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Gaze briefly flickering to the devil responsible for each death, she saw his face completely neutral, his eyes on the dancers onstage. With no cue from him on how to behave or what to do, she did the only thing she could without inviting punishment. She moved and tentatively sat down on the guy’s lap, keeping her eyes fixed on a light away as he palmed her breasts. She didn’t make a sound.
“Moan for me, darling.”
She wouldn’t. That was something she could control. She stayed silent, wondering if the devil would kill this one at all, since they were sitting together.
“Tough bitch,” the man chuckled, clapping his hands to get the attention of the table. “A wager. Whoever gets her to moan gets a hundred thousand.”
A few men whooped and her stomach dropped. She instinctively sought his gaze, only to find the mismatched eyes set on the man holding her.
“This one’s trouble, boy,” the older man who’d been there last week warned. “Better let her go before her guardian angel finds you.”
The guy under her chuckled. “There are no angels in this place, old man.”
No, but there were devils, the biggest of them looking at her.
“I’ll make her moan.”
Her heart stuttered at the sound of his voice as he tapped the blonde to get off him. She huffed and got up, finding another lap immediately.
The old man warned again. “She’s not worth it, Blackthorne.”
“Yes, she is,” he stated, spreading his legs slightly and extending his gloved palm toward her.
Heart pounding, she walked to him, putting her hand in his gloved one.
He tugged her forward until she fell into his chest, his muscular leg between hers as he sat her down. Lyla stared at him, enthralled by the lights reflecting in his light golden-green eye and the complete lack of reflection in the black.
He put one hand on the back of the couch, the other going to the side of her thigh.
A shiver skittered down her spine at the simple touch, and it made no sense to her how one man’s touch could light her up where other’s failed to even spark. Maybe it was because of their history, their connection, their twisted relationship. Maybe it was because she was a fool to feel safe with him, even knowing there were multiple people behind her. Multiple men in a small dark space only ever incited fear in her. Right now, straddling his thigh, she felt anything but.
He tilted his head forward, lining his mouth with her ear, exactly as he had the previous week, and calmly asked, “Do you want me to cut his hand off or burn it?”
Lyla shuddered at his words, and not entirely in revulsion. Something inside her, something dark and deranged, wanted to see him do it, see him sever the hand that had touched her without her permission. And it scared her, that side of her.
She swallowed, basking in the power of that choice. “Cut it.”
She felt him smile against her cheek, his breaths warm against her ear as he trapped her wrists in his wandering hand.
“Good girl.”
The words, soft, full of praise, coming from him made something warm flood in her system, her hips grinding involuntarily, her movement limited, controlled by his body.
“And how do you want him to die?” he asked, his voice low, almost seductive. “Should the Shadow Man do it from a distance? Or up close and personal?” He pushed his thigh up on the last word.
He was talking about real murder and she was wet, so, so wet, more naturally wet than she’d ever been in her entire life. She hadn’t even known she could lubricate so much, and the fact that something so gruesome was turning her on was disturbing. She was going to leave a spot on him.
“The slut is enjoying this!” The loud holler from the back made her stiffen, awareness falling inwith sharp blades on her consciousness.
“Shh.” The words whispered against her ear soothed her frayed edges a bit. “It’s just us. It’s always just been us. Focus on me.”
She closed her eyes and did as he asked. The noise of the club, the sounds of the men in the back, everything slowly fell away as she focused on the sound of his voice, the piper leading her to the cliff.
His nose went down the side of her neck. “He called you a slut. Are you a slut, flamma?”
She didn’t know how to answer that, the loathing inside her rearing its head.
“Do you like my touch?” he asked, his grip on wrists firm as he brought his other hand to her mouth, tracing her lips.
