Page 9 of The Devil’s Submission

Charlotte glared at him. “Don’t be a bloody fool. If it comes down to a choice, you choose Eliza, the woman you love, who also seems to have a great deal of feeling for you. Go.”

“I’m not throwing you out,” he repeated. “And I’ll see you later at the club. It’s past time I made an appearance.”

Her eyes widened. “No, Dev…”

But he’d already turned away, crossing the black-and-white checkered floor and sprinting out of the chapel at such pace he almost got vertigo. Yet as he burst through the chapel doors, the only thing that greeted him was warm sunlight on his face, and the sight of his carriage pulling away with Eliza in the back.

Fuck.

Hailing a hackney, Devil returned directly to Fallen and locked himself in his office. Usually poring through the accounts, counting guineas, being enveloped in the scent of leather, parchment, and ink calmed him like nothing else. But not today. Even when he forced himself to stay in the room rather than confront his wife, when the bright sunlight faded to dusk then darkened to night and a maid brought a tray with freshly baked bread, roasted chicken, creamed peas, and buttered potatoes, he ignored the clawing feeling of wrongness. Instead, he opened a third bottle of brandy while still staring at the same page of the same ledger he’d been staring at since he got home.

It’s your fault. If you weren’t so weak, so abnormal, your marriage would have worked. You would never have imposed on Charlie. Your parents and brother wouldn’t consider you dead to them. You would have fought off the valet who helped beat you to a pulp…

Shuddering, Devil lifted the bottle and took several long swallows, welcoming the burn in his mouth and throat, the warmth that settled in his stomach. He could be alpha, the one in charge, he just hadn’t been trying hard enough.

With the careful steps of a man who’d had too much brandy and not enough food, he left his office and walked downstairs, then across the foyer toward Fallen’s main entrance. Diaz, their butler, looked at him with surprise and concern but wordlessly opened the heavy oak door for him, and he made his way through the main ballroom. The chandelier-lit space teemed with elegantly dressed people, all wearing numbered masks, laughing and enjoying themselves as they indulged in excellent food and wine, listened to the orchestra, and planned their sexual activities for the evening. Some would watch shows, some would indulge in the various pleasure rooms, others would swap spouses or be introduced to a new temporary lover.

He inclined his head and exchanged greetings with several members but didn’t stop until he reached a chamber at the end of a narrow hallway. In this room a small group of alpha male exhibitionists met each week to play with, and show off, their exhibitionist wives. He could learn how to act, how to be effortlessly strong and forceful from these men. This was how it was supposed to be, after all.

“Well,” Devil said harshly to the room of masked but naked men and women. “What do we have here?”

“Just some lovers about to indulge in friendly play,” said Charlie, who stood to his right. She wore a black leather corset with a sheer skirt of black muslin, her mask also in place, but her words were stilted, and the swing of the riding crop in her hand was distracted rather than sure.

“Are you going to stay for a while, Devil?” asked one of the men, with a gratified smile. “I know my wife would greatly enjoy performing for you, wouldn’t you, sweet?”

The woman curled at the man’s feet looked up at her husband adoringly as he stroked her hair, her own smile eager excitement. “If it pleases you.”

“I will stay, yes,” said Devil, settling himself onto an empty chaise and scanning the room.

Some of the other women lounged on the floor, some were cuddled on their husband’s lap. Two had collars, several more had jewel-studded anklets. But they all wore the same look of contented anticipation; secure in a world of loving care and ownership, knowing their specific sexual needs would be met, and utterly aroused at the thought of what was to come.

Pure jealousy seared him, only fueling his anger.

Charlie hesitated until he gave her a stern look, not as friend to friend, but employer to employee.

“Master Devil,” she said grimly. “With your permission, we shall proceed.”

“Granted.”

Immediately the play began.

One woman knelt between her husband’s thighs, sucking his cock while he crooned endearments. Another lady writhed in delight when her master tormented her nipples and clit with the tip of a peacock feather. Some used leather restraints, others riding crops or toys. But the couple he couldn’t take his eyes off was making use of candle wax and champagne, the man drizzling a little wax on his lover’s body then pouring champagne over her and himself and instructing her to lick him clean.

“Devil, my lady would be honored if you personally secured her restraints.”

“Devil, would you care to pour some wax?”

“Devil, we’d certainly appreciate it if you showed us how you wield a crop.”

The offers flew like arrows from around the room. Slowly he rose to his feet, bracing himself for what he was about to do. Desperate to silence the loud voice in his head protesting the wrongness. Desperate to drown out the grateful moans of pain, the effusive thanks, the orgasmic cries of the women, and instead focus on the power and control of the men.

He could do this.

Somehow.

Chapter Three

Even though she’d nearly worn a hole in the Aubusson rug, Eliza continued to pace the chamber.