The Dancer and the Masks by Bea Paige

Prologue

JAKUB

My brother and I watch as Konrad shackles our newest acquisition to the stone wall with chains. Manacles secure her wrists and ankles, spreading her feet and arms wide apart and showing off her perfectly proportioned figure. She’s naked and cast in an orange glow from the flaming torches attached to the wall. Yet, despite her ample breasts, small waist, bare pussy, curvaceous hips and long, dark hair, I feel nothing but apathy.

Even her screams bore me.

“Your efforts are a waste of energy, Twelve, no one will hear your screams,” Konrad reminds her, his middle finger swiping at the tears that cascade from her dark brown eyes and slide over her smooth olive skin. He places the jewelled teardrop in his mouth, tasting her fear.

“Fuck you, hijo de puta! My name is Carmen. Car-men! I am not a number!” she screams, yanking at the chains and darkening the bruises around her wrists and ankles further.

“Hush now. Don’t make this any harder for yourself,” he whispers, his voice a warm caress as he slides his fingers over her collarbone and down the centre of her chest all the way to her bellybutton which he circles lazily with his finger. “Allow yourself to feel the pleasure.”

“Touch me again and I’ll…!” she warns, hissing between gritted teeth.

“And you’ll do what, Twelve?” he taunts, baring his teeth in a slow smile and showing a glimpse of the man he could be if pushed too far. He wears his mask with pride, just like Leon and I do. It covers the majority of his face, leaving his mouth, chin, and left eye free. We wear these masks not because we wish to hide our identity at this point, but because they instill a level of fear in our acquisitions. No one leaves the castle once inside of it, no one, but nevertheless the masks we wear remain on our faces. The only time we remove them is in the sanctity of our private rooms.

“Please,” she whispers, her instincts kicking in. Her anger subsides, replaced instead with fear and the innate need to please the one man who she believes has the power to free her. Whilst that might be true, and Konrad could very well let her go, he won’t, because the man with the ultimate power is The Collector, our father, and he wields that over the three of us like an iron fist.

“Giving up so soon?” Konrad taunts.

“You don’t have to do this…” Twelve continues, her fire tempered.

She glances at me hoping that I’ll step in and stop what’s happening. Instead, I watch with detachment. She’s just like all the rest, breakable, malleable, and ultimately submissive, though not in a way that gives her power, but in a way that relinquishes it. Eventually all of our acquisitions come to accept their life here, and are comfortable, even. Once they accept their fate, we treat them well. No harm will come to our Numbers from any of the clients we entertain. The last person who tried to fulfil his fantasy on Eight without her permission is now a rotting corpse in the catacombs beneath our home. Leon’s wrath that night was exquisite to behold. We protect what belongs to us. Always have. Always will.

“Keep any marks to the bare minimum,” I warn Konrad.

Leon smirks. “Let him have his fun. Besides, this one likes it.”

Of the three of us, Leon is by far the most dangerous. I’ve seen what happens when he lets go, and it’s not pretty. He may be beautiful, with thick black hair and deep set, pale green eyes but there’s nothing pretty about him. Like Konrad and me, Leon thrives in the darkness. The masks we wear are more our true faces than the ones we were born with.

“I know the rules, Brother…” Konrad’s voice trails off as he strokes the flat of his hand over Twelve’s stomach and hips, caressing her gently. She flinches away from his touch, the shackles rattling. “She’s exquisite, no?”

“Yes. She’ll draw the attention of many of our clients,” I agree, adjusting my mask.

“Such a fine specimen,” Konrad growls, the low rumble of his voice intoxicating to many.

Yet her appearance, however beautiful, isn’t why our father acquired her. No. This woman—who from now on will only be referred to as Twelve—is a soprano. Her voice is enchanting, beautiful, and the real reason why she’s here now. Ten women, and one man have come before her. Aside from their beauty, they have one thing in common, they’re all artists and they will live the rest of their days in this castle to serve one purpose: to entertain our clients.

“I am not a whore!” Twelve screams, visibly shaking as Konrad cups her pussy, telling her without words, that we own her. All of her.

She’ll be a whore if we ask her to, and she will enjoy it.

Eventually.

Her screams die down to whimpers as he coaxes her with his talented hands. Leon and I watch with mild interest as he gently fingers her. For someone with so much brutality inside of him, he certainly knows how to keep it under control when required.

“You’re wet,” Konrad muses, his thumb slowly circling her clit as he runs the tip of his tongue against her jaw.

“And you’re sick!”

“Your body doesn’t seem to think so,” he chuckles, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucking on them. Twelve’s nostrils flare and her cheeks flush as he reaches back between her legs and rubs her clit once again. She hates him, there’s no doubt about that. Regardless, her body reacts to the pleasure he brings her, twisting her up inside, fucking with her head, just like he intended. That’s the idea, break them down until they crack, then build them back up with a mixture of fear and pleasure. We train them to respond to both. They’ve all learnt to heel, craving the attention we give them. Good or bad. So long as they behave, accept their lives here, we give them what they want, what they really, truly want.

For Twelve, that’s passion, the high of an orgasm, being owned and taken without her permission, punished with a whip or a paddle. She may not like to admit it, but it’s the truth nevertheless. It’s why Konrad is the perfect man for the job. He studied her for weeks before she arrived, watched her social media posts, delved into her private chats that our hacker, Charles, managed to get hold of. He knows her better than she knows herself. Ultimately, he’s giving her what her soul craves. That’s the key to what we do.

It’s different for each of the Numbers, and the three of us are masters at delving into the deepest parts of their psyches to draw out what makes them tick. To give them their ultimate sin.

