Page 2 of Pageant

Kirill glances at Elyah, a cruel smile curving his lips. “Let me teach this one.”

Our friend shrugs and steps back.Be my guest.

I turn to the cages and address the women. “Are all of you paying attention? This is a lesson you will want to learn only once.”

Kirill’s expression suffuses with wicked malice, and the Italian’s wails die in her throat. Before the pageant has even begun, she’s failed. He grabs a chain that’s dangling overhead, wrapping it around the woman’s wrists and winching her up off her feet. Her legs kick back and forth as Kirill tears her dress apart down her back.

“No! Let me down.” Her screams have increased to a fever pitch.

He picks up a leather switch from the far side of the room and tests it against his palm. “There can only be one winner,” he explains to the women in the cages, “which means there will be fifteen losers. You can lose and keep your life, or you can lose likethis.”

He draws back his arm and cracks the switch viciously over the Italian’s flesh. She screams in agony. It feels like someone is hammering red-hot nails into my skull. I want to reach up and rub the scar tissue at my temple, but I make myself stand as still as stone.

Kirill whips her again, putting the whole strength of his body into the stroke, his teeth grit, and eyes alight with manic pleasure.

And again.

And again.

Blood flows freely down the woman’s back and spatters onto the floor. Half the women are watching the brutal spectacle with horrified, staring eyes. The other half have their faces buried in their thin bedclothes, fingers in their ears, and shoulders shaking with sobs.

Her screams ricochet off the walls and make my headache pound harder than ever. I need fuckingsilence. I pull out my gun, aim it at the Italian’s head, and shoot. Her screams are abruptly curtailed.

I let out a slow breath. Peace reigns. The pressure in my skull ebbs away.

Kirill swipes at his blood-spattered face with his forearm. Then he yanks on the chains and the woman tumbles to the ground. “I don’t think Papa’s coming.”

Elyah still seems on edge as I holster my gun. I wave my arm at the women. “We won’t begin until tomorrow, but there’s no reason you can’t sample one of the contestants now. Choose one.”

He walks down the room and stops in front of the cage that contains a woman with dark gold hair. His eyes narrow in hatred. She crushes herself into the corner of the cell, but it’s too late.

He’s seen her.

He unlocks her cage, points at the ground in front of his feet. Eyes dancing with visions of the Italian’s death, she scrambles to do what he says, and then sits there, shaking.

Elyah snaps his fingers in her face. “Are you stupid? Are you just going to cry and scream like the other one?”

She jumps at the sound of his voice.

“Snivelingsuka.”Bitch. He grasps the waistband of his pants and savagely jerks down his fly. “Don’t just sit there. Suck it.”

The woman cringes away from him but reaches up with shaking hands to do as she’s told. I lean back against the wall to watch. I doubt this woman is what I’m looking for, but perhaps she’s tougher than she looks. I’m willing to give her a chance at being my wife.

Elyah doesn’t want a wife. Elyah wants to torture an unsuspecting woman until she begs for mercy, which he’ll deny over and over again. All the while despising her for her tears, her fear, her crying. The man doesn’t know the meaning of mercy. Neither does Kirill, though he delights in the tears that Elyah loathes.

The women might not see it yet, but there’s a purpose to all of this. I want a woman as flawless as a diamond, one forged in the crucible of searing heat and high pressure. A woman who will never crack or show signs of weakness. That’s why I chose models for this game. Models are fiercely competitive, stunningly beautiful, and possess cutthroat ambition. Before the age of twenty, runway models learn to smile through the pain.

That’s my theory, anyway. Maybe my plan won’t work and all I’ll have left at the end of the week is a pile of bleeding corpses. If that’s the case, I can do this all over again with another group of women. And again, and again, until I find the one I want.

Impatience surges through Elyah’s muscles. He grips the blonde’s chin and forces her face toward his pants. “Fuckingdo it.”

The woman fumbles with his clothing. Anger suddenly fills Elyah’s expression as he fists the blonde’s hair and inspects it closely. “Is this bleached?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“You fake, worthless whore.” He plants a foot on her chest and shoves her back into her cage. She huddles in the corner as the door slams closed. Elyah turns the key in the lock and fastens his pants.

Kirill is hunkered down by the dead Italian, fascinated by her blood trickling over the concrete. “Now we’re short by one woman.”

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