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Her mouth curves. “Do you require praise for tying a knot?”

“I require praise for most things, darling,” Lazarus whispers up her neck, but loud enough we may all hear his remark. Alcott snorts and I nearly smile, while Olive appears to have a soft glow to her as she strips naked. Lazarus looks as though someone has handed him a kingdom. When the harness is complete, he steps back, looping the silk from the ceiling and thoroughly securing it.

The ceiling above holds a polished iron hook and pulley system that I suspect has seen more depravity, theater, and engineering than any respectable room should contain. With Lazarus, that feels inevitable.

Alcott checks the rigging next. He tests the rope, the anchor, the weight, every knot Lazarus has tied. Lazarus endures the inspection with only minor theatrical offense.

“I do know what I am doing,” he says.

“Yes,” Alcott replies, “but I prefer Olive alive.”

“A preference we share,” Lazarus retorts.

“Then stop pouting.” Alcott flings his words at him.

“I am not pouting.”

“You are artistically sulking.” My brother huffs.

Olive looks between them, unamused. “Are you two finished?”

“No,” they say together.

I huff a laugh before I can stop myself. Three pairs of eyes turn to me. Olive’s smile deepens. Damn her. Damn all of them.

Lazarus takes the rope in hand. “Ready?”

Olive looks at me. Not Lazarus, nor my brother.

I step closer and cup her face.

“If you say stop,” I tell her, “everything stops.”

“I know,” she says sweetly.

“You do?”

Her eyes hold mine. “Yes.”

The word settles in my chest like a blade removed from a wound. Lazarus lifts her slowly, the ropes take her weight with graceful tension, raising her just enough that her feet leave the floor. Olive inhales sharply, then steadies. Her naked body becomes a suspended curve of silk, rope, candlelight, and trust.

Beautiful is too small a word. She looks like vengeance granted wings, a saint the church would burn for refusing to kneel. Or death’s beloved bride and for a moment, none of us speak. Then Alcott exhales softly.

“Well,” he murmurs, “that is rather magnificent.”

Lazarus’s voice is lower than usual. “Yes.”

I cannot speak at all. Olive looks down at us, suspended above the floor, her hair slipping over one shoulder, her eyes bright and wicked. “You are all staring.”

“Yes,” Lazarus says.

“Shamelessly,” Alcott adds.

I step beneath her. Her hand reaches for me. I take it. The contact is light, but it feels like a vow.

“You are safe,” I say.

Something flickers across her face. A dangerous softness. “Am I?”