12. 11 #2
Branley tilted his head. “After what happened last time? Absolutely.”
“About that …” Lance slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out a weighty pouch of coin.
Branley’s eyes narrowed, drawn to the glint of promise.
Lance dangled it just out of reach. “Entry first.”
With a groan, Branley stepped aside.
Lance placed a hand on Mabel’s back, guiding her forward. She moved stiffly, her steps cautious.
Branley’s eyes widened in recognition as he saw her. “No. Absolutely not,” he said, body blocking the doorway again.
Lance exhaled, annoyed, and produced a second bag, even heavier. Branley hesitated, scowling, but he relented, snatching both pouches before stepping aside with a warning glare.
“After you, Miss Ravenov,” Lance said, voice unrepentant.
Mabel swallowed and stepped inside. The heat met her like a tide. Music coiled around her ankles, the scent of wine and sweat mixing with perfume. Laughter rose from dim corners. Eyes turned. The air buzzed with secrets.
Bodies pressed close, too close—hands trailing along skin, mouths brushing necks. Whispers of laughter and moans tangled in the low throb of music. Mabel froze in the entryway, breath shallow, eyes wide with shock. Heat flushed up her cheeks. She gripped her cloak tighter.
“What is this?” she whispered, voice barely audible over the pulse of music.
Lance stepped behind her, his breath ghosting against her ear. “This,” he started, fingers slipping around her to unfasten the clasp at her throat, “is Entertainment.”
The cloak slid from her shoulders, revealing the dress in a slow, deliberate fall, lace catching the dim light.
Mabel’s arms flew to cover her chest instinctively. “Lance, I-I can’t.”
He hung the cloak on a nearby hook, unbothered. “Too late,” he said with a smirk, voice velvety.
Then, gently, his hands found her elbows, guiding them down with unsettling ease.
“Don’t worry, Miss Ravenov,” he said with exaggerated flair, stepping beside her as the crowd began to shift, “You’ll fit right in.”
Lance guided her forward, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back. The crowd parted just enough to let them slip through, swallowed quickly again by bodies and breath.
The air was thick with laughter and the scent of wine. Heat pressed in from every side, and Mabel felt herself tense, arms instinctively hugging her torso as she moved deeper into the haze.
Couples leaned close in shadowed corners. Some whispered; some didn’t speak at all, exchanging glances that made her pulse flicker. Fingers grazed skin. Mouths lingered. The mood hovered somewhere between performance and surrender.
Mabel’s breath caught as they passed one lounge, a low semicircle padded in crimson. A woman laughed softly, reclined with her dress bunched around her thighs, another figure leaning close, murmuring something against her thighs that drew a shiver.
She looked away.
“This is …” Her voice faltered.
“A lot?” Lance offered, amused.
She didn’t answer. Her gaze skimmed the room—glittering masks, half-buttoned shirts, silk and sin—and she understood suddenly why this place had such a vague name etched above the door. Once you were inside, you knew exactly what it meant.
Lance paused near the balcony rail, eyes scanning the lower floor. “There,” he said under his breath, tugging Mabel gently to his side.
She followed his gaze—and froze.
Theodore lounged on a velvet chaise, chest bare, head tipped back in laughter.
His friends surrounded him, equally relaxed, equally entertained.
Three women—barely dressed in ribbons and lace—draped themselves across laps, arms, shoulders.
One fed him something from her fingers. Another whispered in his ear.
The third was straddling Theodore, lips pressed to his neck, hands trailing everywhere, her ginger hair catching the light.
Mabel’s breath left her in a sharp exhale.
Hurt flickered through her, but it was brief. Thin. Hollow compared to the fire that surged next. After everything—after the maze, after the accusations, after telling her she couldn’t even speak to Lance … this?
Her jaw tightened.
Hypocrisy. Disrespect.
Liar.
“Let’s go,” she huffed, fighting back the urge to storm down there and cause a scene.
“Mabel.” Lance shook his head. “The night has just begun.” He stepped in front of her, blocking her lingering gaze from Theodore. “Don’t let him ruin it—make him regret it.”
She looked up at him, fire swarming in her chest. She took a deep breath, sparing one last glance at Theodore and then at the thick crowd of bodies.
Her heart thrummed. “I don’t know,” she whispered, voice brittle beneath the music.
“What if someone recognizes me? Sees me here—with you? The scandal—”
“That’s the best part,” Lance said, his words curling around her fears delicately. “Here, no one gives a damn who you are.” He let the silence stretch, then leaned in closer, voice dropping to a razor’s edge. “You’re just another body,” he whispered, “desperate to be pleased.”
