Twisted - Esme Devlin Page 0,7
go of my hand and takes a step away.
A moment later, Maxim is beside us.
“Your other girls, bring them all out here,” says the man in the mask as he approaches.
His voice is surprisingly clear and authoritative for being completely covered in thick metal. But it’s not the voice that shocks me, it’s the way he speaks to Maxim.
No one ever speaks to Maxim like that. He is practically a king here.
Maxim looks like he’s about to stutter before he manages to find the words. “All of them?”
I look back at the man. He is tall, towering above even Romanov. He’s dressed all in black, reinforced trousers with many pockets, a T-shirt with multiple layers over it—one of them a hood—and topped with a leather jacket which looks almost like armor. I can only just make out hair as dark as mine under the hood.
“Those were the words I used, were they not?” He sounds impatient, his tone cutting.
Maxim nods and gives another weak bow before he turns in the sand and scurries away.
“You need to put some clothes on,” he says to me.
I blink at him a few times in confusion.
He just nods behind me.
I turn around and spot the thing he was nodding at—the black skirt I took off before the dance.
It’s close to the fire that’s still burning, and the heat radiates against my skin as I make a grab for it.
By the time I’ve put the skirt on and looked back at the masked man, he is no longer alone.
There are five others with him.
One of them is dressed like him, in the black layers. His hair is brown and he has a scar running from his forehead to his cheek, cutting right across his eye. The other four are wearing business suits in various drab colors.
Only the one who spoke wears a mask.
I wonder if the two dressed in black are some form of protection for the men in suits? Trying to look them over without them seeing what I’m doing, I note their thick watches and polished shoes. A working watch is a rare luxury.
The four men have money, of that I’m quite certain.
Feeling them all stare, I lower my eyes to the sand and hear movement behind me.
Before long, the other girls have joined me, and we all stand in a long line.
Maxim appears not to care that these guests have interrupted the show, which was supposed to finish with a final performance from all of us.
“Tell me their names,” Mask-man orders.
“Tourmaline, Citrine, Emerald, Pearl,” Maxim begins, making his way down the row of girls with their faces painted and costumes designed to match their names. Finally, he gets to me. “And this one is Sapphire.”
“Sapphire? She looks like an Obsidian to me,” he says, eyeing me up and down.
Maxim clears his throat. “Sapphire has one green eye and one blue. I thought the name suited her well.”
The man tilts his head to the side and then takes a few confident steps toward me.
His outfit, though plain looking with the black on black, fits him perfectly and accentuates the muscles of what is clearly a powerful body. The clothes were made for him, which is about as rare as those working watches behind him.
“She’s tiny,” he says. “Put her on a box or something so I can see for myself.”
There’s movement around me, but I don’t notice it. I can’t peel my eyes away from the man in front of me.
He is truly a thing from nightmares.
Someone puts an overturned bucket down by my side, and Mask holds out a big hand, gesturing with a flick of his head what he wants me to do.
Reaching up, he guides me onto the bucket.
I freeze, momentarily stunned as he grabs hold of my chin and then jerks my head up to inspect me. Even with the bucket, he’s still taller. I try to meet his gaze, but I’m not able to. The holes for his eyes are filled with only dark shadows.
I wonder if that is intentional. Probably. Everything about him seems designed to intimidate, and the fact that he’s now leaning against me with his hand mere inches from my throat isn’t helping.
It’s like he’s set out specifically to embody a nightmare.
But why?
The heat from the fire behind me added to his intense appraisal makes me feel like I’m burning up, and again I’m glad for the paint hiding my flushed cheeks.
I’m not supposed to be looking at him.
That’s not what good submissive girls