Page 134 of Ruin
Heels that add four inches and change her walk from confident to predatory.
Hair down, loose, the way I like it, though she'd deny choosing it for that reason.
The room notices. Of course the room notices.
Heads turn the way heads turn when something dangerous walks in wearing something beautiful, and the whispers start before we've made it past the bar.
I catch fragments. Her name. My name. The Russian situation.
Words like queen and collar and don't fucking stare exchanged between people who know enough to be impressed and not enough to be afraid.
She hears them. I know she does, because the corner of her mouth lifts in that sharp, private smile that I've been noticing since she walked back into my life, and she doesn't slow down.
We move through the club like a blade through silk. Peter and Paul flank us. Lionel is already downstairs.
The crowd parts, and the parting is different now than it was two weeks ago.
Before, they parted for me and tolerated her. Now they part for both of us, and the deference is directed at the woman as much as the man.
She feels it. I can see it in her posture, the way her spine straightens and her chin lifts and her hand finds the small of my back instead of the other way around. She's not being escorted. She's arriving.
We reach the elevator. The doors close. The descent begins.
"Hell," she says. Not a question.
"Hell."
She looks at me. The sharp smile is still there, but underneath it there's something warmer, something that burns instead of cuts. "The room with the glass?"
"If you want."
"I do."
The elevator opens.
Hell unfolds around us—red light, leather, the thick hum of soundproofing and desire. It's a busy night down here too. The rooms along the main corridor are occupied, the doors closed, the observation windows drawing their usual audience.
Selene walks past them without looking.
She knows where she's going. She's been in this room before, on the other side of the glass, watching. Learning.
The room at the end of the hall. I open the door and she walks through it.
It's one of Hell's showcase rooms. Larger than the others.
The bed is oversized, draped in black silk, positioned to face the full-length observation window that takes up the entire far wall.
The glass is one-way from this side—we can see out, they can't see in.
But there's a switch by the door, and when you flip it, the tint reverses.
The room becomes a stage, and the hallway becomes the audience.
Selene looks at the switch and looks at me.
"I’m ready," she says.
We flip it at the same time, her fingers on top of mine. The glass shimmers and clears, and suddenly we can see them—the people in the corridor, gathering, drawn by the lit room and the promise of what happens inside it.