Mabel’s eyes snapped up to meet his; fury flaring beneath flushed cheeks.
He smirked, unrepentant, inviting.
She stepped back on instinct.
He followed. No apology. No restraint. He wanted her angry. He wanted her to burn.
“So,” he purred, voice rich with challenge as he dipped to her level, eyes catching hers, breath shared in the inches between. “Are you going to run home and cry about it, or stay here and enjoy yourself?”
Mabel’s throat tightened. Her heartbeat kicked harder, louder. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” she said, each word edged in restraint.
Lance’s smirk twisted into something colder. “Then stop acting like one.”
The music faded into static in her ears. For a moment, the crowd blurred. Meshed bodies and half-shadowed desire spun together in a dizzying haze.
She could leave. Slip out the way she came, with dignity barely intact and scandal narrowly avoided.
But what would that make her? The girl too afraid to be seen?
The one who continued to swallow rage and stitch herself back together in silence?
Her gaze drifted toward the floor below, imagination painting Theodore in stark detail—laughing, sprawled bare-chested, soaked in sin and contradiction. What if he looked up and saw her here?
The thought burned hot across her skin. Reckless. Glorious.
She was tired of being measured by his standards. Tired of pretending silence was power. Her fingers curled into her palm. She turned slowly, eyes finding Lance where he stood watching her, amusement and something darker simmering behind his gaze.
Mabel gave a single nod. She would stay.
Lance moved toward her, like a predator stalking its prey. His fingers found her jaw, not rough, but firm, tilting her chin until her eyes met his.
A wicked smile curled on his lips. “Good girl.”
Her breath caught.
Butterflies twisted low in her stomach, nerves tangling with something far more dangerous. She swallowed hard, gaze locked on his—deep golden brown and far too captivating.
She didn’t need to feel guilt. Not tonight. Not with Theodore just below them, laughing, drinking, betraying the vows they never spoke aloud but both understood.
The knot in her stomach—the one that had lived there for days—began to loosen under Lance’s gaze.
“I’ll be back,” he said with a wink, turning away.
“Where are you going?” Her voice cracked with urgency she hadn’t meant to show.
“Drinks,” he replied.
“I thought you didn’t drink?” She raised a brow at him.
He flashed a devilish smile, already walking away. “It’s not for me, Miss Ravenov.”
Mabel stood alone, arms folded tightly across her body. The crowd seemed to pulse around her now, louder. Her gaze flicked across the room, struggling to find a place to land.
A woman met her eyes.
She was straddled across another figure on a velvet lounge, lips parted in laughter, fingers trailing along bare skin. Her gaze didn’t waver. She winked.
Mabel’s breath caught. She turned away quickly, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Her gaze dropped to the floor. Safer there. But curiosity tugged at her, insistent.
Slowly, her eyes lifted, scanning. Bodies pressed close, laughter spilling over mugs, limbs tangled. Her gaze snagged on a pair in the corner. A woman pinned to the wall, lips parted in a sigh, a hand slipping between her thighs.
Mabel looked away fast.
Her stomach twisted. She searched the room for Lance, fingers picking at the raw edge of her nail. But everywhere she looked, people were paired off—some in twos, some in threes—pleasure and abandon humming through the tavern like a second heartbeat.
She felt him before she saw him. Mabel turned, and there he was, standing behind her, two carved mugs in hand, eyes already on her.
“Lance …” she started, voice thin. “I don’t think I fit in here. Not the way you say I do.”
He tilted his head, a hum curling from his throat. “Why not?”
“I …” The word barely left her lips. She didn’t know if she should say it—if saying it would make it real.
Lance stepped in closer, breath mingling with hers, head dipping low. “Use your words.”
Her breath hitched at the tone, her chest tightening. “I’m a virgin,” she whispered, fast and fragile.
He blinked, then let out a quiet laugh through his nose, more amused than mocking. “Obviously,” he said, tilting his head.
He set the drinks down, stepping behind her with a slow, teasing ease. His hands found her arms, gentle. His lips hovered near the shell of her ear, close enough to steal her breath.
“Look,” he said, coaxing. His hand slid up her arm unhurriedly until it reached her chin. She tensed beneath his touch but followed the motion, letting him guide her gaze.
Bodies moved in rhythm across the tavern, pressed close, chasing passion.
“They’re all here for the same reasons,” he said, drawing her back until her spine met his chest. “To forget. To feel something.” His breath brushed her skin. “To burn.”
Then his lips pressed just behind her ear, soft and consuming.
A shudder rolled through her.