from the cold or from what I’d just done—offering myself up like dinner to a monster, making him want me. It was sick on so many levels.
A taxi shot past the opening of the alley, its headlights sweeping over the brick walls. Somewhere farther off, a siren wailed into the night.
When I turned onto the street, all was quiet. Even wearing sneakers, I could hear my footfalls as I walked.
A tingle went up my spine, subtle but unmistakable. I was hit once again with the sensation of being watched—not by a stranger but by someone whose attention was wrapped around me like swirling smoke. He was out there. I knew it with the same certainty I knew my own name.
It was the Russian. It could be no one else.
I wasn’t sure how I knew it was him. I just did. The air changed when he was near—became charged, oppressive, and intimate all at the same time. Delgado’s man had made my skin crawl. My Russian stalker made my skin hum with awareness.
He wasn’t going to touch me tonight.
Not unless I asked.
And I didn’t know what terrified me more—that he might put his hands on me.
Or that I might want him to.
I slowed my pace, just enough to give him the chance to approach me.
He didn’t take it.
Didn’t show himself.
Just lingered in the shadows where he always was—unseen but never absent.
I imagined his eyes following me, tracking my shape beneath this hoodie, remembering the taste of me.
Soon I reached the corner and turned toward home, still not looking back.
My apartment building came into sight ahead, the vestibule light in the entryway flickering through the glass. I keyed in my code, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
Only once did I glance over my shoulder as I ascended the first flight of stairs. There was no one there of course.
My stomach rumbled loudly in the silent hallway. God, I was starving. My thoughts turned to what I might be able to scrounge up for a late-night snack.