Page 12 of Chandelier Sin
Unlike a clueless moth, I knew any encounter with Atticus would lead to unfavorable consequences.
Nevertheless, I was drawn to the man with the snake tattoo. Only, this time, I returned to the first floor of Pendulum on my own terms.
Within the lavishly decorated ground-level restroom, I questioned my sanity for returning to this part of the club.
Then again, this was the first time I’d been tempted to do something forme. A forbidden call for an adventure I couldn’t resist.
That call, that lure, was Atticus Sinclair. The man I’d met in the bar, the man everyone was talking about. He and his friends had caused quite a stir.
Hell,they’d caused a seismic shift at Pendulum.
Though dominant and assertive, beneath that surface I detected a man who enjoyed satisfying women.
The man who professed to love mewas so unlike him.
Approaching the mirror to check my makeup, I traced a fingertip along Aemon’s last response to me, a dark mark beneath my eye. I’d camouflaged the bruise well. If I kept my mask on there was no need for concern that anyone could see.
I tucked my compact back into my purse, having touched up my dirty little secret—a bruise for speaking out in defense of a submissive.
The punishment had not stopped there.
I’d been ordered to the first floor to fetch the High Chancellor a bottle of Jeroboam of Dom Pérignon.
Aemon had ordered me to remove my gown, wanting me to be humiliated by walking naked on the first floor. Only, no one had been around—except for Atticus.
And he’d made me feel no shame for being so exposed.
He’d made me feel alive. As he’d closed in on me, I’d succumbed to the heat of his body, the burn of his stare, the frisson through my body as it brushed against his.
Sparks of arousal caused me to shudder, a flutter of something coming alive within me.
My husband’s plan to destroy my evening had gone differently than he’d anticipated. He’d unwittingly played a part in making this evening something I’d forever recall fondly.
This time, visiting the ground floor would be on my terms. I’d dressed in my gold shimmering gown to maintain my dignity and stand on equal footing with the other guests.
I’d leave my blonde wig on the table.
Becausehe’dordered me to…the man who’d stirred my imagination.
I lifted my masquerade mask off the vanity and pulled it on, securing the silk straps behind my head as I tied it in a bow.
Caressing the blue plumage crowning the Venetian headdress, I ran one of the velvety feathers between my thumb and forefinger. My dreamlike, serene reflection in the mirror did not match the reality of the woman I was now. I’d mastered cloaking my sadnesslong ago while privately carrying a kaleidoscope of pain—a continuous thread of anguish that had begun as far back as I could recall.
Tropical heat.
Lush palm trees surrounding the restaurant. Too young to sit alone at that round table.
Yet I had.
A blurry six-year-old’s memory.
Even now, I was forbidden to ask questions about my childhood. Forbidden to seek answers for why I had no family.
There was no outer sign of my suffering. I’d concealed any indication that my past didn’t match my present. To others, I appeared privileged. Always draped in the finest clothes and dripping in jewelry.
Fake fur.
Fake happiness.
