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“Finish,” Victor commanded. “You want to bruise her until…?”
I shuddered with self-loathing. “Until her very bones are imprinted with my ownership. I want to mark her, brand her. I want my teeth piercing her skin. I want her skin whipped bright red. I want…I want…” I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I want to make her scream because I get off on that. I want her pain. I want her tears. I want her fighting as I hold her down and prove to her that she belongs to me, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, she can do about it.”
Soft, slicing quietness fell.
Ily didn’t move.
Roland smirked.
Victor grinned. “I liked your confession back at the club, but I like that one even more.”
I wanted to find some bleach and flush my mouth with it.
The faint scuffs of bare feet sounded on the travertine, growing louder and louder until a lean man with dusky skin, ebony eyes, and glossy brown hair appeared from one of the huge rooms leading from the foyer. His hands swayed loosely at his sides, his gaze almost lazy and uncaring. His linen pants and mostly-undone white shirt screamed decadence with an ‘I didn’t try at all’ carelessness. He could’ve been a guest himself—some rich perverted asshole here to play—if it wasn’t for the matching collar around his throat and the gleaming cuffs on his wrists.
A jewel.
He kept walking until he joined us, oblivious that he stepped in my disgusting confessions oozing all over the floor. With a teasing smile at Roland and a wink at me, he bowed deeply at Victor, not raising until Victor touched him kindly on the head.
“Hello, Peter,” Victor preened. “Your timing is rather unfortunate as I have more to say to my new friend here, but…I will let you take her. Her name is Ily.”
Take her?
What the fuck?
Peter rose from his bow and smiled at Ily. “Hello.”
Ily backstepped and crossed her arms, the gold around her wrists clinking against each other. She didn’t return the greeting.
“How many are playing?” Victor asked, checking his diamond-encrusted Rolex.
“Ten are currently serving, Sir V,” Peter murmured. “Five are in the bathing chamber, six are being prepared for when their Masters awaken, and seven are still sleeping.”
Jesus Christ, is he talking about slaves?
Twenty-eight?
There are twenty-eight prisoners here?
Wait, twenty-nine. With him, it’s twenty-nine.
My gaze snapped to Ily.
No, thirty.
She’s number thirty.
I didn’t know why that made me hard or why I shivered with every awful secret I’d just shared. It sounded sick in my head, but having the words fly around this sinning foyer was a thousand times worse.
Goddammit, if Q knew…
I straightened my spine.
He doesn’t need to know.
What I did in the name of freeing these thirty slaves was not his concern. It was bad enough that he’d thrown me in here. If I managed to free them, then he owed me a fucking medal, no matter what I did in the process.
“Fine.” Victor nodded and dropped his arm. “Please oversee Ily’s initiation. Take her to see Dr Belford, and then a trip to the bathing chamber is in order. Once she’s clean, inside and out, you may feed her a small smoothie, but that is all.”
