I give a rapid, stilted nod, blinking into the dark to get my bearings. I’d probably agree to anything if it meant getting the weight off me—if it meant being able to move and breathe and be.
But he doesn’t leave. His thumb pinches into my cheek and he says, “If you scream, that’s going to make us mad. You don’t want to make us mad, do you?”
I try to shake my head, but the twist of my neck and the pillow against my cheeks restricts me from managing much more than a twitch.
The maniac’s other hand runs down my bare arm, rough skin skating down to my hip. My muscles seize when his palm finds the curve of my ass, fingers digging into the flesh. “That’s a good girl. He wasn’t lying, was he? You’re a sweet little thing. Ultramarine? No—cyanine blue.” He seems to be muttering more to himself than me. “Blonde hair, nice skin, aluminum eyes. Yeah, we’ve got this.”
I suck air in through my nose and try to move my hand, but he reacts swiftly, yanking my arm behind me. He captures the wrist that’s not trapped beneath me already in a steel grip, letting out a gritty laugh. “Heard you were a fighter. Normally, that would be a fun time, but cyanine blue…that can get out of hand. If you want to get out of this, do what you’re told.”
“Fuck’s sake,” a cold, lurking voice from the end of the bed mutters. “Stop your batshit color babbling and fuck her already. I’ve got shit to do.”
“It’s important!” Maniac snaps. “I’d never stick my dick in primary magenta.”
I really do thrash then, an angry, distressed noise clawing from my throat as I try to break free. There’s a reason I’ve been holed away inside a whorehouse. I found it a bit funny at first that my father handed me over to the Kings because of it. Would I be the Barons’ new virgin sacrifice, or the Princes’ new virgin mother? Oh, but neither of those were quite severe enough, so it had to be the Lords. Daniel’s shiny new virgin moneymaker.
Point is, I’ve always known what I’m here to do: Spread my legs and grimace in pain as some nameless piece of shit forces his way inside. And then, maybe afterward, they’d let me go.
But this isn’t the way it was meant to happen.
My struggle is an almost comical attempt. The maniac has a knee or something planted into the small of my back, and he laughs as I buck, trying desperately to gain a foothold. “Classic cyanine.”
“Hey, now,” a third voice, softer this time, appears in front of me. The shadowy figure crouches beside the head of my bed, face obscured by black. My eyes widen as I take him in, featureless and looming, but his only reaction to my wild, useless jerks is to reach out and stroke a knuckle down the curve of my jaw, nudging his partner’s hand away from my mouth. His voice is a coarse, bleak whisper. “It’ll be okay. This is for your own good.”
My brain slowly kicks into gear. Three guys.
Maniac, holding me down.
Lurker, at the foot of the bed.
Creep, brushing the pad of his thumb over my lip.
What the hell do they want?
You already know, Lav, a tiny voice tells me. When your father is Lionel Lucia, King of the Counts, it’s a safe bet that it’s always about him. Even locked away like a disorderly puppy, I’m still nothing more than a pawn in his game.
My eyes finally acclimate to the dark. The faint light coming in from the open window illuminates enough to make my heartbeat lurch. Creep is dressed in black, a mask pulled down over his head. There are two holes for each of his unsettling blue eyes, but nothing more.
“Listen,” I rush out, breathless from the struggle. “If this is about my dad, then you’re shit out of luck. He doesn’t give a fuck about me. He’s the reason I’m in this pussy trap in the first place. Hurting me means nothing to him.”
The man holding me down—Maniac—lets out this low, ominous scoff. “You’re thinking way too small, Miss Lucia.” I hear in his voice that he turns his head, speaking to Lurker, the man at the foot of my bed. “Get her ankles.”
In a flurry of movement that’s too quick to counter, they flip me to my back. Lurker’s hands capture my ankles before I can lash out—not that I don’t still try. The muscles in my thigh burn with the force of my kick, which catches him right in the stomach. He releases a punch of surprised breath, but his reaction is lightning-quick.
Lurker hisses, “You fucking bitch!” and then wrenches me by the ankles with a powerful yank, making me slide to the end of the bed. I’m so caught up in the sharpness of the gesture—the pain of something in my ankle tearing—that I don’t even realize he’s pulling his hand back.