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“How do you know my name?” she says, descending into her shoulders. She's veiled in sweat and looks weak with trembling limbs.
He whispers something to her, his face soft and welcoming, and then wraps up her tiny naked frame in the blanket.
What the fuck's going on?
“Blaire,” James says quietly, “does he have dealings with the Albanians?”
“I... I don't know,” I stutter, trying to filter what's happening.
Standing with masculine poise, Charlie lifts the girl up into his arms, one under her knees and the other behind her shoulders, I think to avoid touching her wounded back. She huddles against him, seeming glad that he's here.
“Anymore of this bullshit,” he warns, and leisurely pivots around, using the girl as a demonstration, “and we're all gonna have a problem—especially you, falso Prince.”
He continues to scrutinize everyone, then his attention lands on me. His pale eyes widen and his jaw ticks. For the second time tonight, I don't know where to look.
“Charlie,” Maksim says, ruffling his damp hair, “the girl is old enough and she's a willing participant. Tell him, Arjana...” he points out to her.
“Willing participant?” Charlie walks up to him with the girl, hunched at the neck. “She's stolen property. You of all people should know better than to fuck with the Albanians.”
“She is payment for a debt owed to me,” the Prince says, lifting his chin in an attempt to look proud.
“Debt or no debt,” Charlie stalks over to the Prince, who cowers in his kameez, “we can all find ways to please ourselves without beating and gangbanging an eighteen year old girl.” There's something eerie in the way Charlie is looking at the Prince. “Fuck her in a more private setting next time or find an older 'participant', as you so nicely put it, Maksim.” He stalks back over to Maksim, holding that girl like she barely weighs a bag of sugar. “I mean, I'm all for a bit of sadism but this is bullshit.” He practically spits in Maksim's face.
“It is just some fun,” the Prince says, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.
“Fun?” Charlie raises his eyebrows at him, then he turns to his coward audience. “Maybe I should get all your wives here and have my men belt them and gangbang them for so long that their flesh shakes. How would you all like that?”
The ballroom is in quiet shock, and I'm just about to pass out with it when Charlie tells Maksim, “You should send Blaire home. She doesn't need to see this.”
The Prince arches an eyebrow, flabbergasted by Charlie’s audacity. Maksim is stunned and humiliated, stuttering to defend himself but nothing worthy comes out.
“You'll have her on all fours next,” Charlie continues belittling my master, shaking his head at me in disgust, “getting fucked by this brainless lot.”
I feel a surge of rage go through James and he steps forward for Charlie. The five men who are Charlie’s armor lift their guns in our direction, so I grab the back of James' sweater to stop him, my heart drumming in my ears.
Charlie isn't bothered by James' attempt at him—and why would he be? He's got an arsenal. He shakes his head at me, pity burning in his eyes. “Since when did men start having young girls protect them?” Before anyone can answer him, he turns away with the girl in his arms and leaves just as quickly as he came. His men follow out the double doors like a pack of wolves, and they shut us in.
No one is sure what to do—we're all just glancing at each other—but then Maksim rushes after Charlie, telling the Asian Prince, “I need to make sure there's no tension after this. That was Charlie Decena.”
The Prince seems to know who Charlie is because he's gone white.
“What the hell was that all about?” James says under his breath, his eyes glued to the exit doors. “And why doesn't he address Maksim properly?”
“I have no idea,” I say, dismayed by Charlie's bizarre act of kindness to save that girl.
Voices break through the silence, discussing Charlie and what he's just done. Some know who he is. Others don't. I try to listen in—I want to know who he is—but Maksim returns. He marches up to me, his expression tight with nerves. “Go home now,” he orders in Russian. “I'll call you if I need you.”
What?
“Do not stop to talk to anyone,” he says in a charge of Russian words. He can't seem to relax, looking back and forth between the exit doors and me. “Just get in your car and leave.”
James nudges me onward because I'm paralyzed with confusion.
Maksim grips my arm so tight I can feel his fingers digging into my flesh even through my combat sweater. “Get a move on.”
I don't question him, even while I know this is out of character—he's never ordered me to leave before. Putting my head down, I walk through the murmuring ballroom, sort of thankful that I no longer have to endure the party.
What Charlie saw is nothing. It'll get darker as the night goes on.
