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Gathering up another forkful, Henri twisted to feed me. “In that case. Eat.”
My stomach churned, hating that another Master had infiltrated this strange, tangled moment between us. It no longer felt sensual or raw but dirty and frankly rather misogynistic.
“I need you strong for what I plan on doing to you,” Henri clipped.
Charles laughed. “Don’t feed her too much. You don’t want her throwing up on you when you’re mid thrust.” He laughed harder. “Unless you’re into that.” Dropping his voice, he cocked his chin at the table next to us where a dark-haired man shovelled his entrée into his mouth, not sparing any for the ice-blonde jewel kneeling next to him. “Ferdinand over there? I hear he has a nasty fetish for defecation.” He narrowed his eyes at the plump, horrible man beside Ferdinand. “Oh, and Roland likes them borderline dead.”
A rumbling growl slipped from Henri. His hands balled as he trained his stare on Charles. “I know exactly what Roland likes. I’ve gotten to know him quite well over the past six months.”
“Interesting fellow, isn’t he.”
“If by interesting you mean he likes snuff films with minors?” Henri wiped his mouth. “Sure. Interesting.”
“Ah well, we all have our quirks.” Charles chuckled and fed another battered vegetable to his slave.
Henri didn’t answer him. I didn’t think he could.
Scooping up another forkful of pea puree, he practically shoved it into my mouth.
I rocked back on my heels, narrowly avoiding being stabbed in the back of the throat.
Chewing quickly, I caught the eyes of the Mohawked jewel before dropping my stare. He gave me a fleeting smile, encouraging and kind.
My heart broke all over again.
These poor people had been captured, trafficked, and forced to become pets for abusive owners. They had kennels to sleep in, collars they were shocked with, and a strict diet given by those in power.
It suddenly gave me a rush of empathy toward pets around the world. The helplessness a dog must feel chained in the rain. The hunger a cat must feel when its owners had gone away—
“Use the butt-plug!” someone yelled, cutting through the sultry Latin music.
“Get to the fucking already!” another one ordered.
Henri froze as we both looked at the stage where Peter and Corine glittered with sweat from dancing. Their chests heaved; the spotlight blinded them. Peter’s eyes flickered to Victor, his eyebrow quirking.
Very subtly, Victor nodded.
With a heavy sigh, Peter stalked toward the rack of whips, floggers, and other sexual torture devices.
“No toys,” Victor commanded. “Those are for our guests and their pleasure once dinner is finished. Just the show, Peter sweetling, if you would be so kind.”
With a bow, Peter marched back toward Corine.
She didn’t move, but an invisible cloak of acceptance slid over her as the two jewels, with their matching collar and cuffs, slipped into entirely different characters.
All around the room, men settled deeper into their chairs and grinned at one another.
The music turned softer; the air thickened with anticipation.
My heart flurried as Peter crossed his arms and said in a loud, cold voice, “This was your fifth dancing lesson, miss. You came here begging me to teach you how to salsa on your wedding night, yet you’ve never paid me. I expect payment. Now.”
Corine rolled her shoulders, slipping into a shy little bride who’d come for lessons to perhaps seduce her husband-to-be. “I know. I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to take advantage—”
“You’ve done more than that,” Peter snapped. “You’ve teased me and thought I wouldn’t notice. These outfits? The looks? You’re a bad, bad girl.”
Oh no.
Cold water ran down my back. Henri stiffened in his chair.
