Page 29 of The Knight (Endgame 2)
The heavy door nudges open an inch. My heart thuds against my chest, echoing the single knock.
The men who frequent the Den are the most powerful in the city. A thief from the street wouldn’t steal from them unless they wanted swift retribution, even if the door is unlocked. But powerful men make powerful enemies, and leaving the door open feels reckless.
Unless they’re expecting someone.
I hold my breath, listening intently for voices inside. All I hear is the low buzz of traffic from behind me, the distant whine of a siren.
“Hello,” I call through the slim opening.
No response.
It could be suicide to enter their space uninvited, an aggressive move to a wild animal.
What if one of those powerful enemies already forced their way inside? Someone could be hurt, bleeding, dying. I know it’s an overactive imagination. No one would catch Gabriel Miller unaware. No one can touch him.
And still I don’t walk away. Something draws me inside. The force of Gabriel himself, maybe, the magnetic attraction of him. My opposite. My downfall.
I step into the dark hallway, my heart beating a hundred times a minute. And with every rapid tick I’m counting down the seconds until someone discovers me. Will they pull a gun on me? Will they shoot first and ask questions later?
It’s not only Gabriel who might find me. Any one of the dangerous men who visit might discover me. Any one of the ex-con security guards they employ might confront me.
“Gabriel?” I ask, my voice wavering. “Mr. Miller?”
He isn’t the man I came to see that first time. I had come to ask for a loan from Damon Scott. But I didn’t have anything for collateral, so he said no. The auction was my only choice.
The silence seems to echo in my eardrums, as if I’m in a giant seashell.
Leather armchairs and ornate wooden tables stand silent witness from the spacious sitting room. A grandfather clock ticks from the end of the hall, pointing out the evening hour. Someone would be here, having a drink. Smoking a cigar. Purchasing a virgin. That’s what they do here. That’s what this place is for. So why is it empty?
“Mr. Scott?”
Before the auction Damon Scott had a photographer take pictures of me. Not naked, but almost. Wearing only my white panties and white bra, hiding my face with my hair. They were meant to generate interest in the auction among the wealthy, perverted men of the city.
Damon had only told me later that the pictures had never been circulated. Of the men at the auction, only Gabriel Miller had ever seen them.
On the first step from the bottom, something small and wooden rests.
Without touching it, I bend down to look at it. The missing pawn from the chess set. A breadcrumb to where Gabriel wants to lead me. And I know now, with this one small token, that this was all intentional. What his end goal is, I don’t know. But he planned this. He plans everything.
This pawn once touched me in my most intimate place. It was once slick with my arousal.
And Gabriel Miller sucked the wetness from the curved head.
Sidestepping the pawn, I climb the steps with increasing anxiety. What does he want from me? How does he know I’ll be here? But of course there’s no one else I can turn to, not when I need my mother’s diary.
At the top of the stairs I hesitate. I can still turn around. Back down the stairs. Out into the city. I can leave this behind—Gabriel Miller and the shameful auction. And the key to unlock my family’s history.
Lifting my chin, I walk down the narrow hallway. I might as well be facing a guillotine. A firing squad. The death of any pride I have left.
The room where the photographer took my pictures has the same surreal, wavy light from my dreams. Some trick of the old windows, bubbles in the glass and ripples in the surface. The light changes color with every blink, dancing over my skin.
Except the room is empty. I take two steps inside. Where is he?
“Kneel,” comes a low voice from behind me.
My breath catches. This is how it feels to be the fly in a web. Anything I do will only bind me tighter. Will you fight me? he asked. Because he wants to tie me down.
I kneel, the floor hard and painful beneath my knees.
He moves to stand in front of me, nothing but solidity and shadow, his white shirt open at the neck, revealing a dusting of hair. His hand clasps my neck loosely, a gentle threat. I swallow against his palm, nerves overcoming my desire to submit.
Then he curves his palm around so he’s cupping me, fingers gently stroking the sensitive skin at my nape. He could hurt me like this. He could use me.
