Page 113 of A Reign of Roses
Across the stage, lit only by oil lamps and candles, dancerspracticed a provocative performance in various stages of undress. Some twirled in faded, ruffled petticoats clearly worn just for practice, while others leapt in sensual lace silhouettes, with tights that crisscrossed up their legs and silky satin gloves. The troupe rehearsed before a woman whose face had been painted to resemble a pouty jester. She tapped her leather-bound foot in a rhythm for them to follow.
“Hey,” I called to her, pushing past shiny red booths and high wooden tables. “We need to speak with your proprietor. Urgently.”
The entire stage’s attention fell to me and I watched as most faces lit with fear while a scarce few sparked with lust. Those women offered heavy-lidded, finger-twinkling waves; one who was lacing herself into a harness tethered to some sort of trapeze blew me a kiss.
I grimaced.
“Anya will know where he is,” the head dancer replied, jerking her painted chin toward a woman over by the tables.
I maneuvered past two men hefting an ornate theatrical mirror through the booths and found Anya bent over a dining table, flattening out a tablecloth. She wore nothing but puffed, frilly bloomers that offered a scandalous peek at her curved bottom and hosiery that resembled a fisherman’s net, climbing up her legs and stopping in the middle of her thighs. Her lean back was expertly cinched in a corset of rich indigo.
“Anya? We’re looking for—”
When she turned to face me, I was greeted with two supple, bouncing breasts.
Tiny circles of fabric dotted with a single tassel carefully concealed Anya’s nipples. That velvet corset dipped low in the front beneath both breasts, which struck me as senseless—supporting the woman’s chest was the very purpose of the garment.
“Me?” she purred, rolling a single finger down my shoulder to my waistband. “CertainlyIhave what you’re looking for?”
“Not even close,” I admitted. “Hearken Sadella. Where is he?”
Anya rolled her eyes, which had gone from heavy-lidded with interest to morosely bored. “Who’s asking?”
“An investor. And longtime admirer of his establishment.”
Those long-lashed eyes, lids doused with a glittering sheen, popped right back open. “Apatronof thearts…Oh, la, la,” she sang. “Stay right there. Sir will be glad to meet you.”
He made all these women call himsir? It was already going to be a phenomenal effort not to relieve Aleksander of his fingernails before asking him to help us. I didn’t know how many more reasons to revile him I could take.
“This place is kind of magical, isn’t it?” Mari asked, returning to us with a fresh rag she’d swiped from somewhere. She pressed it to Griffin’s ribs and then dabbed his brow and sliced arms.
“I don’t know, I guess.” Griffin rubbed his hand across the back of his neck as she worked, blushing like a schoolgirl. “Thank you, for this. I can probably take it from—”
“It’s just the chandeliers, I think,” Mari continued, grinning up at him. “I love their intricacy. I wonder what they look like all lit up.”
“Yeah.” Griffin nodded, eyes on the crystals above us. “It would definitely be…bright.”
Evidently, my commander had been woefully underprepared for what he’d do if Mari ever stopped harassing him and showed him even an ounce of interest. She tapped her foot a bit, waiting for him to say more—anything else at all—but he didn’t.
I fought the urge to knock their heads together.
The provocative dancer returned from behind a single dark satin curtain with a frown.
“Apologies, Sir is a tad indisposed. May I suggest you return when we open in a few hours?” Anya leaned closer once she reached me, her candy-apple breath whispering against my chin. “For you, patron, I’ll open whenever you tell me to.”
Irritation prickled along my skin. Wrapping my hands around the woman’s slender shoulders, I hefted her up and deposited her a foot away from me. Her disgruntledhumphdidn’t even register as I made for the still-swaying curtain.
“You can’t go down there. Excuse me!Hello!”
Anya didn’t do much else to stop us slipping behind the roped-off fabric. The girl had likely seen enough unsavory acts in this place that she knew when to steer clear. She hadn’t even balked at Griffin’s blood-soaked body.
We hurried down an old wooden staircase adorned with little twinkling elvish lights. If I squinted, the corridor almost resembled a night sky.
Breathy, pleading moans echoed through the darkened stairwell and a sneer warped my face.
Mari’s feet stalled, her voice echoing a similar distaste. “That better not be—”
“It is,” Griffin grunted behind us.
