Chapter 19
They dressed for dinner in silence. Not strained this time, introspective.
Rhys stood at the mirror fastening his cuff links, impossibly elegant in a tailored tux—black jacket, white shirt, a hint of silver at his throat. It made him look less like a man on an undercover mission and more like someone born into privilege.
Her midnight silk gown clung to her hips, dipped low in the back, and slit high at one thigh. Not overly revealing or vulgar but calculated. A costume meant to flatter and impress, to reflect well on Blackwood, and to remind her of the role she played.
When they left the suite, she fell into position without thinking, a step behind him, eyes lowered.
She focused on his shoes as they walked. Black leather, impossibly polished, moving with unhurried confidence across the marble floors. A ridiculous detail to cling to, but it felt normal. And safer than looking up. Safer than letting the reality of where they were crash into her too soon.
And then he stopped so abruptly, she nearly collided with his back before catching herself. Gaby raised her head, looking up to see why.
The dining room opened before them into a vast soaring space of stone and gold.
Lots of gold. Vaulted ceilings caught the light from crystal chandeliers, scattering it like falling stars.
A table long enough for royalty stretched down the center, dressed in linen so fine it shimmered, and gleaming silver set in precise symmetry.
Everything radiated a kind of weaponized opulence. But it was the rest of the decor that made her stomach drop.
Arranged along the perimeter were álvarez’s muses.
Some were painted and oiled, others draped in sheer fabric that caught the light, and most were naked save for glittering body jewelry and, oddly, shoes.
A few stood on pedestals, others leaned against columns, all posed with arms lifted, backs arched, chins tilted just so, into sculpted exactness.
This wasn’t a performance they’d walked in on. They were displayed.
Reactions rippled through the guests like a tide. Some stared openly, mouths slack. Others smiled with appreciation. A few showed no reaction at all, as though this were merely another indulgence, like rare wine or imported silk.
A man in a dark velvet jacket said to his companion, his voice low and amused, “They’re like living statuary. It’s extraordinary.”
A guest already seated shifted in his chair, eyes fixed on the nearest pedestal. “They’re so still. How does he do it?”
The question lingered unanswered. The servant nearby remained impassive. He knew better.
álvarez chose that moment to make his entrance.
“Beauty preserved,” he said as he swept into the room. “Silent, disciplined, and elevated.” He spread his hands, encompassing the young women, at least fifteen by Gaby’s count. “Allow me to present my muses.”
His voice was smooth, the pride in it cold and proprietary.
Gaby’s chest tightened as understanding set in. These women weren’t merely adornments. They were coveted collector’s items, unboxed and arranged for admiration. He valued them because they were his.
In that moment, surrounded by candlelight, crystal, and soft music, the truth settled into her bones with harsh clarity. Natalie was somewhere inside this palace of horrors. She wanted to rip the place apart, find her, and get her the hell out.
The bite of her nails broke through. She forced her fingers to loosen, feeling the half-moons left in her palms. The reflex was becoming second nature around álvarez. Like before, Rhys’s hand brushed hers—a deliberate reminder. They had a plan.
álvarez moved slowly among them, expression smug, clearly enjoying their surprise, awe, and, for the few who still possessed a thin thread of compassion, their discomfort.
“Control is not the absence of freedom,” he said lightly, matter-of-factly, as though a tour guide in an art museum rather than the deviant host in a dining room filled with his captives. “It is the refinement of it.”
He paused before a brunette with gold paint traced across her delicate cheekbones and shoulders.
“She once believed restraint was oppression,” álvarez continued. “Now she understands it has purpose. Beauty, yes, but also belonging to a one-of-a-kind collection. And pleasing me.” He chuckled softly. “But that goes without saying.”
The muse didn’t blink. She stood perfectly still, posture exact, expression vacant.
Then her eyes met Gaby’s. For the briefest instant, a current passed between them. Not fear or even appeal. Just a muted glimmer of recognition. The acknowledgment of another captive at a powerful man’s side.
A heavier emotion followed. Sadness.
