Chapter 59
59
“ T here are some specific requests I’ve been tasked with fulfilling.” Keisha walks into the opulent suite, complete with a chandelier, black four-poster bed, and coal-color velvet seemingly covering every possible surface.
A full set of animal skins hang along one wall, in different shades and tones of fur that tell me they’ve been imported from rare, far-flung corners of the world.
It feels ominously like a preview of my purpose here this evening. A collectible item to be skinned and hung on display amongst these innocent creatures whose lives have been forcibly taken.
“One of which is to ensure you are kneeling in the center of the room when they arrive.”
Kneeling? They?
My fingers tremble even more, and I immediately ball them into fists. Of course, in this world, there are likely to be multiple parties involved. It’s the Anguis. This is how this environment operates, eschewing anything that might be considered a singular partnership or attachment.
Not that this is any of those things—there’s nothing more to this than sexual gratification—but I’m more than aware that polyamory is the standard lifestyle within this secretive world.
Keisha indicates where I’m to assume the familiar position I’ve taken at Hawke’s boots so often, and yet, while I felt entirely safe when giving him my submission like this, as I sink to the polished marble flooring, I see a ghostly reflection of myself.
The white of my corset hovers and twists in the contorted light glinting off the shiny surface. I’m almost certain my face has drained of blood to compliment the starkness of the garment, crushing my lungs.
My knees start to ache almost immediately, reminding me of every second I spent with the offer of a cushion from my man who I didn’t have the chance to reinforce my love for; my unwavering loyalty to. Will he see me differently after this is all over? Will Hawke view me as damaged goods to never be touched ever again because I’ve been sullied and spoiled?
Blood starts to pound harder in my ears at the thought… the realization dawning… that he might not be able to look at me the same after tonight. My beautiful, blue-eyed man with a hidden boyish smile he refuses to show anyone, might never give me his eyes with any type of care or attention again.
Although, I’m unable to fully digest the ramifications as the brutal wave of apprehension smashes into me. Keisha comes to stand before me, and she has items in her hands that make my skin crawl.
The requests, as they relate to my services tonight, appear to be an O-ring gag, a spreader bar, and handcuffs with a long length of chain affixed to them.
Keisha steps behind me, and as she crouches down there's a scrape and clunk of metal between my heels. My breathing starts to shallow as I register what’s happening. Those cuffs about to be placed around my wrists are going to be secured to the floor .
The woman at my back hasn’t shown any particular emotion this entire time, and I think I’m starting to float somewhere out of my body again. Just like that awful moment, I have hazy memories of when I was held captive. This is another one of those times when my brain and body are about to separate in an attempt to preserve something of myself.
She checks the length of chain is secure, giving it a tug, and then shifts around in front of me, taking my wrists that hang limp in my lap, one by one. When the metal clicks together on itself, cold and unforgiving against my flesh and bone, she pauses with her head lowered.
“I’m so sorry, Poe.” Her hushed words are said so quietly. There’s absolutely no denying that this is going to be everything my men feared might happen. It’s written all over Keisha’s body language that this is no normal situation here at the mansion or the club, and she seems to be buckling under the weighted curse of whatever this is she’s been tasked with. “I wish there was any other way.”
“I’d do anything for him. Anything.” I try to reassure her, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. A false confidence. Because even though I would give everything to protect him, it doesn’t take away the reality that I’m a shaking wreck of a person on the inside.
Keisha winces as she brings the gag up to my mouth, fitting it in place. The device leaves my tongue feeling like it’s lolling around awkwardly. There’s nothing I can do to prevent whatever might happen next, with this ensuring my lips remain forcibly parted. I really am just a fucktoy, being readied as a sacrifice to whoever, or whatever vile excuse for a human, is going to enter through those doors.
Her final task is to fit the spreader bar to my ankles, shifting them apart behind me and forcing my knees to widen, also.
With a final squeeze of my fingers, telling me how sorry she is, Keisha leaves. Her face is ashen as she does so, and suddenly, I’m left encased in this chamber, alone and trembling.
I don’t know how long I wait like this. Bound. Gagged. Tied down. It’s long enough that the cold of the hard floor works its way into my bones, and enough of a torturous length of time that I’m in a dangerous place with my anxieties.
