Chapter 6 #2
“It’s fine,” I say. “Just tell me what to do.”
Meg jerks her head toward the private stairs. “Go up. They’ll brief you.”
“They?” I repeat.
Meg gives me a look and shrugs. “You’ll see.”
Miriam squeezes my arm. “You’re gonna be okay. Just don’t mouth off tonight.”
I snort. “No promises.”
Her laugh is nervous, and she gives me that knowing look, telling me to behave and not to get myself into trouble.
I head toward the private staircase, my pulse picking up with each step.
The farther up I go, the quieter it gets. The music fades. The air cools. The walls feel thicker, like they’re holding secrets. It’s quite eerie.
At the top, I step into the private area and immediately feel eyes on me.
A lot of eyes.
There’s a slew of workers up here, all polished and beautiful. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Clothing that hugs their curves and exposes far more skin than I’d ever be comfortable showing.
They’re all staring at me like I wandered in off the street.
Some don’t bother hiding it.
Jealousy.
Disgust.
Curiosity.
Something sharper, like they’d tear me apart if it meant Orpheus would look their way.
I straighten my shoulders and keep walking.
I’m not impressed.
Not by them. Not by their stares. Not by the fact that they think I don’t belong.
I don’t. But I won’t shrink for them. I refuse to let anyone else’s thoughts about me deter me from doing what I need.
One attendant steps forward, blocking my path. She’s tall, eyes glittering, lips glossy, her scent heavy and sweet.
“You’re the one,” she says.
“The one what?” I ask.
“The one he requested.”
I meet her gaze. “Looks like it.”
Her smile sharpens. “Don’t get comfortable.”
I don’t smile back. “Wasn’t planning to.”
She steps aside.
I keep moving until I reach Orpheus’s door.
Two guards stand there. One opens it without a word.
Inside, the room is dim. Lamps. Candles. Smoke and old stone and something that makes my pulse jump.
Orpheus is there.
Of course, he is.
He’s seated like he owns the world. Relaxed. Controlled. His eyes catch on me immediately.
My stomach tightens.
I remind myself of the rules.
He’s my boss.
This is a job.
Keep it professional.
“Good,” he says. “You’re here.”
“I was told to come,” I reply.
His eyes rake over me slowly, and I hate that my body reacts. Heat creeps up my neck. My pulse jumps, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
He stands and gestures. “Bring me a drink.”
“What kind of drink would you like?” I ask, remembering this is my job here. I can’t say something snarky as I want to.
“Bourbon straight, no ice.”
I nod and move to the bar.
I grab a snifter glass, pick a bourbon from the selection that feels like it would be the best choice, and bring it to him.
He takes it without thanking me.
“Stand there,” he says, pointing near the wall.
I pause. “Stand there?”
“Yes.”
I do it because I don’t know what else he expects. Serving tables is one thing. Same as tending the bar. Being placed like furniture is another.
Minutes pass.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t look at me.
He just drinks slowly like he’s thinking.
I shift my weight.
“Adjust the lighting,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“The lighting.”
I grit my teeth and adjust the lamp.
“Closer,” he says.
I turn. “Closer to what?”
His eyes lift. “Closer to me.”
My stomach flips.
I take a step.
“Again.”
Another step.
He’s doing this on purpose. It’s not about the lighting. It’s not about the job. It’s a test.
I try to stay calm. I need this job. But irritation burns hotter.
“Do you need something specific,” I ask carefully, “or are you just ordering me around so you can watch me?”
Silence drops.
“You’re here to serve,” he says.
“I’m here to work,” I correct.
“That is the work.”
“Not if you’re doing this for fun,” I say, already knowing I’m pushing it.
His eyes darken. “You’re bold.”
“I’m tired.”
“Then you shouldn’t be here.”
“I didn’t request this.”
“No. I did.”
Of course, he did. I inhale slowly. “Why?”
He takes a sip. “Because I want you here.”
My stomach twists. That’s not an answer. It’s a problem. “I need clearer instructions,” I say. “If you want me to do this right.”
“You’re doing fine.”
That confirms it. He’s singling me out and enjoying it.
I step back. “Is this about last night?”
His gaze sharpens. “What about it?”
“The vampire. The hallway. Dragging me up here like I was a problem.”
“You were in danger.”
“I could’ve handled it,” I snap. “I would’ve screamed.”
“Would you?” His voice is cold. “With his hand over your mouth?”
My throat tightens. I hate that he’s right. I lift my chin. “You didn’t need to make me your servant.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Then why?”
He stands. The room feels smaller. “Because I can.”
There it is.
King.
I laugh, sharp. “That’s your favorite excuse?”
“Watch your tone.”
“Why? Going to throw me against a wall too?”
His eyes flash. Then he stops inches from me. “I don’t have to hurt people to make them bend.”
My breath catches.
I step back. “I’m not bending. I’m not one of your loyal fans.”
His mouth quirks. “You keep saying that, but you’re still here.”
“Because it’s my job.”
His eyes flick to my lips. Back to my eyes. “Is it?”
My pulse hammers.
“If you needed a personal attendant, you could’ve picked anyone.”
“And yet I didn’t,” he says. “I picked you.”
Anger and heat twist together. “You’re making this hard on purpose,” I mutter.
“I’m not the one arguing.”
That’s it. I’m through with this game. “You’re being an asshole.”
The room goes silent.
Orpheus freezes, stunned like no one’s ever dared.
My heart pounds, but I don’t back down. “You ordered I be sent up here, away from the job I was actually hired to do,” I say, voice shaking but strong, “and you didn’t tell me why.
You keep ordering me around like I’m a toy.
If you want something, say it. If you need something, ask. But don’t do this.”
“You’re speaking to the King,” he says.
“Then act like one.” The words land heavily.
He inhales slowly. Then he smiles.
Slow. Dangerous.
“You’re fearless,” he murmurs.
“I’m tired,” I say. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in days.
“And stubborn.”
“That too.”
His gaze drags over me like a touch.
He leans in just enough for me to smell smoke and something dark underneath.
“Careful, Cassia,” he says. “You’re going to make me enjoy this.”
My stomach flips. My hands curl into fists. I lift my chin and glare.
“Don’t,” I snap.
His smile widens, and I realize I’ve just made myself his favorite problem.
That’s the last thing I should want.
But my body doesn’t agree.
Not at all.