“Rider,” a man calls from the back. “This is in poor taste.” A woman’s voice quavers: “I want to go home.” They think this is some sort of show, a filthy little play acted out for their supposed enjoyment.
Gage attempts to follow that script. “Kynk is a members-only club.” He speaks reasonably to Tarasov. “I’m afraid you have to leave.” He sounds like the shitehawk is guilty of nothing more than crashing the gate.
Tarasov doesn’t blink. “I am a guest of Evgeni Federov, pakhan of Brighton Beach. I do not choose to leave.”
“Then let me buy you both a drink,” Gage says. “I keep a bottle of Beluga Epicure for my most special guests.”
“I am not here for drinking.”
“Why don’t you just let her go?” Gage crumples for a moment, but then he’s back to managing his club. “I suspect at least one member here is willing to engage in whatever safe, sane play you have in mind.”
“I will notjust let her go, because she is a fucking mick whore. Because she killed my son Pyotr. Because she ismine. And just so we understand each other perfectly, there is nothing safe and there is nothing sane about how I intend to play.” He extends his hand toward Gage. “Your phone, Mr. Rider.”
Gage snaps, “No phones are allowed inside Kynk.”
Tarasov jerks his chin toward me. Antonov changes his grip, crushing his forearm across my throat and shoving the chair leg into my side. I struggle to breathe as tiny crimson petals bloom through my sweaty silk top.
Tarasov seems not to notice. Instead, he says to Gage, “You manage a club where accidents might happen, despite the best intentions of everyone involved. You must be able to reach the authorities at all times in case of an emergency. Your phone, Mr. Rider. Do not make me ask again.”
Gage glares as he reaches into his breast pocket, the one where he’s stashed the club’s winnings from tonight’s fundraiser. He produces a slender matte-black mobile.
Whispers ignite the crowd. They’ve been told that absolutely no one enters Kynk with recording devices. They’ve been lied to. More than one person’s shout is obscene.
Tarasov ignores the outcry. Eyeing the phone, he says, “Wolf. You will take my money. And you will prove your whore is tame. Fuck her up the ass. No lube. No mercy. Make. It. Hurt.”
Of course that’s what Tarasov wants. That’s what Pyotr did to me when I was eight. That’s what I’ve never allowed any man to do since. If Antonov’s grip wasn’t keeping me on my feet, I would crash to the floor.
“This is fucking bullshit!” The shout comes from an unexpected ally—Master Jonathan from the earlier game. He bulls his way toward the exit.
“Stop!” Tarasov barks, and he nods once more toward Antonov. My captor shifts his grip again, jamming the chair leg into the tight V at the top of my thighs. I close my eyes, waiting to feel its deep bite.
Jonathan stops. The milling crowd behind him freezes. These people came to the club for a party. No one ever expected to deal with a madman. They’re sheep now, paralyzed by the predator in their pen.
“You,” Tarasov says, pointing to Master Jonathan. “To the stage. Now.”
Antonov tightens his grip on the chair leg. Despite my fiercest intentions, I whimper.No lube. No mercy. Make. It. Hurt.
Master Jonathan trudges to the front of the room.
Tarasov turns back to Gage, who is still grasping his phone like it’s a magical torch that can beat back every demon in the night. “Unlock it,” Tarasov commands.
Gage raises the screen to his face and passes the open device to the pakhan. Tarasov hands the phone to Master Jonathan. “You will record everything that happens.”
“I will not—” the Dom objects.
At Tarasov’s silent command, Antonov forces the chair leg between my thighs. My cry is half a shriek, half a sob. I jackknife at the sharp pain, even as Cole gathers himself in a suicidal launch at my captor.
Before he can move, though, Tarasov shouts, “Hold!”
Antonov retracts the broken wood. Cole freezes. Tarasov’s eyes are lifeless moon rocks as he tells my husband, “I promise you she can bleed out faster than you can stop my Dima.”
Slowly, with barely controlled fury, Cole extends his hands from his sides. He looks like he’s trying to proveheisn’t carrying a weapon. Tarasov allows himself a single satisfied nod before he says to Master Jonathan, “You will record everything.”
Gage has to unlock the mobile again. The phone shakes in Jonathan’s over-size hand as he trains the lenses on me.
Tarasov nods again with satisfaction before he says, “Dima?”
For one glorious heartbeat, my throat is free of the Russian’s arm. I stagger a full step forward, sucking in a deep breath. But by the time I straighten, I see that Antonov has leaped off the stage.
