Page 73 of To Curse A Knight

A high-pitched voice squeaked behind me, and I turned quickly to press a finger to my lips. A woman’s wide blue eyes peered back at me in wild surprise. For the first time, I cursed not knowing the employee’s names; it would have been useful to call her by name to coax her into spilling her secrets.

She looked vaguely familiar, but the outfit she wore—the black skirt and sequined bustier with red sequined stilettos, told me she was one of our attendees, hired and designed to service the fantasies of other men and women on the floor.

I beckoned her into the vacant room. She hesitantly followed me into the sexual fantasy space, where a bondage bed lay amidst black and red painted walls.

“I have not been here. No one can know the truth. Can I trust you with this?”

Fearful eyes, clouded with confusion and apprehension, stared up at me through the dim light. I stepped back from her to give her space. I had unintentionally crowded her with the magnitude of my anxiety.

When she confirmed with a nod of trepidation, I continued. “I have heard rumors that my staff are being abused. Is this true?”

I had no time to ply her with compliments or enter small talk designed to set her at ease. An uncomfortable itch under my skin grew hotter with each passing moment; I was aware of the limited time on my clock.

“I—er—well...” Her gaze flicked nervously to the door behind us. “Nothing has happened to me,” she squeaked out in a rush, and her cheeks flushed crimson under the amber pot lights. “But I know of a few girls—er—women, who’ve been touched… inappropriately.”

The itch mutated into a searing burn beneath my flesh. In the several years I’d overseen and built this thriving business, I’d been forced to rid the brothels of opportunistic men who’d felt entitled to unwilling bodies; who abused the fantasy of rape by bypassing the several safeties put in place for the workers willing to entertain such fantasies, instead taking their power and choice away altogether.

I’d stripped the flesh off of a client who’d taken my employee's rights into his own hands. Another, I’d broken every bone in the hand he’d used to strike an unwilling attendee. I had no such patience for men who broke the rules.Myrules.

“Explain,” I growled, the word dipped in acid as I barely held my anger in check.

“Vicente has brought in some… friends,” she stuttered, desperate fear burning in her gaze as she peered back at me on trembling feet. “They haven’t been following the… rules,” she finished lamely, and my impatience grew to irritation.

“Elaborate,” I insisted, using all my self-control not to step into her personal space to threaten her with my size. I was not willing to burn down the house without direct confirmation of misdeeds, and “not following the rules” was not enough to give me what I needed.

She shrunk in on herself despite me staying well out of her comfort zone; the rage emanated from every pore of my skin, the vibrations of it pulsing into the surrounding air.

“My friend Chauntelle was raped.” Her head hung, gaze glued to the floor, as she spoke the next words. “And they’ve brought in younger employees. Last shift, they forced me to work with a fifteen-year-old.”

Vicente was going to die.Today.

“Thank you,” I gritted out between clenched teeth. “I will pay you to keep my appearance here quiet.”

She met my stare and the fear faded for a brief moment, replaced with proud defiance. “Mr. Rodriguez, save those girls. Save me. I don’t need any money from you.”

“It is done,” I replied, tone resolute. The determination to rid the earth of the scourge of my father and his desperation to prove his tiny cock was something to be admired filled my every blood cell. I held open the door for her and gestured for her to leave.

“Speak of this to no one,” I reminded her as she scurried through the opening, fear lacing her posture once more. “I will put Vicente in his place.”

Once she had vacated the corridor, I quickly fled down the opposite way, urgency biting on my heels. Lauchlan was still waiting for me, and I would need an hour off the premises to formulate a plan. My favorite dagger was not enough to exact the justice needed here.

My footfalls echoed down the polished concrete floor of the rear hallway. I had rounded the corner to the door when an icy prickle swept down my spine. Someone was watching me. I felt their presence in the shadows like a dark cloud covering the sun.

Before I could turn to confirm my suspicions, a warm hand and sharp prick bit at my neck. I crumpled to my knees and my world faded into inky blackness, all sounds muffling save for the final few words:

“Welcome back, Mr. Rodriguez.”

I was not a man who indulged in drugs. Vicente had subjected me to many illicit substances over the years to understand their effects and to coach my brain into working through their cloying strength.

I’d been injected with a depressant of some kind. Designed to incapacitate me and make me pliant in the users' hold. I’d been trained to fight the drug's effects, and the dosage was too low for a man of my size. I was groggy, but aware; aware enough to know I was still in Club 7, in one of the basement rooms designed for torturing the abusive clients. My limbs were trapped in the grip of bound ropes, my arms and legs tied to the arms and legs of the chair.

How ironic it was I who was now in the chair when I had come to save them.

“You are a tricky man to find, Aaron,” a sultry voice purred in my ear, and I jolted at the warm breath against my skin. Perhaps I was more out of it than I’d expected.

I fought against the nausea, breathing large gulps of stale air through my nose to settle the roiling acid of my stomach.

I said nothing, choosing to wait out the woman who spoke so candidly to me, waiting for her to show her face. She did not disappoint; tanned, creamy skin, long dark hair and even darker eyes came into view as my attendant, the one whom I’d rescued from my father’s deplorable treatment, stared back at me, her expression a mix of satisfaction and curiosity.

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