Page 99 of Caging Darling

Instead, the place women are taken to be abused is beautiful.

The manor towers in the center of downtown Kahlia, its edifice a canary yellow, bright even in the moonlight. Ivy weaves artfully up the front of the building, finding itself strategically framing stained glass window panes as it reaches for the heavens.

It’s vibrant enough to be seen a block down, the lively music giving away its festivities even before then.

“Now’s the time to put on a show, Darling,” says Astor, gesturing to his elbow. I place my hand in its crook, trying to ignore how his bicep flinches at my gloved touch. My grip is just as tense, my neck elongated as if a rod has been sutured into my spine. I’m trembling, but that works in our favor. Vulcan will assume I’m afraid of him. Or of Astor.

He’ll be partially correct.

As we walk down the streets, I have to lean into Astor for support. The Nomad had a set of red stilettos waiting for me in the carriage. The pointed heels make the walk down thecobblestone streets precarious, and I find myself focusing on not diving headlong onto the street.

“Dreadful inventions,” says Astor, glancing down at my feet, easily visible through the gaping slit in my dress as I walk. “It’s as if someone thought, now how can we sell foot shackles to the very prisoners who will be bound by them?”

“Only for those who can’t walk well in them,” I say, my ankles aching. I’m not sure why I’m defending the shoes that are actively strangling the blood flow in my feet, but something about the captain brings out the tiny part of me that’s contrary.

When I trip lightly as my heel jabs into the concrete, the captain is there to catch me, pulling me tighter into his side, his coat warm.

His green eyes flash. “Don’t make me carry you, Darling.”

“Don’t sound as if it would be your pleasure, Captain.”

Again, the captain’s mouth ticks. Just slightly.

Guests are already filing into the manor by the time we reach the doors. We’re ushered to the end of the line. When we reach the doors, the usher asks for our names.

“Don’t bother with that,” says Astor, gesturing toward the usher’s pad. “You won’t find us on the guest list.”

The usher gives us a bored stare. Like he’s already had this conversation a half dozen times tonight. “Then might I recommend the brothel down the street? The ale selection is lovely.”

“As much as I hate to miss out on a good ale,” says Astor, reaching into his pocket. He hands a note to the usher, who glances up at him through thick, heavy eyelids, then makes a show of groaning as he unrolls the note.

His eyes dart across the page, stop, then flick toward me.

“Very well,” he says, swallowing uncomfortably and ushering us through the doors.

If the exterior of the manor was bold, the interior is decadent. Naked cherubs swarm the walls, some painted, others taking the form of golden sconces. Where the cherubs disperse, wall-length mirrors take their place, giving the cherubs a sense of multiplying.

“Well, the man can’t be accused of having good taste, can he?” says Astor.

“Is this not how you would decorate your home, Captain?”

He opens his mouth, then glances at me, mischief flashing in his eyes. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be the one making those choices.”

“Yes, well, that woman fawning on you during the ball would likely love the opportunity to decorate your home for you,” I remark, if only to have something to say other than letting my jaw hit the floor.

“I’m afraid she’s not my type.”

“Ah, you mean because she’s not red-headed enough.”

Astor narrows his brow, just slightly, in question, but before he can interrogate me, we’re summoned down the hall and into the greeting parlor by a tall, curvaceous woman with deep-set, heavily painted eyes, porcelain skin, and a melodious voice as dark and intriguing as her black hair.

“Vulcan will see you in the parlor now,” she says, offering seductive grins at the guests as they file through the arched doorway and into the parlor.

When it’s Astor’s and my turn, she turns that beautiful, red-lipped smile on Astor, and my stomach twists. But then the woman glances at me, her gaze flitting to my jawline, where the imprint of my Mark is still visible even if the color is hidden by my paint, and her smile cinches ever so slightly.

The next time she turns her gaze on Astor, there’s ice in her sparking blue eyes. A shiver snakes down my spine, and as we stride into the parlor, we’re greeted by another half-dozenwomen, all varying in shape, coloring, and height, all wearing the same dove-white dress as the woman at the entryway. All bear feathered wings strapped to their backs.

Astor leans in, lending his ear, like he can tell by the way I’m tensing that I need to say something.

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