Masks Read Free Page B

softly, her dark eyes still holding Mircea’s.
    And finally, he understood. Half of this demonstration was theatre, designed to lower the price. But not all of it. She wanted him to understand that she expected obedience. That spirit was one thing, but defiance would not be tolerated. She wanted him to prove that he would defer to her wishes, however unpleasant.
    She wanted him to submit.
    And if he didn’t, she would leave him here, to wither and suffer and, eventually, to die.
    Mircea was a gambler; he knew a losing hand when he saw it. But he’d never wanted to play one more in his life. She recognized his reluctance, and for some reason, it seemed to please her.
    But the novelty wouldn’t last, and unlike that fool of a condottiere, he knew how to close a deal.
    He licked his lips. “The others . . .” His voice broke, but his eyes slid to the three castoffs beside him.
    They didn’t react, probably not realizing what he was asking. The older one’s head had even slumped again, as if this was all too uninteresting to bother with. But Martina understood.
    “Done.” It was immediate. It was too fast. There was something wrong here.
    “What do you intend to do with me?” It came out more forcefully than he’d intended, nerves and abuse making his voice rough.
    But she only smiled. “Whatever I please, vampire.”
    Yes, Mircea had no doubts of that. But it wasn’t likely that he would get a better offer elsewhere. Or possibly any offer. He knew that.
    But his body stayed rigid another moment nonetheless, intellect warring with abhorrence, and self-preservation with self-respect. Where there is life, there is hope, he reminded himself harshly. Even the bastardized version of life that was all that he had left.
    Martina smiled, a hint of fang against carmine lips, as she felt the globes in her hand draw up again. Mircea refused to look away, refused to give her that satisfaction, even when her grip moved back up to curl around him. Even when she made it clear that she intended to feel his surrender as well as see it.
    But the way her eyes darkened as his skin prickled and his buttocks clenched soon had him wishing he’d chosen differently. And the expression on her face as his body began to shudder made him want to swallow his pride. But it was her terrible smile when the moment of no return came, when he panicked at the last second and vainly tried to stop the now inevitable process, which proved too much.
    Humiliated and beaten, he looked away. Only to meet the gaze of the women she’d brought with her. Somehow, he’d managed to forget about them, but they were still standing by the door, fans fluttering languidly, watching him with curious eyes.
    Mircea could only stare back, utterly mortified, as the first pulse of his release surged through the cage of their mistress’s fist.
    Surged and stopped, for it seemed even that humiliation was not enough.
    Martina’s grip abruptly tightened, making clear that he did nothing without her permission. She would control how hard, how fast, and how much relief he was permitted. And she prolonged the lesson, augmenting his need with her power, and then denying it, again and again, until he was shivering and gasping, aching and desperate. Until he was writhing against the wall, begging for the chance he’d previously disdained. Until she had stripped him of his pride, his defiance, and almost his reason.
    And then she finally released him, allowing him to spill the last vestiges of his self-respect onto the cold stones at her feet.
    He stood there quietly afterwards, stunned and shaking. And stared blankly into space as she and the condottiere concluded their business. He only came out of his reverie when her fist abruptly tightened again, the golden nails biting possessively into his abused flesh.
    No, he realized dully, a moment later.
Her
flesh. For she hoarsely threw over her shoulder: “One hundred ducats then.”
    The condottiere sighed, but nodded, agreeing