Page 66 of Rescuing Rebel
Inwardly, I seethe. Does Ethan know I’m trapped? Even now, I’m desperately fighting to find a way out, battling to make things right between us. I ache for him and miss how he cradled me under the stars.
I hold Ethan’s ocean-blue eyes for a suspended heartbeat, wishing he could read the thoughts etched on my soul, but Kaufman’s grip forces me to turn away. I retreat behind my mask, frantically planning my next move in my deadly game of lies.
Tension crackles in the air as the first course is served. Kaufman taps his gaudy rings on the table, the sharp clicks piercing the uneasy silence. “Exactly what headway have you made tracing the breach?”
“These things require finesse and care.” Ethan meets Kaufman’s probing stare, his face an impenetrable mask. “All indications are the attack likely originated from inside your own walls.”
Kaufman’s meaty hand stills, the sterling silver knife frozen halfway to his sneering mouth. “You believe one of my own people is responsible?” His eyes slit in suspicion.
Ethan spreads his hands neutrally. “It’s far too premature to say. We need full system access to track the digital trail accurately.”
Kaufman’s jaw ticks, the muscle pulsing erratically. Unease and distrust flicker across his blunt features. “Do what you must quickly. I want this matter resolved.”
The grating scrape of cutlery on china fills the uneasy void as servants in crisp white uniforms whisk away our half-finished plates and present the main course. The tang of fear on my tongue mingles with the cloying remnants of roasted meat and heavy wine.
Kaufman’s gaudy rings rap the table sharply, the shrill sound piercing the heavy silence. “Enough with business. Let’s enjoy some entertainment before dessert is served.” His thin lips peel back to reveal teeth in a predatory approximation of a smile. “A preview of my latest business venture.”
At his lecherous signal, the ornate double doors sweep open. Ethereal visions of beauty glide into the candlelit hall.
Kaufman’s Angels.
The women I’ve both saved and condemned.
TWENTY-FOUR
Rebel
Diaphanous gowns clingto the women’s bodies, shimmering with every subtle movement, leaving the hidden secrets of their figures merely a breath away from revelation. The sultry strains of a lute weave through the room, its minor chords embracing the dancers as their bare feet caress the cool marble, each step a sensual whisper, a delicate kiss.
With exquisite grace, they undulate their bodies, making the flowing fabric ripple like the surface of a tranquil pond disturbed by a gentle breeze. The fabric clings lovingly to every curve, becoming a second skin that reveals and conceals in a tantalizing play of shadow and light.
As the Angels dance, they tease the eye with flashes of bare skin, the seductive contour of a hip, the inviting valley between breasts, and the dark triangle between their legs. Each movement is designed for grace and seduction.
The air grows thick with the suffocating stench of objectification, at least for me. It invades my nostrils, assaults my taste buds, and causes my tongue to stick to the roof of my mouth. Only years of mastering my reactions keep my mask of indifference intact.
The haunting melody of the lute is a masterful blend of desire and lust. The women sway and twirl, each movement flowing into the next perfectly in time with the music. Their diaphanous silks float like wind-touched petals of a flower, each sensual movement a hypnotic vision of grace that ensnares the eyes and the soul.
The room itself seems to hold its breath, captivated by the sensual elegance of the dance. It transcends the physical world and becomes an embodiment of raw emotion and carnal desire.
When the dancers approach the men, they pull back. Hank’s knuckles pale where they grip his armrests, accentuating the corded muscles in his forearms. Gabe shifts to the side in his seat, tension radiating from his hulking frame. Beside him, Walt’s lips thin into a hard line, while Blake’s stony expression betrays none of his thoughts. But color rises on Jeb’s cheeks as he shifts in growing agitation, darting glances at the dancers.
Stitch curls into herself, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Jaw clenched, she refuses to look at the dancers. Throughout the entire dinner, she’s been ignored.
But she’s female. In Haven, women are to be seen and admired. Rarely heard. Kaufman didn’t even introduce her when we sat at the table.
Ethan’s hard gaze bears down on me, a turbulent storm contained behind his stoic facade. He thinks he knows why I’m here and what I’m doing.
Does he realize what’s at stake?
These women’s lives hang by the thinnest threads that can be severed instantly.
Only I can save them from a lingering death preceded by endless torture and rape.
His men stir, besieged by unwanted lust. Their honor wars with their baser instincts, helpless against the intoxicating sight of the dancers and mortified to take pleasure in this perverse entertainment.
Only Ethan remains unaffected.
Oblivious to the churning undercurrents, Kaufman toys with his signet ring, supremely satisfied. My emotions find a mirror in Ethan’s stormy gaze. However, Kaufman’s proprietary hand on my knee forces me to turn away from Ethan.