by Lana Sky
I wince as he runs his finger directly over the wound, heedless of the blood that coats it.
“This was made with a knife. You were assaulted.”
Hearing him say it makes it all too damn real.
“I’m fine.” I shrug him off and attempt to snatch the handkerchief back, but he pulls it out of my reach.
“I’m sure you are aware that your father has plenty of enemies. I should take you home. Or at least call the police—”
“Or you can let me out right here and leave me alone.”
He pauses as if mulling it over. But the doors remain locked—I’m sure I heard the driver engage them. Tension fills the air, feeding off the inescapable fact that he holds all the control.
“I’ve humored your valiant attempts to appear unaffected, Ms. Thorne,” he says, proving as much. “Don’t assume that you can lie to me. Even without my sight, I know that you’re trembling. That you came to me so hysterical my doorman broke protocol to let you in.”
Hysterical? I grit my teeth. “I’m fine—”
“I know that you were sobbing,” he continues over me. “And I played your game by not mentioning it before, but I know you’re crying even now.”
Damn him. I impulsively swipe at my eyes. They’re burning. Wet. Because I’m tired. I barely slept last night. The long work hours have strained my vision and triggered a pulsing headache. That’s why.
“You said you fell.” He voices the statement with a sudden concern that chafes against my already sore pride. “And yet you didn’t call your father or the police—”
“I didn’t come here for the third degree,” I snap.
“Sí. So why did you come, then?”
I glare out the window in lieu of answering right away. Blurred buildings pass by in a blend of color. We’re somewhere uptown, I assume, hopefully near enough to the Lariat that I could walk to it. My fingers twitch toward the door handle, but something keeps me from grabbing it.
Making a scene now would be both cathartic and utterly stupid.
Not that he’d allow you to embarrass him. The thought comes from someplace deep, impossible to suppress. When I finally let my hand fall, it isn’t out of fear. It isn’t.
“Are you going to paint me or not?” I demand, changing the subject when the silence becomes unbearable. “I can pay you, of course.”
“I don’t do it for money.” His voice dips down to that unsettling octave. Once again, he’s defensive. “And, as I said, we’ll discuss my terms and you can decide whether or not you will agree to them. Shall we?”
Huh? Startled, I glance out the window behind him. We’ve stopped. A high-rise towers above, formed of silver accents and polished glass. The restaurant he mentioned must be inside it. I start for the door, desperate to escape the tension—only to remember that my blouse is undone and I’m wearing one sleeve of my coat. I scramble to assemble myself while Damien patiently waits.
“Take your time, Ms. Thorne,” he says, his head cocked, his ears bared to catch my rapid breathing.
He and the driver must have a routine worked out. The other man exits the vehicle first but comes to my end. As I rush out, I turn and find Damien using his cane to maneuver around the car. A part of me wants him to trip. Stumble. Anything to prove that he’s human and not infallible.
As if to spite me, he mounts the curb without a hitch.
“Shall we, Ms. Thorne?” He starts for the building’s entrance, utilizing his cane. Near the doors, he pauses. “After you…”
I stalk inside with my head held high, expecting one of the quaint, expensive haunts Daddy would drag me to. Places with gilded wallpapers and employees who bend over backward in the hopes of earning a tip to supplement an income that doesn’t come close to the cost of a chef’s special.
Instead, I find subdued colors and a hushed silence that instantly mutes the noise from the street. The lobby is sparsely decorated but in a way that leaves no doubt in one’s mind as to the caliber of humans who frequent this establishment.
Filthy, decadently rich.
“This way.” Damien heads forward, using his cane to test the path before him.
A beaming woman in black silk stands behind a silver podium and automatically recognizes my host. “Mr. Villa,” she says warmly. “A private room for two, as requested.”
It strikes me that the decor looks as though it were ripped right from his studio. Dark walls and polished wood floors illuminated by dim lighting designed to make any visitor feel more disoriented than…
Well, than a blind man.
A man could bring his enemy here. Or his lover.
It’s too intimate. Dark walls form an elegant, if claustrophobic, prison. In lieu of a table and chairs, a leather chaise dominates one wall placed behind a low table—making for a vastly different layout from any restaurant I’ve frequented.
The only decoration is a row of black curtains shielding one half of the room. All in all, I’m reminded of a private box in a theater and my mind hums with terrifying possibilities. Few things could entertain a man like Damien—and every potential scenario sets my already frayed nerves on fire.
“My usual wine,” he requests of the server before seating himself at one end of the chaise. “Anything for my guest?”
I bite my lip to keep from asking for the same. “Water,” I choke out. There. Now to keep up the air of being unaffected.
A cursory glance of the room reveals few places to sit without being near him. A spot at the far end of the couch offers the most distance.
“So, you can guarantee the discretion of this place?” I take pains to sound skeptical while gauging his reaction. Damn. Not even a wince. “Unless this was your plan all along? Manipulate me into ruining my father’s career?” It sounds so damn obvious when said out loud. “Have a nice night, Mr. Villa—”
“I promised you discretion, did I not?” His face is as stoic as ever, but his hands are clenched at his sides. Once again, I’ve insulted him. “You can leave,” he adds coldly, jerking his chin toward the door. “Or you can join me. The show is about to begin.”