My mind has already imagined endless rapid-fire variations of what this awful scenario that is about to befall me might be.
The true prison is to be locked inside your own desolate thoughts, and the way I’ve been left here in such a vulnerable state is absolutely with the intention of giving me enough time to descend into a place of utter fear.
It’s cruel and calculating, leaving me with an onslaught of terrible, destructive seconds to really sink into a place where my fear will be a tangible thing upon entering this room.
Just when I feel the hot, stinging tears begin to prick the backs of my eyes, just at the point when my jaw really starts to ache and my knees are burning white-hot, a door clicks from somewhere out of sight.
It’s not the main entrance Keisha and I came through. No, this is a panel moving in the wall, exactly like one of those in Hawke’s study. It’s an awful thing to happen, because it gives my brain a split second of the worst possible sensation in a time like this. For a fragile heartbeat, I have hope .
Hope that it’s Hawke himself, or Grey, or Angel coming to save me from this fate.
Except, it’s none of them.
A solitary figure moves through the heavy shadow at the far side of the room, partially hidden by the thick velvet drapes surrounding the bed. Will there be more following behind?
As they draw closer, a long tendril of icy terror creeps down my spine. I can’t see who it is, only that it’s a man’s figure. They wear a black robe that hangs open to reveal a bare chest and loose silk trousers. Through my damp lashes, I can only just make out a black mask, one that covers the person’s entire face, obscuring anything of their features with the eye sockets also covered.
They pause to take me in, and it’s too dark for me to truly see anything that might give me any clues as to whoever this is. My stomach churns with rising nausea over every passing second.
Even if I changed my mind, even if I wanted to flee, even if I damn well wanted to reach for the weapon Hawke gave me… none of that is possible. The cuffs are too tight. The chain is locked to the floor. There’s a shackle around each of my ankles.
The masked figure walks to one side of the room, and that’s when I see it.
A red light flicks on. That tiny, beady crimson eye blinks at me and transports me straight back to when I was held captive, and I feel like I’m going to vomit.
This is it. This right here is when I finally endure everything that had been intended for me from the very beginning of all this.
How did I think it was over? It was all futile. It doesn’t matter that my men rescued me; this is the moment when all that splinters apart because clearly, I’m still trapped in the clutches of whatever gluttonous dark force has been trying to claim me this whole time.
Except right here and now, they’ve ensured I can’t get away. No one is coming to save me. It doesn’t matter that I’m fully conscious; it doesn't matter that my blood isn’t running sluggish with drugs because I’m immobilized in a different capacity.
The figure continues to pad around the room, quietly pouring a drink, and then I hear the slosh of liquid into a glass from a table beside one of the many hanging skins. That’s when they turn, and if I wasn’t already near hyperventilating or about to choke on my own bile rising up the back of my throat, I would be now. I see the flash of a signet ring. In that same hand is a syringe hooked between two fingers, along with a martini glass garnished with olives.
Amidst the dread curling up from my toes, I watch on as the man comes to pause before me and surveys everything. Using his free hand, he pushes the mask back to reveal a face that sends my extremities turning numb.
Andreas Noire stands before me with a cruel smile and proceeds to feed the aperture of the syringe through the O-ring and depresses the plunger. The contents—no doubt a cocktail of what I’m sure are fucking drugs—hit the back of my throat, and I choke violently at the intrusion.
He’s too quick for me. Before I can tip my mouth forward and try to empty the liquid onto the floor, he pushes my chin up. I writhe and fight and gurgle as I feel every drop start to slip down my throat despite my best efforts to stop it from happening. Because I can’t prevent any of this. Tears sting and burn a hot trail from the corners of my eyes as this ghastly figure stands over me, sipping on his fucking martini. Waiting for every insidious ounce to slide down the back of my throat.
He watches on expectantly with a callous gaze.
“That’s quite lovely.” He muses, sending a curdling sensation deep into the pit of my stomach. “It’s really so much easier this way.”
Wetness leaks across my face, and as he forces my chin even higher, as he makes sure there’s not a single ounce left in my mouth of whatever he just administered, he finishes his drink and finally relents his grip.
With a triumphant sneer, he sets the mask back in place and says the words that might just be among the last I ever hear.
“Let’s begin.”