Keller. I would bet anything it’s Keller. Cross wouldn’t have left my vagina out of whatever they’re planning to do. I hate that I’m grateful for something this vile, this wrong, but I am.

“Follow me.”

The blue-masked man takes the lead, walking out of the study, in the direction Charlotte took earlier.

As we walk down to the basement, I can hear echoes of music beats. When Blue Mask open a heavy door, the sound’s much louder—hard drums and bass, the kind of music we feel more than hear.

There’s apparently a nightclub in their basement. Low blue lights running along the wall and floor allow me to see enough not to fall on my face, but not enough to truly distinguish much. I see silhouettes gyrating, and hear sounds that make me blush and tremble.

Moans, the wet slap of flesh against flesh, furniture creaking. There are people having sex here. That is apparent.

My heart sticking in my throat, I look down, reluctant to see much. I don’t need a preview of what’s about to happen to me.

Blue Mask removes his cloak and hangs it up on a rack close to the entrance. I see the six others do the same. They all keep their masks on.

I was right. There were some women under the cloaks; three of them, and four guys. I can’t exactly express why, but I hate them more than the guys. I expect men to be disgusting, to take advantage of women when they’re at their lowest. But girls? They should have spoken up, told them that making me a slave for half an evening is insanity, unfair, completely disproportionate to my infraction. But they didn’t.

“This way.”

Under the cloak, Blue Mask wears a hoodie and a pair of navy-blue slacks, tight over his strong thighs.

Definitely Keller. Not that it matters.

As we walk into the basement-slash-club, the lewd noises grow less and less subtle. This place is huge, and there are at least fifty people in the middle, elevated on a platform they use as a dance floor. Around it, a dozen booths with leather benches and low armchairs are mostly left empty. My eyes catch things I’ll likely never forget.

A girl on her hands and knees, with her pants down her thighs, while a guy squats behind her, pounding into her, right here in the open. I gasp, but I’m the only one. No one else seems to even notice.

Glancing away, I redirect my gaze to the dance floor instead, and my jaw falls all over again. The first thing I see is a girl, one of her legs lifted up over her partner’s shoulder. Both the guy in front of her and the one behind her penetrate her at the same time. Again, no one cares.