Page 93 of The Devil

My nipples are dark points that show through the fabric, my breasts bound by soft, unforgiving silk. I’m naked beneath. I don’t even know when I took my panties off but there they are, lying discarded on the floor along with the rest of my clothing.

I open my mouth to ask what’s happening, to ask when I can go to Jet, but between the tightly bound lace and what feels like cotton in my mouth, it’s impossible. I only make the smallest of sounds.

A man’s voice carries over that of the women’s mutterings. I turn, nearly fall off the stool, but the women catch me, push me back up to stand, their hands holding me up as two men enter. My breath catches and I try to jump backward but I can’t.

They step into the room, these men in their long black cloaks, hoods pulled over their heads to hide their masked faces.

I hear a sound. It’s me, I realize. It’s me trying to speak. That empty glass of wine with its residue of red at the bottom, what was in it? What drug? Because what I am feeling is not simply the effect of a single glass of wine.

“Lovely.” A man says and I realize it’s Jameson. I recognize his voice. They walk toward me turning a circle around me. I can’t see their eyes, but I don’t have to because I feel their aggression. I try to follow, the women’s arms holding me up, the silk of the dress winding around my legs.

In the corner I spot my bag. It’s the only familiar thing in the room. Inside, there’s a gun. I remember I’m supposed to strap it to my thigh, hide it beneath this dress. But how? How when I’m trapped inside all this fabric and with limbs that no longer obey me.

“She is beautiful,” the other man says. His accent is American. He’s the only American. “Fell into your laps, did she?” He chuckles.

The shorter one gestures for the women to help me down off the stool. My bare feet touch freezing stone. They didn’t give me shoes. The dress is so long no one will see my feet. Crystals scratch my thighs. The skirt of the dress must have a thousand tiny shards sewn into it. Looking closer, I see how old it is. How many rips and tears, its beauty an illusion.

A third man enters the room. I look up at him as he stops there. His mask is in his hand, the hood of his cloak not yet covering his head as he adjusts it as if he pulled it on in a hurry. He’s in his fifties, I’d guess. And he looks irritated.

“I don’t even see her before it’s done? She could be an old crone.” He pushes his mask onto his head, keeping it on top so it doesn’t yet cover his face.

“I assure you she is not,” the American says. “I saw her myself. You’ll be pleased. But even if she were a crone, does it matter for your purposes, Callum? Once you’re wed and the deed is done, it is done.”

Wed? I must say the word out loud or try to because they all turn to me. Do they mean me? But I’m already wed.

“Jet,” I try to say.

The American studies me, forehead furrowing. He crosses the room to refill my glass of wine and brings it toward me. I put my hands out to stop him when he presses the glass to my lips. I refuse it and manage to knock it out of his hand. It’s the only way or they’ll force me to drink it.

Cold liquid seeps into the silk of the dress, making my breasts even more visible.

“Shit!” he curses, looking at the splash on his sleeve. It won’t show. Red doesn’t show on black. It’s why Jet always wears black. Blood doesn’t show.

“Leave it, Senna,” Jameson says.

Senna. I search through the fog of my mind for the name but can’t place it.

Jameson checks his Rolex.

Rolex. That’s what got me into this mess. My mind recalls a picture of me standing in Jet’s strange bedroom the day I stole it. Just slid it right into my pocket. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I was never supposed to end up here.

“She can barely stand as it is,” he continues. “And we need her standing,” he continues. “For a little while at least.”

Callum chuckles.

“Jethro Blackstone will be a problem,” the man named Senna says. “I’m telling you.”

“Jethro Blackstone will be long gone,” Jameson says in a way that I can almost see his grin behind his mask.

I cry out, try to scratch at the American who is closest to me, because I know what Jameson means. I know.

He jumps backward. “He won’t leave her. I’m telling you⁠—”

“And I’m telling you it’s none of your business,” Jameson says finally with more authority than I’d heard from him thus far.

“How dare you? I am a Councilor⁠—”

“You are not our Councilor. We called you in as a courtesy, considering your history with the Blackstones. That is all. That courtesy can be revoked. And besides, the Blackstone brothers will be appropriately... taken care of.”