Page 132 of The Enslaved Duet

His tongue lashed out against my ear, and then his teeth were there. “Alexander did a good job with you—I’ve jerked off to the footage many times—but I could have done better. Iwilldo better. If you don’t want me to ruin your shining career by showing the world just what a slut you are, you’ll agree to be my new slave.”

No.

I was done.

I was done with men and their power playing, their conceit and barbarity. I wasn’t just a pretty pawn to be sacrificed and passed around by the will of another more influential player.

I was Cosima Ruth Lombardi.

Born August 24th1998 in Napoli, Italy, to Caprice Maria Lombardi and Amadeo Vitale Salvatore.

I was not a victim.

I was a survivor.

And there was no way in hell that I would kneel at the feet of anyone ever again unless it was by my choice alone.

Schooling my face into the sultry smile that had made me famous, that had graced the covers ofSports IllustratedandVogue, I rubbed my lower body against Ashcroft’s to distract him from the hand I freed from between us.

I pressed my lips to his ear and clicked my tongue to cover thesnickof the knife unfolding. “You don’t need to blackmail, sir. I’m just a slutty vessel for cock, and I’m desperate to be used like a rag to catch your cum again and again.”

He hesitated over my words, doubting my sincerity even as his hard cock throbbed against my leg.

That hesitation was his weakness, so I capitalized on it with my strength.

Men.

They always underestimated me.

Quick as a flash, my knife was at his throat, directly under my lips. I slid the blade tight up against his skin and watched blood bleed like a ruby necklace.

For a moment, I yearned for the weight of my gold and ruby Davenport collar across my neck.

“You’ll leave me alone, Ashcroft,” I threatened softly as I dug the blade deeper and watched his skin part like butter in an inch-long gash. I felt vampiric, drunk on blood lust. I wanted to lap up the red and spit it in his face to give him a literal taste of his own fucking medicine. “You’ll leave me alone, or I swear to your unholy god Dionysus that I will find a way to gut you like a fish.”

“You don’t scare me,” he retorted, squeezing his fingers tighter in my hair. “Are you really going to slit my throat at Royal Albert Hall?” he mocked.

I dragged the blade around the side of his throat, lengthening the wound.

“Sometimes the worst monsters hide in the prettiest packages,” I sneered at him, then shifted slightly so that I could violently jab my knee into his balls.

I stepped out from the wall as he doubled over, cupping his groin and moaning like the pathetic sack of shit he was.

“You’ve been warned,” I said as a parting shot before turning on my heel and somewhat miraculously walking away from him without looking back.

I made it to my seat beside Sebastian just at the lights dimmed in the colossal theatre and the host of the evening, Graham Norton, stepped out onto the stage to a flurry of cheers and applause.

My stomach roiled and toiled like the storm over the high seas, and my skin was clammy with stress sweat. I felt sick and giddy with fear and triumph because I knew that even though I’d bested Ashcroft this time, I was on his radar again, and the Order was made up of hunters who never ceased their chase.

He would find me again, and I had to be ready for it.

“Cosi?” Sebastian asked softly. “What’s happened?”

Sebastian could always see my inner turmoil even more than my mother and sisters could. We’d always had the strange ability that seasoned sailors have, to read the stars and find direction in them when no others could.

“Did someone hurt you?” he demanded, sitting up in his seat so that he could suspiciously scan the dim theatre from visible threats.

“No,” I said, surprised by the strength in my voice. “Someone tried to get handsy with me, but I know how to defend myself.”