by Amy Sumida
“You win.”
Slate grinned viciously at me as he turned sharply on his heels and went back to the wall panel. He pressed the button as he stared at the tears trailing down my cheeks. I turned sharply away from him and watched Tessa anxiously.
“Get her out of there,” Slate said into the speaker.
“You're a fucking prick,” Jago growled.
I knew Jago wanted to say more than that but he had his priorities. He shot into the arena three seconds later; gathering up the bawling girl and running back into the cells with her. I let out the breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Then I slowly turned to Slate; my whole body gone cold.
“You horrid son of a bitch,” I whispered. “You piece of filth. I'm going to smile while I watch you die.”
“I always get my way, Elaria,” Slate said coldly. “Remember that.”
“Fuck you.” I lifted my chin and stared down my nose at him.
Slate grabbed my arm and walked me back upstairs. His expression was darkly triumphant as we returned to his office. But he didn't stop there. Slate ushered me through the door to the right of his desk. Beyond it was a passage similar to the one on the left; windows on one side and doors on the other. Slate took me to the last door, opened it, and shoved me in. I stumbled and caught myself on a thick, carved bed poster. My eyes widened as I took in the room; velvet and silk surrounded me in soft shades of green with gold accenting it. Despite the neutral colors, it was a distinctly feminine room. I didn't want to know who had stayed in it last.
Slate went to the closet and yanked out a slinky red dress. He tossed it on the bed. Then he threw open another door and revealed a bathroom.
“Shower and dress by six; that's an hour from now,” he said crisply. He pointed back at the closet. “Wear the red heels.” He made another imperious point at the gilded vanity. “Use the makeup but don't overdo it.” He looked over me critically. “Red lipstick. No... lipstain. Do you know what that is?”
“Yeah; I know what that is.” I grimaced at him. “How do you know what that is?”
“I like red lips but I don't like getting lipstick all over me. Use the stain.”
Slate left the room with a slam of the door.
“What the hell are you doing with makeup in your house, you fucking metro?” I shouted after him.
Yeah; childish. I didn't care. I looked over at the vanity and noticed boxes of brand new makeup piled neatly atop it. How long had this asshole been planning this?
“Do I know what lipstain is?” I muttered to myself. “Just because I kick ass it doesn't mean that I don't like looking nice.”
Then the implications of what he said hit me.
“Don't like getting it all over you, huh?” I fished through the makeup until I found some red lipstick; bright crimson and utterly smearable. “You aren't touching my lips, Slate Devon. So it doesn't matter what I wear on them.”
I applied the lipstick and smiled at my reflection. It was a small rebellion but it seemed as if those were all that were left to me.
Chapter Twenty
The Quarry was more upscale than its name suggested. It was carved from stone—as most buildings in this damned zone were—but it was a paler gray stone than the arena and had flecks of silver in it. It reminded me a little of its owner's eyes.
Slate's nightclub was still closed when we arrived but the staff was there; preparing the place for the evening's entertainments. Waiters and waitresses wandered the three, tiered levels that rose up and out from a central, sunken dance floor like rounded wings. Each level was only a foot higher than the previous; bordered by steel railings with a single opening in the center to allow for the flow of customers. The bar was to the right of the steel-door entrance and a shadowy lounge was to the left. But it was the stage that caught my attention; a wide slab of stone directly ahead of us. It was set between the tiers at the end of the dance floor.
There were charcoal curtains framing the stage and lights hanging from the ceiling in front of it. It looked like the standard set up; complete with a drum kit and a piano. I wouldn't need musicians though; I was a one-woman show.
I swallowed hard as I noticed how the stage was above the dance floor but at the same height as the first tier of platforms. There were tables near the railing to either side; a perfect place for Slate's guests to watch his pet spellsinger perform. And there was the rub. I loved to sing, but no one liked to be forced. Being on stage would put my humiliation on display along with my voice. Doubtless, that was a bonus for Slate.
So be it. I straightened my shoulders and set my mind to sing something that would make everyone forget that I wasn't there by choice. I would feed them a lie and maybe even eat a little of it myself. Just to get through the night. Sometimes a pretty lie tasted sweeter than the truth.
Slate escorted me past the bar and through a door he had to unlock. Once we were in public, he'd taken my arm like a gentleman; playing up the part of an attentive lover. I wanted to smack the smirk off his face, but I kept seeing Tessa's tears. So, I let him tuck my arm around his and fortified his falsehood.
A bouncer slid into place before the doorway as soon as we were through it. I hadn't even noticed him waiting in the shadows. I was getting so sloppy. We climbed a narrow set of stairs that Slate was nearly too wide to maneuver and came out into a dark room. He flicked a switch and oriental lanterns came to life; illuminating a long, rectangular space. I wandered past another bar, weaving around a few round tables, and over to a bench that ran beneath a picture window. There was a perfect view of the stage.
“You sure do enjoy watching people from glass boxes,” I muttered.
