Page 38 of Capricorn

But redemption doesn’t stand a chance when betrayal is still shouting, which is why I’m still furious.

He lounges across from me in a leather armchair, apparently unbothered after playing executioner and savior in the same breath. A glass of something expensive rests on the table beside him, untouched.

It’s all I can do not to glower, my emotional upheaval threatening to turn the sitting room to ash. The fireplace has nothing on me. If anything, those flames only feed my ire, spreading too much heat across my skin.

Oblivious, he flips through a thick binder of year-end financial projections, wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. Spreadsheets, budgets, numbers, he said. Something about the accounting coming due for Zodiac Corporation.

Not that I care. I’m filled with the kind of acidic emotion that seeps into everything, even the walls.

A harsh exhale escapes me as I drag my attention to Sebastian’s paintings. His style is unmistakable, defined by brooding texture and signature shadowplay. The woman from Oliver’s past haunts the room from those portraits, her presence chaperoning our every move.

How can Oliver stand it, the constant reminder of what he lost? Is the visual something he needs? Does the ache dull when he curates it, hanging his grief in frames for all to see?

I’m nowhere near that kind of acceptance.

I’m not ready to let go of my anger either.

Because after this morning’s trip to the dungeon, sympathy for Oliver Whitney eludes me. Maybe it’s buried under the shock somewhere, hiding in a place I can’t reach—not while my wrists still remember the threat of shackles.

He shifts in his seat, turns a page, and even the quiet brush of his fingertips on paper makes me cringe.

An hour ago, he dangled me in front of the Brotherhood, using my body to make a point before turning it into leverage, and now he’s going about work like it’s any other day? He’s too calm for someone who lit such a dangerous match.

And I’m too scorched to keep pretending I’m okay. “Where are you planning to take me?”

“You always do ask the right questions.” He sets the binder aside. “I like that about you.”

“Don’t.” My hands curl into fists. “Don’t act like this is a game. You were going to hand me over to Pax.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” He tilts his head, chin in hand. “Or did you believe what I wanted you to believe?”

“That vote wasn’t some test! It was real.”

“And yet, here you are, untouched.”

I count to five, trying to weaken the storm inside me. “I want to know where you’re taking me.”

Rather than answering right away, he unfastens his cuffs and rolls the sleeves to his elbows. Then he lifts his glass, takes a leisurely sip, and says, “We’re going to the States.”

My heart jumps into my throat. “Why?”

“For an initiation.”

I don’t realize I’m clutching the edge of the chair until my knuckles turn white.

“Initiation into what?” I demand.

“A private circle.” His eyes stay on mine, unblinking. “Invitation-only.”

“Private as in…a secret society?”

“Yes, but secrecy isn’t the only thing that binds them. These men have particular tastes, and they’re very interested in meeting you.”

My insides contract, something vital recoiling from the threat he hasn’t yet spelled out. “What do they want with me?”

“Your virginity.”

“No! You can’t do that. It’s a breach of contract.” I’m desperate enough to use the rules as a shield. “The Brotherhood will kick you out of the auction.”

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