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I was going to suggest faking some kind of system update and collecting everyone’s cards under the guise of giving them new ones, but I like this competition much better. Because as much as she’s trying to prove something with this game, so am I.
When she passes my side of the kitchen island, my hand swipes out and wraps around her wrist. Her eyes widen in surprise as I pull her over to me, locking my other hand around her back. I tug her close until our hips kiss. With her wrist still in my grip, I hold it up like we’re slow dancing.
She stiffens when I lean even closer and growl in her ear. “You didn’t seem so indifferent when you were begging for my cum.” I bite down on her ear with a quick nip and release her. I’m already turning away toward my room when I hear the little gasp she makes.
Stella
I get ready with anxious butterflies battering my stomach. It’s a mix of excitement, the high of a new challenge, and a spiraling what-the-fuck-have-I-gotten-myself-into realization. I shuffle through all the dresses hanging in my closet. The colors and textures range from classy and sharp to whimsical and fun, yet nothing feels right. Nothing lives up to the stakes that have been raised.
I find myself pulling my suitcase out from under the bed and looking at the one piece of clothing I didn’t unpack. I don’t even know why I brought it, to be honest. I threw it in at the last minute, and now it’s staring back at me, daring me.
“Oh, what the hell,” I mutter to myself and take it out.
If we’re doing this, I’m playing to win.
When I exit my room, Lochlan is already waiting in the living area. He’s sitting on the couch directly across from my door. He looks up from his phone, his elbows resting on his knees. My skin prickles as his eyes drag up my body. When he sees the dress I’m wearing, he sits back, his palms dragging up his thighs. His jaw clenches, and holding his intense gaze feels like Atlas holding the world.
Without a word, he stands, and my mouth goes dry. His gray silk shirt has a large, bright pattern and is loosely buttoned halfway up his cut torso. His broad chest and shoulders fill it out, while the short sleeves strain over his biceps. It’s a shirt I’ve seen him wear once before and distinctly remember saying it looked good on him.
I can’t fault him for the choice, considering I am wearing the sheer, sparkly dress I wore on my birthday.
He flicks his head toward the door. “Well . . . ?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and roll my shoulders back. “Let’s go.”
He holds the front door open for me. As I walk through, he says low but clear, “You look good, a réalta.”
“You too.” I lift my brows and drop my gaze up and down his chest. “Nice shirt.”
He smirks with a light chuckle, and I can’t help but crack a small smile too.
After a few minutes of walking, I break the silence with a pressing question. “What do we do when we get the killer’s card? You remember the number, right? 30314.”
“Pocket it and come to me,” he says assuredly, and I am comforted by his nonchalance while hunting murderers. I know we give Harlow a lot of shit, but she’s one brave bitch. “The cards have their names on it too, right?”
“Yes, along with their tier, number, and preferences,” I say, and he nods along.
“So, the card itself has everything on it, identity, number, so forth, but the resort doesn’t keep records of any of that?” he asks incredulously, and I have to agree it’s pretty damn stupid. “How does that even work?”
“Since we didn’t go through the check-in process, I had one of the reception staff walk me through the steps a typical guest would go through. When a new member arrives, they fill out a form with their details, and the staff member enters all that into a temporary file just for printing the card,” I explain. “After the card is printed, they shred the paper form right in front of you.”
He pushes his hair back and my eyes catch on the way the silk shirt hugs his muscles. Damn him. “And the numbers?”
“All the numbers are preprogrammed to a tier. So when, let’s say a platinum member arrives, they grab one of the cards that already has platinum access and emboss the guest’s info onto the card without ever storing the details anywhere.”
When we reach Libidine, we pause a few paces away from the entrance to continue our conversation in hushed tones. Luckily, there isn’t anyone coming or going right now.
He gives me a thoughtful look. “Does that mean we already know the killer’s tier?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t do us much good unless we want to ask every gold member if they cut off Jeffery’s dick. And I probably only know ten guests by name. So even a list of their names isn’t helpful unless we can recognize them.” 1
“Yeah, right,” he grumbles and shuffles his fingers through his hair again—his telltale habit when he’s getting lost in thought—then strides toward the entrance doors.
“You’re not getting cold feet now, are you?” I tease, but he gives me a hard look, his hand frozen on the door handle.
“Course not. Just remember that whatever happens, this was what you wanted.” With that, he swings the doors open and leaves me with his cryptic words settling like lead in my stomach. I try to ignore the foreboding feeling and make my feet follow him.
Stepping into Libidine sends a chilling buzz down my spine. The atmosphere is an intoxicating cocktail of all the secrets I know haunt these walls and the illicit thrill of the fantasies that can become realities.
