Page 32 of Pageant

Something of that seems to penetrate her brain. “Um, I’m a model. I’m Brazilian, and I like…I like…anime.”

Anime. She likes fucking anime. I hit a button on the intercom on the table. “Take her away and send in Number Two.”

A guard comes into the room and drags Number One away. Then he goes to the first door, opens it, and collects Number Two for us. She’s the same as Number One. So are the next three women. Muttered non-answers. Shaking. Staring at my scar.

Beside me, Kirill is shifting restlessly. “Kostya,” he growls.

The women aren’t behaving, and he craves violence. I put a placating hand on his shoulder. “Soon.”

I call for Number Six. The door opens, and a platinum blonde beauty strides into the room, chin up, breasts thrust forward. She’s wearing a sky-blue bikini with silver high heels and her lips are glossy.

Finally, a woman who is taking this seriously. “Number Six. Welcome.”

“Spacibo,” she replies with a smile, thanking me, though her accent tells me she’s not Russian.

“You’re…Romanian?” I guess.

“Croatian.” Then she gives a little laugh. “I’m sorry.Spacibois the only Russian I know.”

“I’m sure you’re a fast learner,” I say, my eyes running over her body. Her smile widens, and I settle back to enjoy what this blonde has to offer. “Tell me about yourself, Number Six.”

She places a hand on her hip and strikes a pose, her attention squarely on me. “I’m ambitious, and I’m tough. I’ve been a runway model for two years and it’s taught me how to survive. Most people are too scared to do what needs to be done to get somewhere in life. Most people are weak.”

I couldn’t agree more. “And how do you feel about being here?”

She hesitates, and then plunges onward. “Truthfully? I’m pissed off. I’m cold. I’m confused.” Her expression softens and she meets my eyes again. “I like that tiara, though. I’ve never seen pink diamonds before.”

Of course she hasn’t. Pink diamonds are the rarest of the rare. “How pretty they would look crowning your head.”

She tosses her hair and gives me a flirtatious look. “They would, wouldn’t they?”

I mentally move her to the top of my list.

“Well done. You may leave by that door.” I indicate off to one side and reach for the intercom.

She hesitates, still looking only at me. “The other women have been saying all sorts of things about you… Sorry, how do I address you?”

“Ser.”

“They’ve been saying all sorts of things about you,ser. I don’t think they’re taking this competition seriously at all.”

I hesitate, my finger poised over the button. Sometimes the best thing you can say is nothing. I watch Number Six, and I wait.

“Maybe you’d find what I overhear interesting in exchange for one or two small favors,” she suggests. “I miss having hot water and proper food. The blankets are thin and scratchy, and I hate being cold.”

Kirill bursts out laughing.

Frowning, Number Six looks at him for the first time. “What’s so funny?”

He points a tattooed finger at the other side of the room, still laughing. “You will see when you go through that door, you stupid bitch.”

Number Six stares at the door, and the long mirror beside it, but she doesn’t understand. I press the intercom and call for a change of woman. Number Six leaves with a guard gripping her upper arm, her expression troubled.

The next four women are all as scared as the first, and they have nothing to say for themselves except for mumbles and choked tears. My scar starts throbbing as my frustration rises.

As yet another woman trembles and stammers before us, I snap my head up and roar, “Get the fuck out!”

The woman panics and hurries back to the door she came through, but it’s locked and she tugs uselessly on the handle. I stab the intercom with a finger as I rub the scar tissue on my forehead to tell the guards to get rid of her. The man grabs her, and the woman trips and falls on her ass.

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