Page 6 of Shaman

“Of course. If you’ll just follow me.”

She led them through the lobby and down a white-carpeted hall lined with big black-and-white portraits of thin young men and women with striking cheekbones: their model clients, no doubt. She opened the double doors at the end with a keycard, and escorted them in with an elegant gesture.

“Mr. Shaman and his associate,” she announced as Ian and Bruce entered.

It was a lovely office, floor-to-ceiling windows affording a breathtaking view of the city, a white-on-white color scheme set off by pops of color in books and sofa pillows and knick-knacks. There were bookshelves, and potted fig trees, and a massive fish tank that bubbled serenely.

Ian didn’t see any of that. He staggered to a halt just inside the door, so abrupt that Bruce caught him by the arm, his gaze locked on the couple seated behind the glass conference table in the center of the room.

They had aged since he’d last seen them, just as he had. Silver wings in the hair above the man’s ears. Desperately concealed lines and wrinkles around the woman’s eyes. But he would have known their faces anywhere, had been haunted by them, in some form, in nightmares for years.

Daniel and Rebecca Scott, loyal patrons of Miss Carla’s Cuckoo’s Nest. The first woman he’d ever had sex with, and the man he’d thought might steal Kev away from him.

They’d been a part of his enslaved nightmare. He’d bashed the man across the head, had hoped he’d killed him, and he’d thought he’d never see him again.

Life was cruel like that.

Ian was a successful millionaire these days, hated and feared by most who knew him, more powerful than he ever could have imagined as a little boy whose sole purpose had been to provide pleasure for evil men, but in that moment of recognition, he was reduced to a staring, shaking idiot.

And it was a mutual recognition.

The wife picked up on it first, sitting more upright, false smile slipping, painted-on eyebrows jumping.

The husband took a beat longer – Kev had been his favorite, after all – but then he too went blank-faced and stiff.

“Um,” the receptionist said.

Ian thought he might have collapsed if not for Bruce’s steady grip on his arm.

“What, boss?” the man whispered in his ear.

“That’ll be all, Candace,” the husband – Daniel – said to the receptionist, his voice admirably calm.

She bowed and saw herself out. The click of the door closing echoed like the shutting of a tomb in Ian’s ears.

The wife – Rebecca – shifted around in her seat, tucked her hair behind her ears. Ian could remember the softness of her body against his own, the slick tight heat of her sex around his cock. “Mr. Shaman.” Her voice wavered. “Won’t you take a seat?”

Ian took five deep breaths, willing himself to be calm. It didn’t work, exactly, but he found that his legs worked, and that he was able to stand on his own without falling.

“Bruce,” he said, turning to face his bodyguard. The man looked worried. “Whatever is said here today, you mustn’t repeat any of it, understand?”

Bruce, who’d never dared to resist an order, nodded, and said, “Understood.”

Ian nodded, and found that he somehow had the strength to take the chair opposite the couple who’d paid to abuse boy sex slaves. He even managed one of his cool, cruel, mocking smiles.

“Well,” he said. “Haven’t you two gotten old and fat?”

They blinked at him.

“I can only assume you’re having simultaneous strokes.”

Daniel cleared his throat and attempted a smile that was more of a grimace. “Well. This is a surprise.”

Ian made a disgusted sound. “Obviously.”

Rebecca tapped her nails on the edge of the desk, wide-eyed and struggling. “It looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”

Yes, he had. He’d done amazingly well for himself, despite the absolute horror story of his youth. A horror story in which these two pampered monsters had participated.

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