Page 25 of Trapped

I grab Arsène’s hand.

Dark, with only the flickering light of torches to make the shadows dance against the walls. There are so many of them, obscure shades that whirl around—cloaks, dark and long, with hoods to cover their heads, and elegant, colourful masks to hide their identity.

I’m in school with these guys, my troubled mind sputters. I’m in school with guys who lead a double life, who are part of this secret brotherhood that, if Arsène is speaking the truth, has more power than your worst nightmare.

And still I’m finding myself moving forward, led by flaring shapes and rich scent, by a possessive, warm hand that is wrapped around my nape while the other squeezes my palm. Around us, the crowd gives way, and we continue our march with tens and tens of pairs of eyes on us. Watching, following.

Do they know who I am?

Nerves flutter freely through my stomach, supporting the heavy weight in my head and making it more bearable. Making me more pliable when we finally arrive at the altar Arsène mentioned before, and halt. My heart is pounding so violently, I fear others might hear, but my gaze is pointed toward the three cloaked men who stand in the center of the room. They’re clearly waiting for us. Their masks are shaped like a crow as black as their cloak, its obscene nose long and crooked, aside from the white fur that’s been stitched on the seams of their hoods. It forms a sharp contrast to the rest of their garment.

The man in the middle booms his golden cane, and around us, the soft murmurs fade away, only to be replaced by utter, thick, silence.

“Arsène de Noailles.” He lifts a hand and his lips curl into a cruel smirk. He’s the one from before, the man who instructed us contestants, about the rules of the game. The one who handed me the drugs. “You’ve done well, brother, I am proud of you.”

“Thank you, Elder Jacques,” he replies, gripping me tighter. I swallow, the sound ticking between my ears, Arsène’s fingers light and pressing on my shoulder, grounding me while simultaneously sweeping my anchor away. Making me drift. Making me restless.

“I brought my chosen one.” Arsène’s gaze searches as his face shifts. “Did you prepare the altar?”

“That you have,” the Elder agrees. From behind the hideous mask, his dark eyes shift between us. “And yes, the altar is ready. Your brothers can’t wait to welcome our newest member, can’t wait to see how you will present him.”

“He’ll be trapped,” Arsène hums, sliding his hand over my nape, fingers crawling under my collar in search of naked flesh. Piégé. When our skins connect, he lets out a private, raspy hum, his eyes still flitted toward the Elder. “He’s already subdued. I am, too. And prepared.” He turns my way and whispers, “For my cock.”

“You’re a generous lover.” Out of nowhere, Golden Mask appears, a small smirk on his face.

“That I am,” Arsène grins in reply, throwing him the tail-end of the copper thread. Golden Mask catches it smoothly, that smug grin still on his face. I wonder if I know him too?

Arsène squeezes my neck. “Eyes here, papillon.” I ignore Golden Mask’s chortle, instead let Arsène wrap his large hand around my nape, tracing the line of my beating pulse. Then he guides me forward, to the altar.

“Welcome to your initiation,” he muses, pulling both my hands behind my back as he walks me forward until my pelvis hits the cool material of the altar. It’s a wooden table, shiny and polished, void of any objects.

“This is your pledge, Robin Pinault.” Elder Jacques speaks. “And in return, you will carry the name brother of the Alpha Fraternarii. A name that will open every single door in your life to come.”

My pledge in return for the name of ‘brother’. My body in return for pleasure. My soul in return for ownership by this guy who claims that sometimes we know what we want in a single moment of time. And that he knows he wants me.

When my stomach hits the coolness of the shrine, Arsène kicks my feet apart and opens my pants with agile fingers, before shimmying my pants and boxer briefs down my legs and onto the ground. He helps me step out of them, then makes a show of spreading my hands high above my head, placing his thighs between my spread ones. Between my naked spread ones. His lips press against the back of my ear.

“Soon now, papillon.” The faint of a whisper. I mewl in reply, my head once more spinning with incense and soft piano. And glitters, everywhere. With Arsène and his all-consuming presence, threatening and protective at the same time.

The cane booms once more and utter silence follows. Even the music dims.

“Brothers, I present to you tonight’s winner of the Wicked Chase.”

Silence. Arsène rubs his hands over my ass cheeks, spreading them a little, no doubt to admire the plug and that disgusting spider. Inside my head, I whimper and fight against the swirl of desire that brings. To be on display for him and the others, naked and vulnerable, yet protected and safe. It’s the weirdest sensation ever.

“Power presents itself in the weirdest of shapes. It comes in money, in opportunity.” He lets out a vicious laugh. “In health and prosperity, and jobs. In ownership.” Elder Jacques’s voice raises at the end, forming a mild crescendo.

Ownership.

“Congratulations to the both of you.”

Somewhere someone strikes a gong, its sound precise, filling the dungeon with an ominous timbre and a full, round sound that’s picked up by the piano as they fall in play together.

Golden Mask positions himself in front of me, grabbing my raised hands and pushing them down and against my back, until my nails practically reach my ass. I lift my head, ready to open my mouth and protest.

“Sshh,” Arsène soothes from behind me. “Let it happen.”

Golden Mask shoots me a devilish smile before he lets his gaze slide to the way Arsène is undoubtedly binding my wrists together, trapping me just like he said he would, capturing me for the world to see. His fingers work fast, their touch soft as a feather, yet merciless, the movements trained.

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