The next instant, the stillness returned—complete, detached, stone-like.
Gaby lowered her gaze, shaken by the exchange and by the dread that when she finally found her sister, she’d find not flesh, blood, and warmth, but cold, breathing marble.
álvarez’s voice amplified her fears, and she forced down a shudder.
“You may admire my muses at your leisure all weekend. For now, we’ll enjoy dinner. Please, be seated.”
She followed Rhys as he located a seat. Of course, there wasn’t one for her. So she stood at his shoulder, hands clasped, head bowed, as invisible as she could be.
Dinner was served, again, only to the owners. Toasts followed. Courses arrived and disappeared all while Gaby stood silently by, enduring. She also observed, furtively noting each guest and memorizing every face.
As dessert was presented, álvarez turned his attention to Rhys. He studied him at length then looked past his shoulder to her.
“It’s Camille, I believe, isn’t it, Mr. Blackwood? The same companion you brought with you last month. Do you just have the one?” His tone was pleasant enough but held a hint of condescension. Merely one muse, when he had a host of them.
“I travel often. She meets my needs,” Rhys replied. “For now, at least.”
She was prepared to be talked about rather than talked to, just like at the party, but it was off-putting. Almost reflexively, her gaze lifted. For a split second, her eyes collided with álvarez’s.
Just as quickly, she lowered them again, slipping back into her role even as her skin crawled. But she had dared to be human too long.
álvarez said more sharply, “Perhaps your muse would join mine. She is quite lovely. I’m sure my other guests would appreciate a demonstration of her deference and the training you laud.”
The room hushed. Everyone present knew what this challenge was about. Not friendly competition. This was a pissing contest between the two most powerful men in the room, and they were using her to crown the winner.
Coming here, she knew she’d have to wear the mask of subservience, to perform in her role with Rhys, but she hadn’t expected to become part of the dinner show. She’d been on display at the club, voyeurs watching as her submission was tested. She could do it again, and would, for Natalie.
But thank God it was Rhys, and thank God for all that practice. She had an ally in him, at least, a safety net the other women were never afforded. Because of that, she couldn’t fully understand what the muses felt, but she would never forget the eyes that had found hers in the crowd.
Rhys didn’t rebuff the challenge. He leaned into it. “If she must join the display,” he said, as smoothly as his host, “let her be paired.”
álvarez tilted his head. “Paired how?”
Rhys gestured toward the terrace where a muse posed on one of two pedestals beside the doors. Her arms were raised, in one hand a golden sphere, in the other a gold candelabrum.
“As part of a matched set,” Rhys explained. “It will suit her, don’t you think?”
For a heartbeat, álvarez simply regarded him.
Then his mouth curved with unmistakable delight.
“An excellent idea.” He actually applauded.
“Symmetry is always pleasing. Competition, even more so.” His eyes gleamed with malevolent delight when he asked Rhys, “Shall we have a little contest? My muse versus yours?”
The guests leaned forward, their interest instantly piqued.
“What are the rules and the stakes?” Rhys asked.
“We shall see who can hold the longest without faltering,” he continued lightly. “You have the advantage of a later start, but I have Seven, who has done this before.”
It took a moment for Gaby to understand, then she bit the inside of her cheek to contain her gasp of horror. álvarez took their freedom, their humanity, and, in the final humiliation, stripped even their identity by assigning them a number.
“The winner earns a reward. And the loser…” He paused for effect. “Faces consequences.”
“Something entertaining and unpleasant, I’m sure,” someone called.
Gaby felt the blood drain from her face as laughter rippled through the room.
These people were sadists, but not the kind she knew from Devil’s Pointe, who respected consent and limits and safewords.
For this crowd, cruelty was the point, along with the power to inflict it.
And she was about to enter their twisted game.
Rhys’s fingers wrapped around her upper arm as he led her forward.
Before placing her on the empty pedestal, he ordered, “Arms up,” and whisked off her dress.
When her head cleared, she glanced at the woman on the other pedestal.
