Page 102 of Chandelier Enthralled
What’s she referring to? Is there something behind it?
“Don’t,” said Atticus, the look on his face saying, “You won’t want that in your head.”
I was wise enough to remain silent and not disagree, unsure if I wanted to even know what they were referring to.
Greyson searched the room and then found what he was looking for, a long silver chain. He brought it over to the submissive and attached it to her collar. She let him, remaining quite still. As he stood before her, masterfully soothing her, she became lulled, sinking into subspace.
I’d heard of it but never witnessed it, until now.
This was my brother’s world.
Greyson gave a nod of thanks to Atticus and handed him the end of the chain. Atticus led the submissive across the room. She moved gracefully, as though time itself bent to her will, each step unfolding in slow-motion, like a supermodel seduced by a god.
That’s what these men were here for, to be gods of erotism, making their own rules and living out their fantasies.
Atticus led the submissive out of the room.
Suddenly, we were very much alone again.
“Are you staying?” I asked Greyson, not wanting to be left behind.
“I’ll come back for you.”
“What are they going to do to her?”
“Willa.” Greyson narrowed his gaze on me. “You craved admission. Well, consider yourself irrevocably accepted.”
We shared a look, and I realized he didn’t want me to know what went on in that other room.
Were they heading into the High Chamber?
I glanced toward the painting, the one she’d hinted would reveal all that was about to happen.
“Don’t,” said Greyson. “Just don’t.”
He glanced back at me briefly before leaving the room.
The door shut, leaving me with a feeling of curious fascination.
Greyson wanted to protect me, at least I hoped that’s what I’d read from him. He’d made me believe my brother would have something to do with getting me out.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to investigate a little more while I had the opportunity.
I moved closer to the painting, taking in the mystery of the Parisian beauty, who was staring back as though she were warning me to stay away. But I lifted her frame off a hook and propped her up against a nearby chair.
A round glass lens was set into the wall. Leaning in, I pressed my eye gently against the opening, seeing beyond into a vast hall with a soaring ceiling and grand flooring, a dramatic and eerie setting.
This was more than a story to me now; it was a moment in time.
I was shocked by the vision of so many people dressed in masquerade masks and cloaks. Guests stood amid an ethereal scene, bathed in soft lighting, creating a sense of wonder as if they were caught between reality and a world of their own—a place where nothing was certain and everything felt impossibly mysterious.
I observed all this in a dreamy haze, feeling the sensuality that tugged at something deep within me. I was inexplicably drawn to the unfolding scene, each moment causing a delicate tremor inside, a shiver that sparked a frisson, igniting the hairs on my arms. My body was trembling with anticipation, my heart thundering, face blushing as though they might know I was watching.
It felt like I was caught in the thrall of a nightmare, the kind you can’t escape or resist. I was intoxicated by the raw, unsettling beauty of eroticism.
But I was an outsider—my presence here meant a delicate balance between intrigue and danger.
Amid the swirling crowd, I saw a flash of color—a woman in a sheer, flowing gown caught my attention. Her eyes were hidden behind a veil, but there was something about the way she carried herself. She knelt beside a man and bowed her head. He rested his palm on her head as though to bless her.
