Page 36 of Goldflame
I need an escape from this awful reality. From him.
Forcing myself to think of Adrian is almost laughableunder these circumstances—but it’s easier than dealing with this horror head-on. I picture him smiling, something rare I only saw a handful of times in over a decade. Then I hold that image in my mind.
He was such a beautiful man. So golden, even with his darkness.
He was cruel, but never cruel enough to put me through this hell.
Two hours later, I’m scrubbed and polished like a prized pony being readied for auction. The maids worked efficiently and are good at what they do, never meeting my eyes as they bathed me, dried me, arranged my hair in an elaborate updo with delicate gold pins that catch the light. They’re only doing their job, so I can’t be mad at them for that. But this ritual felt ceremonial, almost religious—cleansing the unworthy whore to prepare her for sacrifice.
I stare at myself in the large mirror. The Alexander McQueen gown they’ve poured me into is a masterpiece. Liquid gold silk cascades from a structured bodice adorned with intricate hand-beading, each crystal catching light and fracturing it into a thousand tiny daggers. The dress alone must cost more than most people make in a year. And it was tailored precisely to my measurements. A reminder that even in my captivity, I am still the Golden One. Still good enough to be dressed in fine garments.
Still a possession worth displaying.
While the maids dressed me, Julian slipped away to change clothes. Now he’s back in the doorway, his bruised face contrasting with his immaculate black suit.His tie is the exact shade of gold as my dress, a detail that I despite. We’re matching. Like we’re a couple instead of predator and prey.
“Follow me,” he says once the maids are gone. His voice is flat, emotionless, like he’s addressing a stranger. Or worse—a servant.
I follow obediently.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AURELIA
The Harvest of Wealth festival is exactly what its name suggests—a celebration of excess, a monument to privilege. The grand ballroom of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel has been transformed into a temple of grandeur, with gold and black décor dripping from every surface. Two giant crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light across the floor, and ice sculptures of cornucopias melt slowly on tables filled with food most people will never taste in their lifetime.
It’s actually quite beautiful, if over-the-top, but it’s not exactly what I expected. Unlike other Inferno Consortium gatherings, there’s no undercurrent of depravity, no rooms designated for sex and orgies, or drug use. I’m sure people are doing that here, somewhere, but it’s more hidden this time. Tonight, old-world wealth is on display—dignified, prestigious, almost conservative in its presentation. Men in tailored suits and women in designer gowns move through the spacelike actors on a stage, everyone playing the part of respectability.
I want to gag. These people arefarfrom respectable. Having lots of money doesn’t mean you’re a good human being. The people who traffick women and molest children and sell drugs are suddenly pretending to be pillars of society. God, the hypocrisy.
Julian guides me through the crowd with a light touch at the small of my back. Each point of contact between his fingers and the thin silk of my dress is like a shock. We weave through Seattle’s elite—tech billionaires, shipping magnates, politicians—all mingling with members of the Consortium they probably don’t realize are criminals. Or maybe they do know and simply don’t care where their campaign donations or business investors come from.
More and more, I’m disgusted by the world we live in.
Waiters dance around with trays of champagne in crystal flutes and tiny spoons of caviar. A woman nearby laughs too loudly at something her companion says, the sound like breaking glass against my eardrums.
I’ve been here two minutes and already I want to get away. But Julian’s hand at my back, though light, reminds me of my leash.
Julian steers me deeper into the ballroom, past a quartet playing classical music that no one is truly listening to, past tables with place cards calligraphed by hand. The farther we go, the more my chest tightens, as if there’s less oxygen here among the powerful than there was by the entrance.
Suddenly, his hand closes around my upper arm, squeezing so hard he’s cutting off circulation. Instead of yelping, I bite my bottom lip and grimace through it.
He leans closer, his breath warming the shell of my ear as he hisses, “Behave. My guards will catch you if you run. And everyone here knows you belong to me.”
The words splinter something fundamental inside me. Once, I would have given anything to hear Julian claim me as his. To have him announce to the world that I was the one he wanted, not just another conquest, not just his brother’s leftovers. I would’ve killed to belong to him.
But not like this. Never like this.
I am so tired of this shit.
Yanking out of his grip, I spin to face him. My little spark of defiance makes his eyebrow twitch up, but I’m not done. I grabhisarm as hard as I can. Of course, his bicep is too big for me to get a good grip, but I dig my nails in as deep as they’ll go. He flinches, trying to mask that I’m causing him pain.
Leaning closer to his ear, I spit out, “I fucking hate you.” And dammit, part of me really means it. That part of me is growing stronger, day by day, little by little, the more he treats me like trash. The more he becomes a man I don’t recognize.
Julian snatches my wrists, pulling my claws away from his body, then he yanks me into his chest. His grin is twisted and demonic in the honeyed lighting. “I’ll remember that next time I decide to get my dick wet in your traitorous cunt.” Pulling back, he kisses me, forcing our lips together painfully.
I swallow and turn my head so he won’t see that those words affect me. Some day, I fear my hate and resentment toward him will overpower the love.
I want to scream. I want to tear this beautiful dress from my body. I want to tell every person in this room exactly what the Harrow family really is, what they’ve done, what they’re capable of.
