Page 100 of All The Pretty Little Lies

Natasha's lips curl into a smirk as she gestures to the single chair across from her. "Please, Charles, take a seat. We have much to discuss." Natasha shifts back to her seat.

Talon moves towards the chair, his movements fluid and controlled. As he sits, he turns to me, his voice pitched low but carrying an unmistakable command. "Kneel."

I sink to my knees beside his chair, the cold marble floor a shock against my bare skin. The position leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable, but I force myself to remain still, to embody the role we've crafted so carefully.

"Well-trained," she comments casually to Talon. “I can see why you wanted to discuss the breeding clause, but before all of that business talk, we should eat.”

Natasha snaps her fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the intimate space. A server materializes at her side almost instantly, his crisp white shirt and black bow tie a stark contrast to the dim lighting of the room. He opens his mouth, eyes darting to me kneeling on the floor, a question about a chair forming on his lips. But one look at Natasha's arched eyebrow silences him immediately. His professional mask slips back into place, though I catch a flicker of discomfort in his eyes before he averts his gaze.

Natasha's voice flows like liquid silk as she orders in flawless French, the words rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. "Nous commencerons avec les huîtres de Cancale, suivies du foie gras poêlé avec une réduction de vin rouge. Pour le plat principal, le filet de bœuf Wellington, saignant, bien sûr. Et n'oubliez pas une assiette de fromages pour terminer."

Natasha turns to Talon, her lips curving into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "And what about the wine, Charles darling? Do you have a preference?"

Talon doesn't miss a beat. His voice is smooth and confident as he responds, "I believe a 1982 Château Lafite Rothschildwould pair wonderfully with your selections, Natasha. If the sommelier has it available, of course."

I can almost see Natasha's ears perk up at the mention of the prestigious and incredibly expensive wine. Her smile widens, revealing perfect white teeth. "Excellent choice," she purrs, a note of genuine approval in her voice. She turns back to the server. "You heard the man. And do be a dear and have it decanted immediately."

The server bows slightly, murmuring, "Bien sûr, madame," before disappearing as silently as he had appeared.

"I must say, Charles, your taste in wine is as impeccable as your taste in other areas." Her gaze flicks briefly to me, still kneeling silently beside Talon's chair.

The soft clink of crystal against the marble tabletop draws my attention, though I keep my eyes lowered. The sommelier's voice is hushed as he presents the wine, his French accent thick with reverence for the vintage he's about to pour. I hear the delicate pop of the cork being freed from the bottle, followed by the gentle gurgle of wine cascading into the decanter.

Suddenly, I feel a spray of tiny droplets raining down on my exposed skin. The cork must have slipped, sending a fine mist of the precious wine into the air. The rich, heady aroma envelops me, notes of blackcurrant, cedar, and a hint of truffle. It's intoxicating, and I have to resist the urge to lick my lips, to taste the droplets that have landed there.

"Oh dear," Natasha's voice drips with false concern. "It seems your pet has been christened with our wine, Charles. How fitting."

Talon's hand comes to rest on my head, his fingers threading through my hair in a possessive gesture. "Indeed," he replies, his tone casual but with an underlying current of steel. "She wears it well, don't you think?"

I can feel Natasha's eyes on me, assessing, calculating. "Quite," she purrs. "Now, tell me, Charles, how are things progressing with your little project? I trust she's proving satisfactory?"

The sommelier finishes pouring the wine, retreating silently as Talon and Natasha begin their dance of words. I listen, my heart pounding, as Talon spins a tale of my training, of my supposed eagerness to please. He speaks of me as if I'm not there, as if I'm nothing more than a prized pet, and I have to remind myself that this is all an act.

"She's coming along nicely," Talon says, his voice a perfect blend of pride and detachment. "Eager to learn, quick to obey. Of course, there's always room for improvement."

Natasha hums appreciatively. “I find that punishment is almost as sweet as submission.”

I feel Talon's fingers tighten slightly in my hair. “It certainly is.”

“Ah, there’s our first course,” Natasha comments. The scent of fresh oysters mingles with the lingering aroma of the wine, making my mouth water.

"Eyes on me," Talon commands softly, and I obey, lifting my gaze to meet his. His expression is impassive, but I can see the warmth in his eyes, a silent reassurance.

He selects an oyster from his plate, bringing it to my lips. "Open," he instructs, his voice low and husky.

I part my lips obediently, my heart racing as Talon tilts the shell. The oyster slides into my mouth, cool and briny. The delicate flesh practically melts on my tongue, a burst of ocean flavor that makes my taste buds sing. I swallow, savoring the lingering taste of the sea.

Talon's thumb brushes across my bottom lip, wiping away a stray droplet of oyster liquor. The touch sends a shiver through me, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. I can feelNatasha's eyes on us, watching our every move with predatory interest.

"Good girl," Talon murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. The praise, though part of our act, sends a thrill through me.

Natasha leans forward, her elbows resting on the table. "She takes direction well," she observes, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "Tell me, Charles, how does she handle more intense situations?"

Talon's hand moves to the back of my neck, his fingers playing with the clasp of the choker. "She's quite resilient," he replies, a hint of pride coloring his voice. "Aren't you, pet?"

I nod, keeping my eyes locked on Talon's face. "Yes, Sir," I murmur, my voice soft and demure.

Natasha's laugh is low and throaty. "Charming," she purrs. "I do hope you'll allow me to evaluate her limits myself, Charles. Her owners were quite clear about allowing someone else to play with their toy, so to speak."

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