Page 65 of The Devil in Her Bed
“We meet for three nights every three years for this particular three-part ritual. Of course, the most important work is done beyond these walls. However, three is a very auspicious number, and I daresay the second night is our favorite.”
She was almost afraid to ask. “What is the second night?”
“The second night”—he put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face the crescent of patiently waiting stags—”is Desire.”
Whatever motion Kenway made from behind her, it was a command.
Because all of the stag-headed men shucked their white robes, uncovering the bodies of seven would-be gods.
Stunned, Francesca gaped.
Exquisite, they were, each in their own way. An overabundance of masculinity, nay an assault of savage beauty. Mounds of muscle shone in the wan glow, creating grooves and shadows as they were flexed and displayed. Each man was larger and lovelier than the last. Some had dark hair, others fair. A few had little at all. Some were older, grizzled and hard. Others young and eager and also—she swallowed as she looked down—hard.
They all wanted her. That much was physically obvious. And for every moment of this night that was wrong, Kenway had been right about one thing.
The power of it was heady.
Francesca still struggled to process it all whenKenway nudged her forward. “They are here for you, Countess. To tempt you. To pleasure you. They must show devotion by devoting themselves to your whims. You select what you want,whoyou want, and tomorrow, you’ll have him, or them. There will be no depravity unavailable to you, and if you do not see what you desire here, it will be fetched for you. This is only the first of the—”
Without forethought, Francesca held up a hand to stop him.
And it worked.
It was so quiet in the room, the whisper of her robes across marble could be heard in the back.
Everything about this night was entirely, deeply wrong. These people did not understand the slightest thing about what it was to be human, their entire philosophy was skewed, but she had to do what she had to do.
And she’d known immediately who she would select.
Who she wanted.
There. Him.Two “stags” over from the left. He was the entity she could feel in a room full of people. He was the skitter of awareness up her spine.
He was not extraordinarily tall, like some, nor did he have an overabundance of bulk. No, he was the perfect specimen. The Vitruvian man. His body was sculpted of different clay than most, perhaps stolen from Mount Olympus rather than the pedestrian earth from which others were forged. When the masters painted gods and heroes of myths and legends, they might have studied his frame.
Testing a theory, Francesca touched a few of the men as she strode by, pretending to test the strength of a shoulder, the firmness of a jaw.
And each time her hand reached out, the stag that had caught her eye tensed even further. His knuckles whitened as his side. A flush stole over his skin, barely perceptible in such dim light.
Finally, she stopped in front of him. Almost certain her suspicions were correct.
As she stood before him, his breath increased perceptibly, and she knew.
She said nothing as she smoothed her hand down the swells and valleys of his powerful arm, stopping to pull his hand to her.
He allowed this, though she could sense hesitance in the rigidity of his every visible sinew.
Silently, as if they didn’t have an audience, she opened his palm.
Chandler.
She traced the scar with her nail and looked back up at him. He was good at being a spy. He’d found a way in, just as she had.
She’d known him to be spectacularly fit from when she’d sparred with him, but she hadn’t expected such exquisite beauty.
He was glaring down at her now through the slits in his mask covered with iridescent, paper-thin fabric. She wasn’t afraid, even when she couldn’t see his face.
They’d been wearing masks since they’d rediscovered each other.
