Page 54 of Promise of Punishment

This woman cares for Fable. It must be Noah. And Fable partying without it being brought to my attention confirms what I surmised. Camila is jealous and setting Fable up for failure—or to piss me off.

I march to the Gilded Cage and step through the mirror. Three guests in gold Greek god masks and black suits watch from the curved couch as Fable dances on the pole-platform-table in the center of the room.

My inner demon fumes. It’s all I can do not to haul her over my shoulder and carry her away.

Instead, I take a deep breath and shift to the side until the men see me. My red jacket gives me away as one of the Lords. They know to obey. One of them looks over. Since they wouldn’t hear me over the music, I mouth, “Get the fuck out,” and hitch my thumb at the door. To make sure he understands how serious I am, I slam a fist into my palm.

He taps the guy next to him on the shoulder and instructs him to leave. They stand and tell the third guest, who, from the way he’s staring, is eye-fucking Fable from behind his mask.

The two men leave, but the third rises slowly and walks to me with an arrogant swagger. Fable must have her eyes closed because she’s still dancing. For a girl who never parties, she doesn’t have a problem working that pole.

The mask of Zeus stares at me from about five inches below. “It’s okay. She’s accepted my proposition.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“We haven’t worked it out yet.”

“Leave now while you still have teeth.” I crack my knuckles.

The guest’s mouth drops open, then he’s racing out of the room.

I follow him and get the attention of the security guard posted between this mirror and the next.

“Yes, sir?” he asks from behind his gold and black mask.

“Don’t let anyone in this room.” I point to the Gilded Cage. “And give me your extra mask.” They always keep a spare in case something happens to them or a guest needs one.

He unhooks it from his belt and hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I enter the Gilded Cage and switch out my mask, leaving the serpent and my red jacket on the table near the entrance. You can’t see into the rooms from the outside. Three mirrors are strategically placed to reflect the ballroom and give the illusion it’s one solid surface.

I circle a still dancing Fable, her moves sensual and erotic, matching the haunting song. A red feather sticks out of her wig. I pluck it free and stuff it in my pocket. What was my little angel doing in here with three men?

I sit in front of her, my legs spread wide, and recline with my arms resting on the back cushions, watching my vixen as she makes love to the pole. She presses her ass against the gold rod, her back arched, one hand above her head. It’s all I can do not to grab her or whip out my dick and jerk off.

She must notice the three guys are gone, because she pauses and glances around. It’s just the two of us. She peers over her shoulder at the entrance, then at me again, wobbly in her heels now that she’s no longer holding the pole.

I point at it and circle my finger in the air for her to keep dancing.

The song changes to one with an edgier, rock vibe. She stands there like she’s debating to run away, then clutches the pole and drops low before slowly gliding her body up the gold rod as she rolls her hips.

It’s sexy as fuck, and my cock is instantly hard. Anger soars inside me, knowing those three tossers were getting off on watching her before I got here. Has she been with one of them? Did she plan to be with the arrogant arse who tried to stake a claim on her?

My fingers ball into tight fists. If she’d agree, I’d have a wank with her watching. Last weekend, I could have. Now, I’m certain Camila put something in her head. It’s the only way she would go against what we agreed—especially after her message of apology for me—delivered to me unbeknownst to her—at the lake garden.

The only way the demon in me will calm down is if I fight or fuck. Fighting would only lead to death tonight, and that’s bad for business. Fucking it is.

I stand just as Fable’s heel slips off the small table and catch her at the waist. She weighs as much as a pillow. I set her back on the platform. It puts her head at my level. We stare through mesh at each other, my big hands still at her tiny waist, then she’s kissing me.

I let her, enjoying the feel of her warm, pliant lips, but irritated she would kiss just anyone so freely. She tastes tart and sweet like she’s been downing Amaretto sours. The flavor turns me on. The sweet liquor is a favorite of mine when mixed with Rye Whiskey. Instead of drinking her in, I push her back until she’s upright on steady legs.

“How many men have you kissed tonight?” I demand.

“None.”

“How many this week?”

“One, but he wasn’t for me.”