I have a very unpleasant flashback to my night at the Obelisk, to the water flooding into my gut and then flooding back out…
“I haven’t eaten since this morning,” I tell him quickly. “It’ll be fine.”
He looks at me, and for a moment I see him contemplating doing what he threatened just before, and pouring a protein shake down my throat.
Then he shrugs. “We’ll need the lube.”
It’s a singularly unpleasant experience to be leaning over a sink and staring at myself in the mirror while Damiano Orsini fingers my asshole, just like the first night he brought me home. Unpleasant not because it hurts—it doesn’t, at all; in fact it feelsgood—but because he’s so clinical about it. But when he turns away to get the butt plug, I see something that makes it more bearable.
He’s hard. Helikesthis. Or his body does, anyway. That’s good to know.
Because my body likes it, too.
He already put the cage on me before he ordered me to lean over, and I start filling it out more firmly as he positions the plug at my hole, the tip pressing in. His eyes stray up to my face, and he watches my reaction as the cool metal breaches me, the slight flush that spreads over my cheeks, the way I suck in a breath.
Surely he doesn’t need to go this slowly, or twist it around, or pump it maddeningly in and out, a little deeper each time…
“Come on,” he says softly. “Open up for it, golden boy.”
In the mirror, my lips part, my shoulders drop their tension, and I keep my eyes on his as the plug slides home.
“There you go,” he says. “All filled up.” He steps back and motions me to stand, which I do, swaying a little as I adjust to the foreign sensation of having something inside me again. “I got that cloak thing they sent you with. That’ll do for clothes. As for shoes…”
“I’ll go barefoot,” I tell him. I’m feeling a little hazy, my voice sounding far away. “Just like I was when you bought me, Dami.”
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Just like when I bought you.”
This time my entrance to the Obelisk is much more grand than sneaking down a piss-stinking alley to a back door. Vito drives us down into the underground parking lot, right up to the members’ entrance, gets out, and opens the car door for us. I’m relieved that he looks straight ahead, not even acknowledging me as I get out of the car. I think it’s respect.
Ithinkit’s respect.
Even if not, I appreciate him not staring at me. I have the gold cloak pulled tight around me against the cold, but it must be pretty obvious I’m naked underneath. And I’m grateful that Dami doesn’t leave me standing there barefoot on freezing cement for long, either. As in the back alley entrance, there’s a heavy, black steel door, but the obelisk carved into this one is much larger. Dami buzzes the intercom, gives his membership number when a disembodied voice demands it, and looks up at the camera situated above the door. The door slides open and he pushes me through onto thick red carpet that gives my frozen toes some relief.
Inside, the reception area looks like any high-end members’ club in the city. Soft classical music plays over the speakers, and the lighting is low and warm, a few spotlights over the reception desk. Dark walnut paneling lines the walls, punctuated by tall niches displaying Egyptian antiquities, or very convincing reproductions. A few black velvet loveseats are arranged forwaiting guests, though nobody’s waiting. The place smells faintly of incense.
“Mr. Orsini,” says the man at reception. He’s mid-twenties maybe, with pale hair slicked back from a beautiful, feline face. “How lovely to see you again. This is your guest for the night?”
“He’s not a guest. I bought him here at auction a couple of weeks back.”
The blond inclines his head with an understanding smile. “I see. Please go on through.”
Dami’s hand closes around the back of my neck and he steers me toward one of several doors. I try to remember to keep my eyes downcast, but it’s hard not to stare around as we enter the next area. It’s bigger than I expected, but wide rather than spacious. The ceilings are still low, and the lighting comes only from the walls or floor lamps. The color scheme is the same as the foyer—black and dark red—which makes everything feel more intimate. Deep booths line the walls, each one curtained for privacy, and clusters of armchairs and low tables fill the floor, arranged so that every group would feel secluded even if it was crowded.
It’s not crowded tonight, but it is busy. The clientele are all well-dressed men, drinking and talking in the kind of low murmurs that suggest every conversation is confidential.
“You see this Grisha anywhere?” Dami mutters.
I chance a look around. But then I wish I hadn’t, as the conversation in the room lulls, heads turn my way, and a new whisper begins to spread. I hear my name.
And the hatred as it’s spoken.
“You don’t talk to anyone,” Dami tells me in a low voice. “You hear me?” I nod. “And you don’t make eye contact with anyone. Either they’ll think it’s a challenge or a come-on, and I’m not in the mood to get into a fight over it, not after that dumpster jump.”
Not after his injury, he means.
“I’ll be good, Dami,” I murmur. “I promise.”
The hand on my neck squeezes just a bit tighter. “You sound like you’re enjoying this, little prince.”