“Buzzkill,” I say, leaning back.

One dark eyebrow rises. “I want to live,” he says drily.

It makes me laugh, and I poke him in his rock-hard abs. Of course it does nothing. He’s like a damn statue. “You’ve gotten more serious since I met you.”

“And you’ve gotten less.”

I freeze. Direct hit. “Is that so bad?”

He sighs. “No, it’s good. I’m glad you’re happy, Candy. If you’re happy.”

What the hell was happiness anyway? An orgasm? A pill? I’d mapped out almost every pleasure known to man and still hadn’t quite found mine. Years of dancing, of drinking. Years of being watched by Ivan, wondering if he’d pounce. The only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn’t keep going like this.

“I need to talk to him,” I murmur. An afterthought, even though Ivan is anything but.

He’s my first thought when I wake from a bender. My last before I take a hit.

“He’s in a mood,” Luca says.

When is he not? I don’t bother asking. Luca wouldn’t have an answer. No, I make my way down the stairs. I’ll just have to hide my trembling hands and shaky legs. I’ll have to hide how dry my mouth feels.

Hide how badly I want a drink.

It’s been three years since I first walked down these steps. I spent the first year locked up in his house, barely touched, barely noticed, left with books and music and dancing all alone. I finally convinced Ivan to let me dance in the Grand. He even got me my own apartment. But through it all, Ivan has always been there—directing my movements, picking my clothes, watching me. Waiting for me to make a mistake so that he can punish me.

I can’t keep going this way. Not even for Ivan.

Chapter Seven

It’s cold in the basement, without the body heat and the spotlights. Cold and damp. I wonder how Ivan’s desk can survive the moisture in the air, how it doesn’t rot, but the old carved wood continues to stand, incongruous and proud.

Ivan doesn’t look up when I step into the room. He knows Luca would guard that damn door with his life—or at least knock and announce the visitor if it’s club business.

Except for me.

I can come down here whenever I want. That’s the only thing that’s up to me. Because as soon as that metal door clangs shut behind me, I’m sealed in. Ivan’s in charge of me now.

And he wants me to wait.

There’s a feeling that comes over me while I stand there, in the middle of a cold, dark room. The same feeling I had on my knees for hours, reciting my prayers under the watchful eyes of Leader Allen. I was a child then, even if he didn’t always see me that way.

I’m not a child now…

Even if Ivan continues to treat me like one.

“Come,” he says finally, pen still to paper. He makes a final stroke, almost violent—his signature.

I cross the floor. The spikes of my heels barely touch the ground. It used to sound impossibly loud, the clack of shoes. And though I embraced so many loud and bright and immoral things about my new life, that was one I couldn’t shake. So I learned to walk quietly in my heels.

I stand directly in front of his desk, the tops of my thighs inches away from the edge. “Bianca wants to know if she can have tomorrow off.”

Pale gray eyes meet mine. “And the reason she isn’t asking me herself is?”

“Because you’re intimidating and, let’s face it, a cold motherfucker. She’s scared of you.”

That earns me something—a suggestion of a smile, a tilt of his lips. “But you’re not.”

“Should I be?” I challenge, but I already know the answer is yes. I’m scared, but I’m here anyway. What does that say about me? “I can cover for Bianca tomorrow.”

“Can you?” he says, which is his way of saying yes. His gaze sweeps over me like a tangible touch, taking in my ruffled lace bra-and-panties set in a pale, peachy pink. My nipples harden under his hot gaze, even through the gauzy fabric. “You work too much already.”

I give him a saucy smile, the same way I’d do for a customer. “I still find plenty of time to play.”

His lids lower. “Play,” he repeats, tasting the word.

Oh shit. There’s doubt in that one word. And derision. And unarguable dominance. It drops my chin to my chest and my eyes to the floor. I’m no longer the sassy, sarcastic stripper who flirted with Luca upstairs. Now I’m standing under Ivan’s scrutiny, waiting for him to pass judgment.

“And have you been good?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

But with just that one word, I prove myself wrong. He frowns at me. That frown. That stern expression, the forbidding glint in his eyes. I dream of his face this way, of all it means, of what comes next. This is a dream.

“Yes, sir.” It’s not what he wants to be called, not exactly.

He gives me a short nod. “You ate?”

On Harmony Hills there were acres of wheat, of corn. And the table—the table was empty. We were fed according to how much we had sinned. When I misbehave, I have a tendency to punish myself. Ivan doesn’t like this.

He’s the only one who can punish me now.

“Enough,” I say.

“You slept well?”

God, this concern. So twisted and fake and perfect. It slices through me, right to the core of regret and longing. I shrug.

One eyebrow rises. “Or did you go out last night?”

He knows I didn’t. The men watching me would have told him I didn’t leave my apartment. When I first came to Ivan, he got me tutors and textbooks. I started at a third-grade level and worked my way to high school level in the year that I lived with him. Meanwhile he dressed me up and sheltered me. And I knew I would never really grow up unless I left. So I demanded to move out, insisted on dancing at the Grand, and he allowed it as long as he could monitor my every move.

I’m a different person now. No one could recognize me, my hair like silk instead of straw, my skin flushed and tanned and powered instead of flat. I’ve filled out too. Good food has given me curves instead of a stick-thin body.

As much as I’ve changed, I can’t leave my past behind.

Someone won’t let me leave my past behind.

“I didn’t go out.” The truth sucks the air from the room. Even in his presence, I can feel another one. “I was too afraid, after…”

After someone broke into the Grand. After someone left a note scrawled across my vanity mirror with my pink-bubblegum lipstick. John 10:16. A Bible verse. Of course I recognized what it was. And of course I remembered what it said. The lessons are too ingrained in me to ever forget, imprinted on my mind and in my skin. Ivan was convinced it was a random attack, just another creep in the clientele, but I knew otherwise.

And I have other sheep that are not of this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.

I may take off my clothes on that stage, but it’s not me they’re seeing. Glitter and flash. Artifice. Inside I’m still a follower. Ivan’s always seen that in me.

“Come here,” he says, no tenderness in his voice. There’s pure fury.

He likes me afraid, as long as he’s the one making me that way.

Ivan has increased security at the Grand in recent months. He’s increased security on me too. He’s always had me followed, always known when I did something worth punishing. Before, I’d feel their eyes watching me from the shadows, a constant presence. Now they stand in plain sight, actual bodyguards—not the least bit subtle.

I circle the desk to stand in front of him. A beat starts up in my body, the thrum of my heart made faster, louder, pulsing right between my legs. I’m trapped in this game like I’m trapped in this basement. The ropes are made from my own lust, with his strong hands tying the knots.

“You don’t think about that,” Ivan says sternly, but what I hear is, You don’t think about him. He’s talking about the man who left the note. I’m thinking about the man I left behind. “He won’t touch you. No one will ever fucking touch you.”