Page 60 of Stalk Me

Beside me, Richard shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it aside. He leans close, his voice low against my ear. “You better make this worth their money, Luna. Daddy has a lot riding on this event.”

With that, he unfastens his pants, exposing himself as he eases onto the chaise. The scent of whiskey and sweat fills my nostrils, mixing with the other odors of the room—expensive perfume, tobacco, coffee. The world swims before my eyes, and the cocktail I’ve consumed makes everything seem unreal.

“This could be a pleasure, or this could be a nightmare. The choice is yours,” Richard taunts, leaning in so close that only I can hear his next words. “Choose wisely, because you’re out of options.” His eyes flick meaningfully toward Erik, the threat unmistakable.

I think of Erik. Of the look of terror and disgust on his face at the terrible prospect ahead. I’m fighting for him, too. I promised to get him out, and we’ve come too far to give up now.

I drop to my knees, unable to meet his eyes.

Gasps of shock and excitement rise from the crowd as I take him in my mouth, still soft and unpleasant, a little flabby. But at least this way it’ll be fast, and this time I’m not forced to swallow. This time, I can bide my time and use the drug’s ability to make a person loose and compliant to my advantage.

While I’m on my knees, I pick up speed and suction until I can feel Gallagher stir, his dick coming alive in my mouth. Soon, his disgusting groans join the muffled conversation and laughter of the crowd, some people turning to watch, their pants uncomfortably tight.

I’m barely conscious, a doll caught between three dimensions, held prisoner. When Gallagher has me do the basics again, it isn’t nearly as awful as when I have him stuff himself into me.

But the horror isn’t over, not by far. I’m back to suck him off when another voice reaches me, suddenly louder, an exclamation which has my gaze flipping up toward a smirking Gallagher.

“That was beautiful, darling. Now it’s time to finish what you started. Richard! Do it!”

My head turns sharply to my side, toward where the voice came from, only to find my father staring me down. His nostrils flare, eyes wild.

Time seems to slow, to stop. Around me, the sounds fade, the greedy faces dissolving in a haze.

Through half-lidded eyes, I see Erik struggling against his restraints, the veins in his neck standing out with the effort. Around us, the audience watches with varying expressions of interest and arousal. Some have begun their own diversions with hired companions or willing participants from within our circle.

Richard guides me toward a chaise positioned directly in Erik’s line of sight. He arranges me exactly as he wants, ensuring Erik can see everything.

“Beautiful,” Richard murmurs, his hands moving with increasing urgency.

I shut down parts of myself, disassociating as I’ve learned to do during these events. My body may be present, but I send my mind elsewhere—to the cliff with Erik, to the stormy night in my room, to any memory that might preserve my sanity through what comes next.

Richard positions himself above me, his expression triumphant as he looks toward Erik. “Pay attention, boy. This is what power looks like.”

Just as Richard leans down, a sound cuts through the room—a sharp crack that takes a moment to register as glass breaking. Then another. And another.

Confusion ripples through the crowd. My father turns toward the main doors, his expression shifting from irritation to alarm. Griffiths is already moving, his hand reaching inside his jacket for what I know is a concealed weapon.

“Sebastian!” A security guard bursts into the room, face pale with panic. “We’ve been compromised. Police—dozens of them—breaching the perimeter!”

Time seems to slow as chaos erupts. Guests scatter, abandoning drinks and companions in their rush to escape. Richard freezes above me, his head turning toward the commotion.

My father’s face drains of color, fear warring with rage. “Stevens!” He barks, his gaze scanning the room, searching for any member of the staff.

Our stately butler steps forward immediately. “Here, sir.”

“Take her upstairs. Now.”

Richard scrambles off me, fastening his pants as he rises to his feet. Behind him, I see Griffiths signal to his men, who begin destroying evidence, smashing tablets and phones. Across the room, guests flee through hidden passages I never knew existed. Behind them, on the chair, one of Griffiths’ goons is untying Erik. His face is a mix of relief and concern, his unfocused eyes never leaving mine.

“Go!” My father’s sharp command returns my attention to him. “Stevens, put them both in the panic room. Don’t allow them to leave under any circumstances, understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Queen.” The butler gives a quick bow and hurries over to me, not bothering to offer me even a piece of clothing as he yanks my arm.

“Move!” Stevens barks. “No time for games.”

Erik, who is finally free from the chair, staggers, catching himself against the furniture.

“Go with the old man. Take the boy with them!” Griffiths instructs his goon.

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