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Dressed in a jumper dress with a belt cinching me in at the waist, I pull on the shit-kicker boots that I’ve come to think of as my own, give my hair a quick blast with the hairdryer, and then allow my rumbling tummy to guide me to the dining hall.
Everyone stops talking and stares at me when I enter, and my cheeks flush. Bones shoots me a knowing grin. I can’t meet his gaze.
“Saved a seat for you, darlin’,” Honey calls, patting the empty space between him and Night. I take my seat, tucking myself in, and no sooner have I done that, Night’s grabbing my napkin and smoothing it out across my lap, his hand lingering at the apex of my thighs. It doesn’t matter that my dress falls just above my knee, I may as well be naked with the way his touch burns me. A tiny whimper escapes my lips, and his answering grin is so smug I want to stab him and kiss him and grind on him and demand that he makes me come all at the same time.
I do none of those things. Instead, I reach with trembling hands, for the jug of water on the table and pour myself a glass as the doors at the other end of the room open and the serving staff file in with our plates. Maybe I’m just ravenous, but the food smells better than ever today, and I greedily tuck in to my chicken parmigiana as soon as it’s placed on the table before me.
The room remains quiet while we all eat, and it’s so hard not to break the silence with groans of appreciation at how good the food is.
Bones catches my eye and smirks, just as Night leans in and whispers, “Good girl, you could be eating for two now, so keep going.”
Fuck, the pleasure of his praise wars with the panic his words create in me, and I end up freezing for a moment. I take a long gulp of water, wishing it was wine, to hide how flustered I am. We’re just finished up our meal, the plates being cleared away when Seytan enters the room and. My heart sinks.
Great.
Nothing good ever comes from one of her visits.
“Gentleman, Miss Kingfisher, I have another mission for you,” she says in a no-nonsense tone.
I frown. Is this what normally happens when they’re sent on missions? Do they get told about it? I sure as shit haven’t been enlightened before the last two. Is this going to be another set up? Another attempt on my life?
“Tonight there’s a very important gala being held at Waterfeld House.” The location means nothing to me, but the others shift uncomfortably in their seats, and Night, whose hand is still in my lap, fists the material of my dress. Without thinking I lay my hand over his and give a gentle squeeze. He immediately grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together, and takes in a deep breath, as if he’s somehow drawing strength from my touch. I feel the same, but it’s nice to be needed.
“Kayla,” Seytan says, turning her attention to me. “I know you’re new here so that won’t mean much to you, but Waterfeld House is a country manor on the outskirts of Bath. It’s the headquarters for a prominent charity that works to support victims of domestic abuse. Or at least, that’s what it is on the surface.”
My expression must show my confusion because Night squeezes my hand so hard it hurts, his own trembling with what I assume is barely contained rage.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“It’s run by a collection of corrupt billionaires. Politicians, MPs, Judges…upstanding members of the community. And it’s a front.”
“What’s a front?”
“The entire charity is a front for what really happens at these events.”
“Which is….?” I prompt when she doesn’t elaborate.
“An auction.”
“Aren’t there usually auctions to raise money for a good cause?” There’s obviously something darker at play, but Seytan’s not being very forthcoming about it. It’s still a shit-tonne more information than I had going into the last missions, but it’s not enough.
Seytan takes a deep breath, then sighs, like I’m being deliberately obtuse just to wind her up. “The charity is a front for human trafficking. It finds victims under the guise of supporting them, then sells them to the highest bidder at the galas.”
My jaw drops and my stomach sinks just as fast. Ice courses through my veins.
…what do I even say to that?
“That’s….” My voice is barely a horrified whisper.
“Quite,” Seytan replies sharply, her face flashing with rage before shooting me a sympathetic glance. “You are to infiltrate the gala as potential…buyers.”
I feel sick. my stomach churns. No one protests, but no one looks happy either.
“Except for you, Miss Kingfisher.”
“Me?”
“Women are not potential buyers. The only females in attendance are the stock.”
