Page 64 of Twisted Prince

I agree, slipping past the man who’s here to take my cover fee once again. We settle at a table near the back of the room—the only one left available for a party of our size. And when they buy a round of drinks, I join them at their insistence, though I don’t intend to indulge.

We sit and watch the show, and I brush off their wolf whistles and lewd appraisal of the girls as they dance on stage. Thankfully, the music drowns out the sound of my knuckles cracking as my fingers curl into fists when more than one suggestive statement gets made about Mel directly. Finally, our server comes around to ask if any of us are looking for a private dance this evening.

Shelling out five hundred dollars—the listed price offered on the front page of the menu—I hold the money up for her to see. And when she comes over, I describe the girl I want an audience with. She nods, taking the cash and slipping it into an envelope in her server’s folder before jotting down Mel’s name. Then she scans her list of available rooms and marks me down for lucky number three.

“She’ll be with you in five minutes if you’d like me to take you there now, Mr. Smith,” she says, using the name I gave her.

Nodding, I rise from my chair, wish my companions a fun time, and follow the petite server through the dimly lit dining area of the lounge. She leads me to an entirely different door from the hidden one I found last night. The hallway on the other side must run along the back of the private rooms. That way, clients won’t run into the girls before they’re in their designated space.

Smart.

My server opens the door to room three and gestures me inside. “Would you like a drink?” she offers.

“No, this is fine. Thanks.”

With a nod, she slips from the room, closing the door behind her.

In her absence, I scan the space. It’s quite luxurious, with several chairs where I could sit, all plush and upholstered with soft cream-colored leather. Every surface looks pristine, as if someone cleans the room thoroughly between uses.

Probably a good thing.

God only knows what takes place in this space.

But what’s most noticeable about the room is the glass window that runs the length of the wall the chairs are facing. On the other side is a second, smaller room. And at the center, a glass case large enough to fit a human body.

The lighting would suggest it’s meant to showcase something—a dancer.

My mouth goes dry as I suddenly realize what it really is. What it must be to Mel. A cage.

The showroom door opens, and in steps Mel.

Dressed in the skimpiest slip of lingerie I’ve ever seen.

27

MEL

I step into the glass cage for showroom three, and my heart stops as piercing green eyes find me. In an instant, I feel horribly exposed, every inch of my bare flesh burning with mortification.

“Gleb,” I breathe, my stomach knotting painfully.

He stalks closer to the glass that separates us, his face impassive as soft music filters into the space. But the war of emotions in his eyes makes my heart race.

“What are you doing here? You have to leave,” I hiss, pressing my palms against the glass as I suddenly feel utterly helpless, trapped inside my cage and unable to protect him.

“Why didn’t you come see me this morning?” he asks, brushing off my words like they don’t concern him in the least.

“Please, Gleb. They’ll kill you if anyone recognizes you.” Panic chokes my throat, but my claustrophobia takes a back seat compared to my fear for his safety. I’ve heard what Keoghan Kelly’s men can do, and I couldn’t live with myself if they did it to Gleb. “Please, go.”

“Not until you answer my questions,” he growls, his eyes flashing with steel.

My stomach quivers at the underlying anger.

I knew he would be mad at me.

I’d hoped he would be mad enough to leave town without me.

But now he’s here, risking his life to get answers I can’t give him.

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