Page 33 of Bared

As he spat it back, the door leading from the alley was swung wide once more. Jayd gulped. Her fight or flight reflexes hit gridlock, leaving her limbs as paralyzed ice sculptures.

“Creator’s mercy. What do we do now?”

Brickham grabbed something off a wall she could barely see and shoved it at her. “Put this on.”

It was a mask of sorts. No, it was more a hood. It was made out of dark-red latex and made to cover someone’s head down to the bridge of their nose. She was so busy making sure she had all the angles right before putting it on that she never noticed Brick altering his own appearance—by shedding his shirt and donning a black, burglar-looking mask of his own.

“Good,” he said, nodding in response to her wide-eyed gape. “Now take off your pants.”

“Excuse me?” She was grateful she sounded more scandalized than mesmerized, cloaking the effect of his new look on every heated ounce of her blood. Logically, she dismissed her reaction to spiked adrenaline and racing fear. Primally, it was not that simple.

Here, before her, stood a man.

Revision. A man.

Which had to be one of the craziest thoughts she had ever possessed.

She knew men. She had three grown brothers. Men. All three were as muscled and defined as Max Brickham. Though none of them had his dense but intricate tattoos, which nearly covered his pectorals and shoulders, the hardware underneath was similar terrain for her.

But in so many ways, not similar.

He was different. So very different. Everywhere. He was rougher. More rugged. Gleaming and mighty. Bigger and bolder.

A total stranger.

Which, so very oddly, only spiked her freak fascination with him. Especially as he bared all his teeth, which glowed more perfect and white than they should in this dimness, in a look that should have terrified her—but again, did not.

“Princess.” In the core of his croaked command, she found understanding. He was desperate, not dangerous. “Just do it, damn it. We’ve got to blend in a little better here.”

But where was here?

She craved to voice that aloud. To get back just that spot of control in this mess of a night. But fate was not giving her even those ten seconds. She had less than that to make her decision here. A vital one.

Stay fully clothed and face Gervais, or trust Max Brickham to take care of her—in her underwear?

Before the dilemma finished taunting her mind, she had finished her decision.

And already leaned over to push down her leggings.

“Good girl. Thank you.”

Though Brickham’s voice was still a taut rasp, it flowed over her senses like honeyed praise. But when Jayd was about to reply with a trusting smile, she ducked and cowered instead. They had company. Not Gervais. Another man. He was nearly as tall as Brickham but did not come close in muscled stature or strength.

“Monsieur?” he prompted, flashing them with a suspicious look and a small flashlight’s beam. “May I…ermmm…be of assistance?”

“You absolutely can.” Brickham tapped a neon green armband that stood out against the man’s otherwise black attire. “You the dungeon master here?”

Jayd gave in to a silent startle. Dungeon master? Where, under all the stars and skies, were they?

“I am,” the man offered, his face tightening. “Which means I am obliged to inform you that all play must be consensual and safe at all times. Additionally, all scenes must occur in our private rooms, or beyond the velvet—”

“Outstanding.” As Brickham extended his other arm, Jayd noticed the black leather band around his wrist. It was embedded with a silver medallion. He lifted it into the bright circle from the man’s flashlight. “Glad to know you’re about the essentials.”

The man leaned in, examining the silver plate more closely. “This is…a master’s crest?”

“Yes. I’m affiliated with Bastille.”

The greeter reared back with a popped gaze. “In Seattle? In the States? That Bastille?”