She didn’t have a stitch on. Gaby didn’t protest, though she really wanted to, when he pulled her panties down to her ankles and lifted her out of them.
He set her on the two-foot-high base, and their eyes met. Concern and frustration in his. All Rhys, not a shred of Blackwood. She decided to put her faith in him. What else could she do except play the game to win?
Someone handed him a matching candelabrum. When he wrapped her fingers around the cool metal and positioned her arm just so, it felt heavy in her hand. More so, when he lit the candles. The flames flickered, partly from the ocean breeze drifting in through the open doors, and partly from nerves.
“Breathe,” he urged softly, dipping his head toward the last taper as though struggling to coax the wick to light. “This is as far as it goes. I'll dismantle every man in this room before I let them have you.”
She believed him. God help her, she believed him. And that belief allowed her to narrow her focus. Not to weight or wax or flame, but to a single point: her breath.
The guests drank, laughed, and argued about art, politics, and acquisitions over their crème br?lée. All while she stood motionless like a fixture.
Some excused themselves from the table and went outside to smoke. Others approached. Not to speak to her—a candle holder, that would be insane, if not beneath them. Instead, they inspected her from all angles, as though appraising her value.
One man tilted his head and stroked his beard as he looked her over. “This one has toned arms and remarkable posture,” he murmured to the man beside him. “I’ll bet twenty she’s the winner.”
“I’ll take that bet, but why don’t we make it fifty thousand to keep it interesting?”
Gaby almost dropped the brace of candles. She thought they were talking two digits, not five. More wagers followed in amounts that showed these people had money to burn.
Another guest leaned close to light his cigar without even looking at her face. She didn’t flinch, although, inside, every nerve screamed.
Her shoulders burned, and her arms trembled. It wasn’t the strain or the nudity that shamed her, but the way they so easily dismissed her. She was utility. Decoration. A novelty for a bet. Nothing more.
Her arms were about to give out when a man stepped close, his hand brushing her belly—deliberately. Her muscles recoiled, but she held on, somehow. If he touched her there again, or more intimately, brushing a nipple or much lower, all bets were off.
Rhys’s voice cut cleanly through the air. “Don’t touch what isn’t yours.”
The man laughed softly, hands lifting in surrender. “Of course, Blackwood. You’re right. My mistake.”
Gaby didn’t move. Didn’t look. Rhys’s presence, as much as his vow to dismantle, held her together where her strength was fraying.
Across from her, álvarez’s muse stood just as rigid, her expression carved into stillness. Until the guest who’d harassed Gaby drifted toward her—casual, entitled, and much too close.
There was no Rhys to intervene for her, however. With his advance unchecked, he went back for seconds, cupping her breast.
She flinched. It was small, barely visible, but the effect was immediate. Hot wax splashed on the guest’s hand. He shouted, jerking back as the flame guttered.
The room froze.
álvarez rose slowly from his seat.
The silence that followed was louder than a shout.
He did not look at the Number Seven, who had failed him, or at the guest who caused him to lose. He looked at Rhys with a long, cool appraisal before stating, “It seems we have a winner.”
Polite applause followed, restrained and uncertain. Gaby saw the truth in álvarez’s eyes. He was furious. Not because the guest had overstepped or been burned. Because he had lost. Worse, because Rhys was the one who bested him.
The smile he offered the room was all teeth, no warmth—a mask stretched over humiliation. He didn’t quite pull it off. álvarez inclined his head with forced grace. “The evening concludes here. I believe we have exhausted its… pleasures.”
His gaze darted once more to his muse. She was trembling now, eyes wide. Then he turned away.
Consequences would come. The knowledge lodged heavily in her chest as Rhys helped her down. The moment her feet touched the floor, her knees wobbled. Her breath came too fast, too shallow—her body rebelling now that statue stillness was no longer required.
Rhys adjusted his grip. To anyone watching, it would look like control, but his touch was gentler than they could know.
“You did well, Camille,” he murmured, tepid praise for anyone listening. Then, for her alone: “Hold it together a little longer. I’ve got you.”