Page 29 of A Touch of Dark
I stalk inside with my head held high, expecting one of the quaint, expensive haunts Daddy would drag me to. Places with gilded wallpapers and employees who bend over backward in the hopes of earning a tip to supplement an income that doesn’t come close to the cost of a chef’s special.
Instead, I find subdued colors and a hushed silence that instantly mutes the noise from the street. The lobby is sparsely decorated but in a way that leaves no doubt in one’s mind as to the caliber of humans who frequent this establishment.
Filthy, decadently rich.
“This way.” Damien heads forward, using his cane to test the path before him.
A beaming woman in black silk stands behind a silver podium and automatically recognizes my host. “Mr. Villa,” she says warmly. “A private room for two, as requested.”
It strikes me that the decor looks as though it were ripped right from his studio. Dark walls and polished wood floors illuminated by dim lighting designed to make any visitor feel more disoriented than…
Well, than a blind man.
Aman could bring his enemy here. Or his lover.
It’s too intimate. Dark walls form an elegant, if claustrophobic, prison. In lieu of a table and chairs, a leather chaise dominates one wall placed behind a low table—making for a vastly different layout from any restaurant I’ve frequented.
The only decoration is a row of black curtains shielding one half of the room. All in all, I’m reminded of a private box in a theater and my mind hums with terrifying possibilities. Few things could entertain a man like Damien—and every potential scenario sets my already frayed nerves on fire.
“My usual wine,” he requests of the server before seating himself at one end of the chaise. “Anything for my guest?”
I bite my lip to keep from asking for the same. “Water,” I choke out. There. Now to keep up the air of being unaffected.
A cursory glance of the room reveals few places to sit without being near him. A spot at the far end of the couch offers the most distance.
“So, you can guarantee the discretion of this place?” I take pains to sound skeptical while gauging his reaction. Damn. Not even a wince. “Unless this was your plan all along? Manipulate me into ruining my father’s career?” It sounds so damn obvious when said out loud. “Have a nice night, Mr. Villa—”
“I promised you discretion, did I not?” His face is as stoic as ever, but his hands are clenched at his sides. Once again, I’ve insulted him. “You can leave,” he adds coldly, jerking his chin toward the door. “Or you can join me. The show is about to begin.”
Show?
As if on cue, the black curtains part to reveal a sheet of glass behind them: a window.
Confused, I lower myself onto the couch. I assumed the word choice was a taunt, but now? “What is this?”
The main event, apparently. This room overlooks a larger area presumably meant to serve as a stage. Rather than an audience or gallery, rows of mirrors reflect the scene unfolding a good ten feet down below.
“We can’t be seen,” Damien informs me. “And trust me when I say that no one here gives a damn about your father.”
I can guess why. Fixated on the view, I moisten my lips with my tongue and try to steady my breathing. It’s rapid and shallow. Am I disgusted? Maybe.
Down below unfolds a scene my father would never expose me to.
Strapped to a black pole is a woman wearing only a leather collar around her neck and nothing else. Her breasts are bared, her body taut with anticipation as a man paces before her, barefoot over black flooring. He’s naked as well, sporting a long, black strip of material in one hand. It lashes at the air with every step he takes. A whip.
“What in the hell?” I scramble to my feet, unable to tear my gaze away. There’s something primal about the scene. Naked flesh and taut muscle moving fluidly with nothing to disguise it. No protection. No masks. “What is this?”
“Expression,” Damien says calmly. “If you are offended, I can arrange for you to be safely returned home—”
“So this is where you get your inspiration from?” I make that word as nasty as I can, oddly satisfied when his jaw clenches. I’ve broken through that collected exterior. But I have enough sense to regret it as he inclines his head in my direction.
“Not everything is pretty colors to appease your vanity, Ms. Thorne.”
“Oh?” I swallow hard and fight to make my voice as haughty and bitchy as I possibly can. “I guess that’s how every sick freak tries to justify it—”
“Never call me that.” He doesn’t have to specify what.Freak.
I take another step away from him, toward the door. “Then what should I call you?”
