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“A stairwell?” she whispers, the first words to be spoken in a while.
“It’s not wide enough for the three of us,” growls Bruce quietly. “Just start walking up and we’ll be right behind you, sweetheart.” I enter the gate as well and lock it behind me and then the three of us start the ascent along the concrete steps. There’s a scuttle of rodent feet, telling us we’re coming closer to human habitation. Annabel lets out a tiny squeal, which makes me smile.
“Are they mice or rats?” she whispers with a squinched up nose.
“Both,” answers Bruce teasingly. “You’re underground now, princess. This is their territory, not ours.”
She shudders and I chuckle low in my chest. We continue up the stairs until Annabel stops, and I shift the paintings under my arm.
“There’s a door,” she says hesitantly. “What should I do?”
“It’s okay, it’s unlocked. Open it,” I order. And above me, the swing of the wood reveals low, eerily-lit walls. She steps hesitantly into the space, and Bruce and I follow. Closing the door behind me, I watch Annabel’s expression in the low, industrial lights as she takes in her new surroundings.
“What is this place?” she asks.
“So far, just a basement,” I grin. “Follow me,” I say, taking her by the hand. I want to walk ahead of her so that I can turn around and see her face when we round the corner and enter our common space because she’s going to love it. After all, when we moved to the new location, we had her needs in mind, even though we weren’t sure we’d see her again. Bruce seems to have the same idea and steps in line with me. Just as well, because there’s a triple iron, bullet proof, double door that needs to be swung open. Bruce leans toward the small box of dials on his side and presses a succession of buttons. The box beeps, and a heavy click that’s more of a thump comes from inside the door. I glance down at Annabel and see her face is nervous but excited, eyes shining with anticipation.
Bruce and I nod at each other, and then push against the double door so that it swings open with an aching creak. As planned, I turn around to watch Annabel’s reaction to her new home, and I’m not disappointed. Her full lips part as her jaw drops in shock. Her eyes are as round as plates, reflecting the light of a hundred candles and torches. In the golden glow, her alabaster skin looks even more luminous than usual. Her chest heaves in excitement, drawing our attention to her soft, giant tits. We don’t even notice when Greg, our runner, comes over to us and takes the loot to put it in safekeeping.
Our girl looks amazing, like a goddess lit up by a thousand tealights. Her angelic face and soft curves make it all worthwhile. She has the kind of splendor that’s only found in Renaissance paintings, and the air goes tight in my chest. This is where she belongs. With us, in our lair.
I watch her take in the wide, high ceiling of the circular room made of brick. The walls have torches spread out in intervals of six feet all the way around, with small vents at the base of the walls for oxygen. Lush, expensive carpets cover the floor. Six arches, placed at intervals in the circular room, lead to corridors toward a series of private quarters. Dozens of chandeliers, sparkling with hundreds of candles, hang from the high ceilings at different levels. Comfortable, expensive sofas populate the room, decorated in midnight blue, velvety purple, and deep maroon hues.
But it’s not just the lavish furniture because two dozen men quietly drink, play chess, and read. Or at least, they were doing these things because now they’ve gone still, watching with curious eyes. Who is this gorgeous girl?
She shifts uncomfortably under their gaze, hiding behind me a bit. I don’t blame here. Our men are a motley crew, and a lot of them look like they’ve seen better days with their broken noses and cauliflower ears. Plus, they’re not exactly dressed nice. That’s not what criminals do when you’re looking to blend in.
Bruce and I nod at each other. It’s time to make this official.
“Alright, listen,” he says as he makes his way to the dais at the other end of the room. “No need to look at her like you’ve never seen a woman before.”
“We’ve never seen one here, that’s for sure,” growls one of the men, a huge, rough, Frenchman by the name of Loîc. We tend to use him for jobs that require heavy lifting rather than agility. He’s loyal and reliable, a little like a plow horse. But there’s a dangerous glint in his black eyes that I don’t like, and my brother’s seen it, too.
