I grind my teeth and pull away from him again. “I don’t need you to escort me.”
“Yes,” he growls. “You do. Because the second you walk into that theater, someone is going to claim you. Do you understand what that means for tonight?”
I swallow as dread works through me.Claim me.
“No,” I say, jutting my jaw out defiantly.
He pulls me into his body, and I gasp as his arm tightens around my waist.
“It’s an unspoken agreement. It means they get to fuck you.”
Something hot slides through me when I look up into his eyes.
“I can say no,” I whisper, more of a question.
“Not tonight, you can’t. If you’re here, you’re fair game.”
My body leans into his. “So, are you claiming me then?”
He lets out a rough-sounding laugh—his voice ragged. “No. But they will think I’ve already fucked you—or that I’m about to—so they will leave you alone.” I stop breathing completely as he brushes my hair to one side, lowering his lips. They graze the sensitive skin on my earlobe, and his breath causes me to visibly shudder. “Play the part.”
And then he opens the door, tugging me along after him. And I try desperately not to think about all the women who have been left alone because he’d already fucked them.And I taste bile.
The room is like it was last week, except there are fewer candles, and black blankets line the floors. It’s darker this time, and everyone is standing still, waiting for him—forus. Facing us in their masks. Silent, still, and eerie. The platform gives us a slight height advantage, and my skin prickles as everyone looks at me.
Play the part.
I force the scowl off my face and neutralize my expression. Benedict stops, and I stay by his side as he speaks.
“The pillars of this house will set us free,” Benedict starts.
“The pillars of this house will set us free,”everyone repeats. His voice—hispresence—commands the room. His eyes are twinkling with power.
“Welcome to the ceremonies.” He holds his hands out to the side. “Hail, brothers and sisters. I invite you into our sacred ritual,” he says, his voice smooth and confident.
The audience is still, waiting—perched and anxious.
“We set ourselves on fire once again tonight. And, with the flames that eat through our primal bodies, we shall read the sign. We shall bow to her and resign ourselves to pleasure once more. The ceremonies set us free.” He drops his arms and grabs my hand, tugging me closer. “Begin.”
What happens next can only be described as feast or famine—people twist around and grab the person they came with. Or they get cornered. The question is, who’s the cat and who’s the mouse? I see both men and women stalking toward other people, and fortunately, everyone is smiling—excited. They’ve agreed to this game. I cock my head as I watch. It’s kind of magical. Tonight, they’re just bodies. People encased in skin, forming a connection with another human. Male or female—it doesn’t seem to matter.
The only thing that matters is the pleasure.
“Is it consensual?” I whisper, my voice lost among the murmuring of voices and the shuffling of fabric.
“Yes. Being here is the consent. It’s an unspoken agreement. Hayes makes every single one of them sign off on it. And there are rules. No violence. Only pleasure.”
I look around for the infamous Hayes, and I see him skulking in the back—watching. Just watching. Arms crossed, eyes forward. My skin tingles under his scrutiny.
Benedict jerks me backward, his body pushing up against my back. Moving my hair away from my neck, he lowers his head and speaks.
“Do you see why I couldn’t let you go out there by yourself?” His lips graze the nape of my neck. I hear him inhale as people undress. Some have dropped to their knees.
I shudder. “Maybe I wanted to.”
A low growl sounds behind me. “Is that so?” As he says it, his hand slides across my waist, his fingers lighting my skin on fire. I hear a moan from the crowd, and he reaches up and fists my hair gently, forcing me to look at the bodies bewitched with each other—their gazes fiery and mischievous. “Is that what you want?”
Everyone is coupled or grouped up—except for Hayes, who watches like a creepy chaperone—which is fitting. There are naked, masked bodies writhing against each other. Bending.Kneeling. Benedict’s hand finds the seam of my cloak, opening it to let his hand play with the hem of my shirt, indelicately lifting it up ever so slightly. His calloused fingers stroke the tender skin beneath my belly button.