“I enjoy watching without being watched.”
“I can see you just fine from the arena floor,” I said as I turned around to face him. “And I've no doubt I'll be able to see you from the stage too.”
Slate's eyes darted down my body; my curves filled out the dress rather nicely. He'd gotten the size perfect. My legs looked longer in the spiked heels but there was more skin showing than I would have liked.
“I don't mind you watching me,” his voice dropped to dangerous levels as his body eased closer to mine, “just not the crowd.”
I moved away. Slate's eyes followed me, but he angled his body in the opposite direction.
“Drink?” Slate asked as he slipped behind the bar.
“Amaretto on the rocks,” I said as I eased onto a bar stool warily.
He smirked as he poured.
“Too girly for a killer?” I asked him.
Slate shrugged.
“Amaretto was invented by a woman who wanted to seduce her husband away from his mistress,” I said as I accepted the drink. “That's the story my aunt told me, and she should know, she owns part of the company.”
Slate lifted a brow at me as he poured himself a scotch. Straight. Of course. I rolled my eyes as he tossed in a single ice cube. He moved around the bar with a stride like a predator; his eyes gleaming even brighter in the low light. The cube clattered in his glass. I sipped my drink as Slate took the stool beside me. One of his arms draped across the bar beside me as he took a long sip of his drink; watching me over the rim.
The amaretto went down rough but not because of the quality. It was those damn silver eyes. I could feel the liquor on my lips, but I didn't want to risk licking them with Slate so close. My mistake. His stare fastened on my mouth and he leaned in.
“Perhaps I need to try this magical potion for myself,” Slate whispered just before he slowly licked my lip.
I gasped, and his tongue slid into my mouth; sweeping against mine. I jerked away, and Slate chuckled. My heart was racing; my lips tingling from the alcohol and his kiss. I could still feel that wet slide of his tongue against mine.
“You're so jumpy, Spellsinger,” he noted. “I should have given you a shot of this instead.”
Slate held his glass to my lips and tipped it so that I was forced to either drink or get covered in scotch. I opened my m
outh and the fiery liquid burned down my throat. But Slate only gave me a sip; quickly taking the glass away before I choked.
“Better?” He asked.
I slid off the stool and went to stand in front of the window. “Yes.”
I could feel him smirking behind me.
“Stay here,” he finally said. “Help yourself to another drink. I need to handle a few things before we open.”
Slate strode out without waiting for a reply.
“Should I have told him about that smear of red on his lips?” I murmured to myself and smirked.
Slate stalked across the club, and I watched him. Several people approached him, some holding paperwork. The first person didn't look up long enough to notice the smudge, but the second did. I chuckled as a bouncer nodded at Slate's face and motioned at his lips with a knowing grin. Slate scowled, turned to look in a mirror behind the bar, and grabbed a napkin. As he wiped off his lips, he shifted his stare up to me. I flipped him off. His stare narrowed but his lips twitched.
The Zone Lord—currently in his role of Club Owner—was too busy to deal with me immediately, but his eyes promised hell. I crossed my arms and lifted my chin. Let's see what you got, gargoyle. Slate nodded crisply before he got back to work. Oh, you'll see, that nod seemed to say. He wandered about, signing things, looking over bottles of wine, and speaking with his staff. A couple of hours went by; enough time that he had dinner sent up to me. I sat at one of the little tables and ate, but my gaze kept wandering below to look for him. What else was there to do?
And Slate knew it.
Every so often, Slate would shift his stare up to me as if making sure that my eyes were still on him. He wouldn't smirk, though, just nod. Yes; that's right. I only like you watching me. It was sexy enough to make me forget about the lipstick war we were having.
After awhile, the club opened, customers started filtering in, and I started to enjoy watching Slate. Men strode up to him with chests puffed out to shake his hand forcefully as if it were a test of their manhood. Women puffed out their chests too, but in a different way entirely. Their handshakes were limp; fragile. They leaned forward hoping to entice him into looking down. He never did. Instead, he looked up; at me. That did not go over well. I became the recipient of deadly glares, feminine scorn, and a few curious head cocks. I started to worry that I'd have a whole new list of enemies before the night was through. But it wasn't about me. It was about him. Everyone had something to prove to Slate. They were powerful, they were beautiful, they were wealthy. They strutted and preened before him, and they watched him hungrily. Either Slate had something they wanted or he was something they wanted. It was fascinating.
And through it all, Slate kept staring up at me; making sure that I hadn't stopped watching him. A couple of times, when women became a little too aggressive with him, he'd send me an amused look. Do you see this? Never do this. I'd smirk at him and retort with my eyes; Do you really think I'm that kind of woman? He would chuckle to himself. No, he didn't. In fact, it seemed as if the Zone Lord didn't know what to think of me.