Show?
As if on cue, the black curtains part to reveal a sheet of glass behind them: a window.
Confused, I lower myself onto the couch. I assumed the word choice was a taunt, but now? “What is this?”
The main event, apparently. This room overlooks a larger area presumably meant to serve as a stage. Rather than an audience or gallery, rows of mirrors reflect the scene unfolding a good ten feet down below.
“We can’t be seen,” Damien informs me. “And trust me when I say that no one here gives a damn about your father.”
I can guess why. Fixated on the view, I moisten my lips with my tongue and try to steady my breathing. It’s rapid and shallow. Am I disgusted? Maybe.
Down below unfolds a scene my father would never expose me to.
Strapped to a black pole is a woman wearing only a leather collar around her neck and nothing else. Her breasts are bared, her body taut with anticipation as a man paces before her, barefoot over black flooring. He’s naked as well, sporting a long, black strip of material in one hand. It lashes at the air with every step he takes. A whip.
“What in the hell?” I scramble to my feet, unable to tear my gaze away. There’s something primal about the scene. Naked flesh and taut muscle moving fluidly with nothing to disguise it. No protection. No masks. “What is this?”
“Expression,” Damien says calmly. “If you are offended, I can arrange for you to be safely returned home—”
“So this is where you get your inspiration from?” I make that word as nasty as I can, oddly satisfied when his jaw clenches. I’ve broken through that collected exterior. But I have enough sense to regret it as he inclines his head in my direction.
“Not everything is pretty colors to appease your vanity, Ms. Thorne.”
“Oh?” I swallow hard and fight to make my voice as haughty and bitchy as I possibly can. “I guess that’s how every
sick freak tries to justify it—”
“Never call me that.” He doesn’t have to specify what. Freak.
I take another step away from him, toward the door. “Then what should I call you?”
“I suggest you ask yourself the same question. You’re offended. Why?”
I scoff. “Because this is disgusting!”
“Why?”
“B-because…” I break off, sensing the trap before he can spring it.
Clever bastard. Once again, he’s trying to manipulate me into saying the one thing he seems eager to hear: There’s no way in hell I could ever understand him or his fucking art.
“You told me to enjoy the show? But how can you?” I make a show of glancing around the room only to realize that the display is more for my benefit than his. Still, it proves my point. “There isn’t exactly a play-by-play.”
“Ah.” He sits back, suddenly at ease. His fingers form a steeple beneath his chin. “I brought you here for a reason, Ms. Thorne. Put your unique appreciation for the unusual to good use. Narrate.” He clips the word between his teeth, an unmistakable dare. A terrifying threat.
“You’re disgusting.”
He shrugs in a gallant display of indifference. “And you see less than I do. We can agree on those assessments of each other, at least.” And I have you pegged. The insult stings without him having to voice it aloud. Spoiled little rich girl. I could never understand such a twisted, edgy artist.
“They’re fucking,” I snarl, starting for the exit. “Even blind, you shouldn’t need that explained to you—”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice cuts the air, harsher than the whip lashing the naked woman, stopping me in my tracks. “I told you to describe it. What you see, as you see it.”
“Like how?” I look over my shoulder and feel my cheeks flame. “Naked man. Mounting naked woman. Using his penis to—”
“No.” He strikes the leather seat with the flat of his hand. Hard.
I jolt to attention, hating the gasp that trickles from my lips.
“Don’t tell me what they’re doing. Tell me what you see.”
“I see…” My gaze returns to the glass. The woman’s face is upturned, her eyes wide and unfocused. My heart surges, picking up on her alarm. “She…she’s afraid.” Before my mind can even travel down a dark road, something in her parted lips catches my attention.
“Why?” Damien wonders, almost as if sensing the same thing I do.
“Because…this is stupid.” I turn away, only to be faced with a monster, hunched forward, demanding an answer. His unforgiving snarl offers no escape.
“Why?”
“Stop.” I clench my jaw. “I’m not doing this.”
“If you lack the ability to articulate a simple, physical act, Ms. Thorne, then by all means. Leave.”
And go where?
I was almost murdered tonight. The fact sinks in only now, while two people screw behind me and a madman orders me to play his twisted game of show and tell. I could have died, and no one would be the wiser. Not Daddy. Not the police. Just silence and Simon.
“You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
“Then tell me.”
I hate how his voice softens, still cold but less harsh. He’s harder to rebuff like this. Harder to ignore.
“Tell you what? How I feel?” I spit his word out like it’s the naughtiest of expletives. “Right now, I feel like a tool. I feel like I’m an idiot for humoring you for this long to be honest.”
He says nothing. Waiting. Expecting. He knows I’ll run.
Two deliberate steps carry me away from the window as I intend to do just that. Freedom is within reach. So I can’t explain why I turn back to the couple again.
The man took the woman off the pole. He has her on her hands and knees, facing our direction. His hand rises and lowers in sharp succession, bringing the whip across her lower back. Something in my stomach twists, like a knot tightening with every blow.
