And because you're not a coward.”
Unlike the last Mistress, she wasn't trying to goad him. Her voice remained smooth, thoughtful, not derisive. “You're here for what I have to offer. So let's proceed. Tell me your name, and go to the bench, please.”
“Trey,” he said.
Her expression didn't change, the eyes didn't even flicker, but he swore he felt the ocean of blue-green color close over his head, the slither of a feathery tail as the mermaid swam past, leaving him behind.
Turning, she moved back toward the door. “Stop at the accounts office to pay for the damages. I wish you a good night.”
She didn't hesitate, didn't slow down. If it was a game, she was damn good at it, and usually so was he.
When she reached the door, he didn't even have the extra moment her turning the latch would afford him, because the same security guard who'd opened the door for her did it from the outside now, confirming not only the interior surveillance, but the fact this was a woman who didn't have to touch doorknobs. Not if there was a breathing male within fifty feet.
“Gideon,” he snarled.
She didn't stop. In a blink, she was gone, the door closing on well-oiled hinges behind her. Gideon stared at the door, his hands closing into useless fists at his sides. Hell, he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this. She'd been right to leave. Vaguely, he knew he'd paid them for the right to be here, that he should be pissed, but he understood this place better than he would have at one time. This underground level wasn't about memberships and having your ass kissed.
Then he realized something. The door was closed. They left it open after a session's completion. At this point, the security guard would have put his carefully blank face back in and told him how many minutes he had before his ass was expected to be out of there. Instead, he heard the locks snick in place again.
Something loosened in his chest and tightened even lower.
He cleaned up, and not just the dresser. He didn't know how to rehang those tapestry things, but he laid them on the bed, so they weren't on the floor. He picked up the candlesticks he'd snapped when he'd ripped a candelabrum from the wall, righted the vanity stool and put it back in front of its table and mirror. For the broken glass, wax shavings and splinters, he used his hands as broom and dustpan, scraped it all together, ignoring the cuts that bloomed. He used a bowl that looked like an old-fashioned washbasin to hold the pieces. Gathering cut, limp flowers, he stuffed them back into the vases he hadn't broken.
What started as grudging compliance to her wish to move one piece of furniture became a tense, almost obsessed need to change what he'd done, even though he couldn't undo or erase it. But as he continued to be alone, he knew he was avoiding doing the one thing that might bring her back.
He turned toward the prayer bench. It was innocuous looking, polished wood with spaced depressions on the inclined floor piece, intended for placement of the shins. Adjustable wooden pieces were at the end, providing a place to brace the foot, so the kneeler wouldn't slide back during his devotions. The riser in front of the bench, and the upper rail, would prevent the knees or body from sliding forward, no matter what force they were experiencing from behind.
She hadn't said to undress, though he had a curious desire to be stripped bare. Still, it was hard enough to walk to that bench, and force himself to his knees, fitting his shins in the places provided and adjusting the brace pieces for his longer legs. It wasn't too uncomfortable, but he expected that, after a while, the knees would start to ache. There was no padding, after all. Two hand-sized holes in the upper riser led through to wrought-iron handles, obviously intended for gripping. None of it seemed to be mechanized, nothing that would suddenly engage and hold him fast, but again, he knew this room wasn't about that. In here, bondage was a state of mind, either embraced or rejected. He'd rejected it three times. But this fourth time . . . He remembered his analogy of the enchanted castle, and thought of sirens and sorceresses, of men turned to pigs.