When I'd first stepped into Slate's arena, I'd been awed by the collection of beneathers filling the seats but I'd had little time to study them. There wasn't a lot of time for people watching when you were fighting for your life. But there, behind the glass, I could watch them all as they came together to drink and dance and dally with one another.
They were dressed to impress. Sensuous snake-women in glittering gowns ran long nails over the muscled shoulders of a ryū. Sparks of fire flared over the fingers of randy djinn as they tried to impress water nymphs and maybe get the chance to make a little steam. I gaped at glamorous ladies with hair like oil slicks and fluffy fox tails that they flicked at men they found attractive. Sharp teeth glinted in the smile of a loup (werewolf) woman as she used a claw to pop out a champagne cork.
These people were dazzling and deadly and they were my peers. They were fellow beneathers, and I should have felt comfortable around them. But they weren't actually my people. They weren't my family or even my race. They were the other supernatural races living on Earth and hiding what they were from humans. That was the only thing that connected us. They'd sooner slice me open than help me escape the man who was entertaining them so mightily.
Slate finally finished his rounds and strode back to the lounge. He didn't look at me along the way. I braced myself for a fight. He stepped into the lounge, still not looking at me, and went straight to the bar. I frowned at him. Then I saw him grab a napkin. I huffed and held out my hand; expecting him to tell me to take off the lipstick. Slate batted my hand aside, grabbed my chin, and then wiped the lipstick off himself.
“There,” he said in satisfaction, “now, it's a stain.”
My jaw clenched as I narrowed my eyes at him and watched him lean slowly toward me. Centimeter by centimeter, he moved his lips toward mine; daring me to pull away. Or at least try to. His grip on my chin prevented any chance of that happening.
“Never disobey me again,” Slate whispered as he ground his mouth over mine.
It wasn't a kiss; it was a punishment, and I wasn't going to fucking take it. Not from this dickhead. I punched him in the gut. Slate made a gasping, shocked sound as he hunched over; his eyes going wide.
“I'm following your orders only because of this”—I pointed at my collar—“and Tessa. I'm not obeying you. Use that word with me again, and I'll creep into your room in the middle of the night and fucking geld you.”
Something flared in Slate's eyes; the skin around them twitched as his lips parted, and he inhaled shakily. I didn't like the way he was looking at me.
“All right, Elaria,” Slate murmured. “Never fail to follow my orders again. Is that more palatable for you?”
“It'll do.”
Slate burst out laughing and then shook his head. I couldn't tell if he was laughing at me or himself.
“Are you ready?” He held out a hand to me.
“Sure. Whatever.” I took his hand and let him lead me downstairs.
“Do you know what you're going to sing?” He asked casually.
I shrugged.
“You're winging it?” Slate asked in amusement.
Another shrug. I could be as forthcoming as he was.
“Mr. Devon, your guests are here,” a bouncer leaned around the corner to say.
“Tell them to wait at the bar.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I looked after the departing man. “You have guests again?”
He shrugged.
I snorted as Slate directed me forward. Instead of going along the bar, he angled me further to the right and through another doorway. A stone hallway with flickering overhead lights ended in a door with a set of stone stairs to the left of it. A thin man with wiry red hair and freckles across his nose waited at the foot of the stairs.
“Ms. Tanager.” The redhead held out his hand to me. “It's an honor to work with you. I'm Eli Cole; I'll be handling the lights and the sound system for you.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cole,” I said. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Sure,” he stammered. “Of course. Uh, what music will I be playing for you?”
“I make my own music.” I stopped as I realized that I couldn't if Slate didn't release my collar. “I mean... uh.”
Slate lifted a brow.
“You wouldn't happen to want to deactivate your super collar, would you?” I asked him.
Slate just smirked.
“Then I guess I will be needing some background music,” I said to Eli.
“I'll leave you two to discuss things.” Slate turned around and strode out of the hallway.
“What's the playlist?” Eli asked eagerly.
“The playlist,” I murmured.
The playlist I'd been compiling shifted completely as I watched Slate walk away. A new list of songs formed in my head, and I began to smile.
Chapter Twenty-One
I declined Eli's offer of an introdu
ction. Instead, I strode onto the stage as the rolling intro of “Hold My Heart” by Lindsey Stirling seized everyone's attention. It wound up into powerful slams that pounded through the club; jolting the patrons out of their conversations and swiveling every eye in the direction of the stage. The lights flared on me; bringing my crimson dress to bloody life. I was dressed to kill, and I struck my spiked heels against the stone stage as if I were stabbing them into a heart.
My voice was sweet when I began to sing, but the words were an in-your-face taunt. I stared up at Slate—watching me from that damn glass box—and nearly smiled when I saw his eyes go round. I used the song to tell him that I didn't need to be saved or freed; I'd do all of that on my own. Just watch me, asshole. I'll slip right through your hands and leave you wondering if you ever held me at all. An electric violin screamed and rocketed up into the bitch slap of the chorus. It blasted out of me, and the entire club roared; jumping to their feet.