“She’s in pain.” The voice doesn’t sound like me. Broken and monotone; the drone of a sleepwalker in the midst of a nightmare. “But…”
“But what does she feel?” Damien is impatient in his prompting this time.
“She…likes it.” I hate the assessment even as it leaves my mouth. “Her mouth is open,” I find myself saying, almost to justify the reaction to myself. “She winces when struck, but she’s licking her lips. She’s not pulling away from him.”
If anything, her hips arch into every blow. When the man pauses his assault to swipe a hand through her hair, she shivers into the contact.
“She enjoys it, but she’s still afraid.”
“Why?” Every quietly uttered question reminds me that I’m not alone. He’s there, listening, sensing.
“Because she likes it too much.” The man starts to strike her again. With every lash, her entire body quakes, and her teeth capture her lower lip. I recognize the look, admittedly in a different context. “She can’t move away. Even if she wants to.”
“Oh?” His voice is even softer. “And how can you tell that?”
How? The same way I can look at his paintings and know that, despite the rumors, they aren’t part of some money-making scheme.
“Because it’s written on her face.”
A rush of cool air alludes to the door opening and a woman walks in, balancing a bottle of wine on a tray and two glasses. Without batting an eyelash, she sets the tray down on the table before the couch and pours from a bottle that I assume is twice as expensive as whatever he served me earlier.
When she leaves, I don’t wait for Damien’s say so to snatch one of the glasses for myself, and then I return to the window, bracing my free palm flat against the glass. My outstretched fingers form a frame, the man and woman trapped between them. Tiny puppets enacting a sick fantasy for the other people no doubt watching them from other private rooms.
“Do you bring all of your subjects here?” I ask the man behind me.
“No.” The word lands harshly. “I seek different things from different people.”
“And what do you seek from me?”
I already know the answer. Nothing. He merely wants me to stop pretending that I could ever see anything in his art beyond the surface. I’m a superficial bitch—how dare I believe otherwise.
“Tell me what you see,” he commands rather than answer my question. “Describe it.”
“He’s kissing her.”
I never stopped watching them. There’s no rhyme or reason to their act. No rehearsed movements or enticing grins given to their audience. It’s just them, locked in a room, forced to confront their darkest desires.
“He doesn’t want to,” I add as the man rams his tongue between the blond’s lips. “He wants more, but he’s holding back for her. To reassure her.”
“Of what?” Damien wonders.
“That…” I shy away from voicing more. This is wrong. My eyes dart to the door, but in the process, I catch sight of the man on the couch, his posture rigid, his attention focused solely on me. Reluctantly, I mutter, “That he’ll only ever give her what she wants.”
“And what does she want?” His question lands more ominously than it should. I’m his pawn being maneuvered like a piece on a gameboard. Checkmate. He seeks surrender.
As for the woman? She wants…
“Freedom,” I whisper.
She is on her back now, being herded against the pole, which provides enough stability for her to climb to her feet. The man watches, his whip at the ready. Without warning, he lashes out, striking her across the hips. She leans into the wicked caress, her eyes fixated on her partner, swollen. Begging.
My breath fogs the glass the longer I watch. In all honesty, I’ve never witnessed something like this before. Sex in its rawest, truest form. No lights. No cameras. Just lust and inhibition.
And Damien.
“My terms,” he says as the couple finally collapses against each other, panting and spent. The curtains
draw together, obscuring our view until I’m faced with pure darkness. “I require discretion.”
“Of course.” I grit my teeth, feeling my lips contort into a sneer. “Because the first thing I want to do is tell my father that I’m consorting with you. He warned me that you’re a liar,” I add, merely to twist the knife. “And a criminal.”
And dangerous.
“Our sessions will consist of one per week for a month, an hour each,” he continues without missing a beat. “I prefer to meet at night in my studio.” He pauses as if to gauge how well I’m following the rapid-fire requests. When I say nothing, he continues. “I also require that my subjects abide by my request during that time.”
“And what request would that be?” I face him, curious despite myself. Could this request hold the secret behind his model’s morbid poses?
“You submit to me during the allotted time. Fully. I do what I want with you and you do not question.”
I can’t even pretend that I’m not curious. “In what way?”
He shrugs. “You will be paralyzed during our sessions. A simple drug related to succinylcholine but modified for recreational use. This synthetic version allows you to feel, breathe, and maintain your consciousness, but you will not be able to move.”
I’m not familiar with the drug, but I recognize a dangerous scenario when I hear it. This one has all the makings of some sick joke, but he isn’t laughing.
“I’ll be like this for an hour?”
A slight tilt to his mouth makes heat flood my stomach. “Give or take. It doesn’t last long in the body.”
“And people actually agree to this?”
“I would understand if you declined.” As you should. For the first time, I can clearly sense what he doesn’t say out loud. Refuse. Admit it: You can’t handle this.
Of course I can’t. But my lips won’t move to voice that out loud. I find myself picking imaginary lint off my jacket. “And you say that your subjects let you do anything. Like what?”
His jaw tightens in a way that can only be described as challenging. “Anything I deem necessary.”
“Touching?”
“Sí.” He leans back against the chaise. “I would need to ‘see’ my subject.”
