Page 48 of The Masked King

“And I thought you only wanted to get inside my panties.” No point pussyfooting around the gigantic fucking elephant in the room.

Being here to greet me alone isn’t a coincidence. He knows something or he intends to use me to get to Brian. Either way, my time here is limited, and I’m not entirely sure I’m going to get beyond this room.

Maybe Brian is still here, locked inside a room somewhere above our heads; it would explain why I didn’t see him leave last night. Are they holding him hostage? I wish I’d thought of it sooner; I could’ve used my time today to trawl social media for a whisper of a missing person even though it has been less than twenty-four hours.

He looms over me, all six-foot-six of him, hands placed either side of my head against the closed door behind me, trapping me inside a human cage.

“If I’d wanted to get inside them, I would have.”

I believe him. Which means he was simply showing me that he could take me if, and when, he chose to, and now that I think about it, the whole rescue tag-team thing might just have been part of the act.

A shudder passes through me. “I’m glad we got that cleared up, but I don’t want to be late for my shift.” I stare at his arm beside my face as if I can move it through the power of telekinesis.

“What’s the hurry? Anyone would think you have a special date tonight.”

Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react. This is about Brian, and they have no intention of letting me near him.

“All my clients are special. I’m paid to think that way.”

His lips curl into a sinister smile. He touches my hair with his left hand, and I twist my head away from him, hyper-aware that I’m trapped between his arms. The smile doesn’t fade as he pinches something between his thumb and forefinger and holds it in front of my face for me to see.

It’s a long black strand of synthetic hair, the kind that would normally be found in a wig bought from a costume shop.

He puts it on my head, poking my scalp with his thick meaty finger. “Have you been seeing someone behind my back? This makes me unhappy, and you know what happens when I am sad?”

The words ring alarm bells in my head. This makes me unhappy, and you know what happens when I am sad. The same words I heard spoken through the air vent in the dressing room. It was him.

Before I can connect the conversation to the man I saw him with in the casino earlier, the door bursts open, shoving me against his chest. I’m surprised when he stands aside, giving me space to get away from him and face the person standing in the doorway.

Michael Douglas. I’ve never been so happy to see him.

“I’m late. I got held up.” His eyes meet mine briefly as he delivers his version of an apology. “Come.”

The familiar instruction, so irritatingly blunt when I first started working here, is like a lighthouse beacon now, guiding me away from the lethal rocks and into a situation that means I can breathe again.

I don’t look back as I follow Michael Douglas along the corridor towards the dressing room. Only we don’t stop outside the regular door.

“Where are we going?” My heart is racing.

Michael Douglas glances at me over his shoulder, his index finger on his lips to silence me. I shut up and keep walking; it’s the better alternative to going back the way I came.

We enter another dressing room, identical to the one usually assigned to me, and he closes the door behind him, dark eyes flashing a warning for me to cooperate.

“Tonight you are not Nyx.” He keeps his voice low, and I narrow my eyes. Did his accent change between the foyer and here? “You are floating. Do you understand what that means?”

I nod. It means that if a client requests two women making out, I will join the goddess in the room. “But⁠—”

His eyes widen, and he gives a barely perceptible shake of his head. “Get dressed.”

The costume laid out for me is a dress made of two parts, a skirt that will sit low on my hips, and a top that looks as if it will barely cover my breasts, the two pieces attached by a gold chain straight up the middle. No underwear.

My bodyguard doesn’t leave the room while I remove my sweats and dress in the outfit allocated to me, and I know better than to ask him to turn around and avert his eyes.

When I’m ready, I check out my reflection in the mirror on top of the dressing table. The sheer skirt is fluid around my hips, barely reaching the tops of my thighs. The top is made of the same fabric, pulled together by the chain that begins between my breasts. I feel like an Egyptian queen preparing to enter the pyramid where I’ll be left to die.

“Your mask.”

Michael Douglas makes a circular motion with his finger, indicating that he wants me to turn around, and I do so. He covers my face with it and begins to fasten the straps that will hold it in place.