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"Some prefer to break them in private. Others take them to an open room. They enjoy putting on a show. All sorts of ways to play with them. Just tell them what you prefer and they can usually make it happen."
Nausea bubbles in my stomach, and I struggle to keep my face impassive. Draining my glass, I set it down gently instead of chucking it at Byron's head like I want. I could really use another one, but I'd rather not raise my hand. I'd probably end up being escorted to one of the playrooms, and like hell am I going that far to infiltrate their ranks. The Guild needs to be taken down but not at the expense of my morals.
I fought long and hard to make the Vipers a better club. Helms and I used to talk for hours about the things we would do differently, starting with how we treated our women. When our fathers ran the Reapers, women were property, little better than trophies.
We're both slowly working toward a better future, with women being our equals, not our subordinates. The Reapers are further along than us, since Helms has a five-year head start on me. My bastard of a father just refused to die, not that I could bring myself to kill him. An invisible disease took him in the end. It was a better death than he deserved. And I've been working ever since to right all the wrongs he sowed into the Vipers.
My half-brother Maddox doesn't help. Mac thinks I don't notice his treatment of her, but I do. I just can't do anything about it yet. She's strong and has been telling me not to fight her battles for her since we were teens. Saving her will only help reenforce the idea that she can't do it herself. Or at least that's what she's told me.
Looking around this ornate room, I'm glad I didn’t tell her where I was going. She would have tried to follow and I doubt I’d be able to save her from the same fates as the women locked away in this hell.
Byron leans into my space, pulling me from my past. I raise my eyebrow as I take a sip from my glass. The whiskey is smooth, but in this environment, I’m unable to enjoy it.
“Put in a good word for you. Don’t make me look bad when they call you up.” He grins, but there’s a glint in his eyes.
Byron lifts his hand, practically salivating as he points to a man dancing in the back. I see the exact moment he's shocked, all his muscles tensing, and then he tips his chin up as Byron trips from his chair, gesturing for the man to follow him. One of the handlers holds up a hand to stop Byron, then points to the side exit next to the stage, and he rushes off.
When I glance back at the stage, the young man is gone, and I turn my head to hide the disgust on my face.No one deserves this type of treatment, regardless of who they are.
Someone clears their throat next to me, and I whip my head toward the sound. It’s the server from before, although I don’t know if “server” is the right label in these circumstances. She twists her fingers in front of her until she notices I'm watching her movements. Tipping her chin up, she stares down her nose at me.
"Sir, your presence is requested." She spins, marching back toward the bar across the room.
I hesitate before pushing to my feet to follow her, weaving around the tables. I could run—straight out the door to freedom. My haphazard plan may unravel before I’ve even begun.
The audience's eyes are glued to the stage thankfully, but an older man takes notice of her, reaching out to grab her wrist. She dances away, expertly avoiding his groping hands, and I swipe my hand across my face to hide my sigh of relief. A guard hurries over, placating the man, and she slips away.
Whoever this woman is, she clearly isn't like the others, broken and beaten beyond repair. It hits me then, perhaps she's in league with them, so far into a delusion of her importance that she justifies propping up their organization. The only way I'll find out is by talking to her, which requires me to get her on her own.
Sighing, I tuck my hands in my pockets and follow her as she ducks behind another curtain. I'd rather not go down this road, but as a plan takes shape in my mind, I'm afraid I don't have any other options.
Four
Aelia
I don't like having Dante Cruz at my back. I can't see what he's doing and that puts me on edge more than the others’ wandering hands. None of my choices are my own, though. Jenkins makes my decisions, dictating everything from my clothes to what I eat.
My stomach gurgles when I remember I haven't had any food since I woke up. Sometimes they forget that we're human and still need sustenance to survive. They don't care if we waste away. In fact, a lot of the patrons prefer skin and bones.
"Where are we going?" he says, his voice rolling over me like thunder on a moonless summer night.
"Your presence has been requested." The thumping music has faded enough that I don't have to turn around for him to hear me.
Pivoting, I climb the stairs to the upper levels. They're wide enough I can avoid the other men, but I can't escape the leering glances. I swear I can feel Dante's eyes burning a hole in my back, and I swallow hard to suppress the shiver. I'm sure if this was a normal circumstance, I'd be salivating over him. Though he's exactly who I would have had a crush on when I was a teenager, I’m no longer in a position to lust after anyone.
Glancing back as I reach the top, I catch his chocolate eyes. He brushes his dark hair off his forehead with a tattooed hand, and I whip back around. No denying he's sexy with his sharp cheekbones and full lips. There's a dangerous edge to him, and only time will tell if he's the danger that sends thrills or terror through me.
Pursing my lips, I dismiss the whole idea from my mind. There were quite a few people who came through in the beginning that I thought I could ask for help. They all betrayed me for a chance at a higher position with the Guild. I stopped trying to find a way out long ago, at least by asking others for aid. I'm biding my time until an opportunity presents to escape this hell. It'll come eventually. I just don't know if I'll be running away or leaving in a body bag. Most likely, it'll be the latter.
"What's your name?" he grunts as we reach another, less used staircase.
My ankles are screaming by the time we reach the top, and I still haven't answered him. Unless I'm commanded to tell him, I won't. Information around here is just as lucrative as the merchandise, as Jenkins calls them. They're people, but he'll never see them as anything other than profit.
As I reach for the handle to the main office, his hand circles my wrist, and I freeze. My breath stutters in my chest, and I wait for the blow or the proposition or the pain. He'll demand I do what he wants, putting me in the position to try to talk my way out of the situation.
Jenkins won't allow him to claim me, too worried about my mental state. For all Jenkins’s pomp and circumstance, he knows finding a replacement for me would be disastrous for the Guild. He's already tried once or twice to put me in my place, shoving me into the Pit and installing someone else into my position.
Every time I end up right back where I started, sitting in that chair and making the Guild more money. I still haven't figured out a way to topple them from the inside. There are too many parts I'm not in charge of, and it grates on my nerves.