We do it with ease, whilst never truly indulging our own wants or desires.

“My father will kill you for this!” she hushes out, still fighting, though with less rage and more passion now. The kind she thrives on.

Next to me Leon chuckles darkly. “Should we tell her that it was her father who betrayed her?”

“No. Let Konrad have his fun first. We’ll douse the rest of her rage later with that knowledge,” I reply.

“She’ll be screaming his name and coming before long,” Leon remarks, focusing on her peaked nipples. Like pretty little buds, puckered and desperate to be licked.

“No doubt. It’s why he’s the best man for the job. He knows what she wants. Can sense it. All that emotion has to have an outlet, yes?” I reply, pushing off from the wall. “Come on, our guests will be here in a few hours and with Father away there is much to do.”

“I hope she’s worth all the trouble,” Leon says, referring to the latest girl our father has become obsessed with. It’s why he’s still in London, instead of entertaining our clients this evening.

“She must be. I haven’t seen him this excited since he brought home Six. He thinks this girl will draw in clients from across the world. He even named her.”

“He did?” Leon asks, his voice giving away his surprise.

“Yes, he did. Stopy Płomieniach.”

“Feet of Flames? Fuck, he has got it bad.”

“Indeed…”

“What?” Leon asks, resting his hand on my arm and stopping me in my tracks. On the other side of the room Konrad is currently too preoccupied with Twelve to be concerned with our hushed conversation. “Are you worried because he’s named her?”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “She’ll become a Number the moment she steps inside these walls, just like all the rest. That’s not the issue.”

“Then what?”

“Grim has already claimed her. She’s not for sale.”

“Grim? Doesn’t she own that fight club, Tales, in London?”

“Yes, she does.”

“That’s problematic.”

“It is. This girl, Penelope Scott, means something to her.”

“We both know that won’t stop Father from collecting what he wants.”

“Precisely. If she’s held in such high esteem by someone of Grim’s calibre then he’ll only want her more. That’s part of the excitement for him, he always wants what he can’t have. It makes the acquisition all the more sweet once he’s able to secure it by whatever means possible.”

Leon nods. “So we might have trouble coming our way?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Then we’ll prepare for the worst, just like we always do,” he reassures me.

“Fuck sake!” Konrad growls. “I’m trying to do a job here. Either be quiet and enjoy the show, or fucking leave.” He levels his gaze on us both, his hand lazily rubbing between Twelve’s legs, his fingers pinching and twisting her nipple, darkening her skin with bruises.

“Konrad. You know the rules. Keep within them,” I warn. Again.

Despite the lingering hate in Twelve’s eyes, her body reacts to Konrad’s skilled fingers. He knows how to play the most difficult of instruments, and it’s a skill that we use to our advantage. Sometimes, however, my brothers need to be reminded that the Numbers aren’t ours. Never will be. There’s only so far we can go with them. He knows it, as do Leon and I.

“What? She likes it,” he retorts as her hips grind against his hand, the slickness of her pussy glistening in the firelight. “See?”

“Fuck you!” she bites out, but it has less venom now. More acceptance.

“Regardless. Remember why she’s here. She isn’t yours.”

Konrad smirks, catching my eye before dropping to his knees in front of her glistening cunt. Her hips buck as he presses a gentle kiss against her bare mound, then winks at me. “Stay, you might enjoy it.”

I shake my head. “You know me better than that.”

“I do. Maybe we could keep this one to ourselves,” he suggests. “You could do what you want to her without fear of Father’s wrath.”

“No.” The truth is, I don’t want any of the Numbers. Perfection turns me off. Beauty lies. It hides ugliness beneath a pretty shell. The three of us are the perfect example of such a truth. We three are handsome beneath these masks, but have twisted, black hearts. I don’t deny that fact. Never have.

“Leon, are you staying?”

He shakes his head. “Not today, Brother.”

“Suit yourself.” Konrad shrugs before replacing his fingers with his lips and tongue and eats Twelve out.

She jerks against his face, a cry of pleasure ripping from her mouth, followed by broken sobs that wrack her body. She hates herself for reacting the way she does. Society has conditioned her to believe what she truly wants, needs, is wrong. She believes that her body is betraying her spirit, her soul. It isn’t. It’s showing her the truth.

When she realises that, she’ll understand, and she’ll never try to leave here. Our castle may have brick walls, and iron bars. It may have an ancient forest surrounding the castle that’s so dense, escape is impossible, but contrary to popular belief, it is not a prison. At least not a traditional one. The Numbers stay of their own free will. Well, perhaps with a little coercion in the beginning. A few more weeks of this and she’ll be under our spell completely. I already see her fracturing apart. Every orgasm she gives up, another chink in her carefully constructed armor. Eventually it will crumble, and like an addict she will look to Konrad for her next fix. She will chase the high. He will make her believe that he is the only one who can give it to her, and that is why she’ll stay.

Reaching for the heavy, iron door, I release the latch and pull it towards me. I have no intention of spending any more time in this cold, dark chamber, preferring the darkness to be found in the forest than these cool dungeons Konrad thrives in, or the cold underground lake Leon prefers. Stepping out into the hallway, Leon following close behind, I come face to face with Renard, our elderly butler.

“Sir…” His face is pale, not because of what’s happening inside the dungeon behind us—he’s immune to such things now—but because something else appears to be troubling him.

“Renard, why are you down here?” My voice is sharp, reacting instinctively to the tension he holds.

“I have some news,” he begins, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he frowns.

“What is it?” I demand. His gaze flicks to the girl and Konrad before returning back to me. “Speak!”

He swallows hard then nods. “It’s your father. He’s dead.”