Chapter 4 Red is NOT MY COLOR!

I spent the next two hours exploring my cage.

The bathroom was ridiculous. Marble everything, a tub big enough to drown in, a shower with more settings than my father's car had. Luxury soap and shampoo lined the shelves, brands I'd only seen in magazines. There was even a vanity with lights around the mirror, drawers full of makeup and brushes and things I didn't know the names for.

The closet was worse.

Elena had unpacked my pathetic bag, and my few belongings looked lost among the empty hangers and shelves. A note sat on the center island, written in sharp, elegant handwriting.

These will be replaced. K.

I crumpled it and threw it in the corner.

The desk drawers were empty except for expensive stationary and pens. I opened the bedside table and found it stocked with things that made my face burn. Condoms. Lubricant. Other things I recognized from health class and really didn't want to think about.

So that's what he expected.

I slammed the drawer shut and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to steady my breathing.

Think, Cassia. Think like you planned.

Killian wanted me. Obsessed over me. That was my leverage. But the other wives were the real danger. Five women who knew this game better than I did, who'd survived here longer, who saw me as either a threat or entertainment.

I needed to figure out which ones were which.

Isla was the obvious enemy. Smart, calculating, probably ran things among the wives. She'd see me as competition.

Nessa was angry, rebellious. Possible ally if I played it right, but also unpredictable.

Vera had given up. Might be useful, might be dead weight.

The quiet one, the schemer whose name I hadn't caught, was dangerous in a different way. She watched. Waited. Probably knew everyone's secrets.

And Thalia, offering friendship with that warm smile. The most dangerous of all, maybe, because I wanted to believe her.

A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.

"Miss Cassia?" A young maid, maybe my age, peeked in nervously. "It's time to dress for dinner. I'm here to help."

"I don't need help."

"Mr. Thorne insists." She stepped inside, carrying a garment bag. "He sent this for you to wear."

Of course he did.

She unzipped the bag and pulled out a dress that made my stomach drop. Deep red, the color of wine or blood, with a neckline that plunged and fabric that would cling to every curve. Beautiful. Expensive. Completely transparent in its purpose.

He wanted to show me off. Stake his claim in front of the others.

"I'm not wearing that."

The maid's face went pale. "But Mr. Thorne..."

"Can kiss my ass," I finished. I walked to my pathetic pile of clothes and pulled out the only dress I owned. Simple, black, modest. I'd worn it to my high school graduation. "I'm wearing this."

"He'll be angry," she whispered.

"Good."

I changed in the bathroom, ignoring the red dress like it didn't exist. The black one fit differently than I remembered, tighter in places I'd filled out since graduation. Not scandalous, but not invisible either.

When I emerged, the maid looked like she might cry.

"It's fine," I told her. "If he's mad, tell him it was my choice."

"He'll know that anyway," she muttered.

Fair point.

She did my hair and makeup despite my protests, keeping it simple like I asked. Natural. When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. I looked older. Harder.

Ready for war.

The dining room was exactly as obscene as I'd expected.

A table that could seat twenty, set with china and crystal that probably cost more than my college tuition would have. Candles everywhere, casting flickering shadows on walls covered in paintings of dead people.

The wives were already seated, arranged along one side of the table like they'd done this a thousand times. They'd all changed for dinner too, each one dressed to kill in their own way.

Isla wore emerald green that matched her calculating eyes. Nessa was in black leather pants and a silk top, somehow making evening wear look rebellious. Vera had chosen something flowing and pale that made her look like a ghost. The quiet schemer wore deep purple that highlighted her dark skin, and Thalia was in soft blue, looking innocent and kind.

They all stopped talking when I entered.

"Oh," Isla said, her eyes raking over my simple dress. "How... quaint."

"I call it 'not trying too hard,'" I replied, taking the empty seat across from her.

Nessa snorted into her wine glass.

"Where's Killian?" I asked, looking at the empty chair at the head of the table.

"He likes to make an entrance," Thalia said gently. "He'll be here soon."

"Must be nice," I said. "Making everyone wait."

"You'll learn," Vera said, her voice hollow. "Everything here is about waiting. Waiting for his attention. Waiting for his mood to shift. Waiting to see which one of us he wants that night."

The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.

"Vera," Thalia said softly. "Don't."

"Why not? She should know what she signed up for." Vera lifted her wine glass, and I noticed her hand was shaking slightly. "Welcome to hell, sweetie. The sheets are expensive but they don't make it hurt less."

"That's enough." The quiet woman spoke for the first time, her voice surprisingly strong. "You're scaring her."

"Good," Vera muttered.

"I'm Mira, by the way," the woman continued, turning to me with a small smile. "Since no one properly introduced us."

Mira. The schemer. I nodded acknowledgment.

"So," Isla leaned forward, candlelight making her look even more predatory. "Tell us about yourself, Cassia. What makes you so special that Killian brought you here?"

"My father's debt," I said flatly.

That surprised them. Even Isla's mask slipped for a second.

"You know?" Nessa asked.

"Of course I know. I'm not an idiot."

"Most of the girls he brings home are," Isla said. "They think he loves them. That they're different. Special."

"I know exactly what I am," I said. "Payment. Property. His sixth attempt at whatever sick game he's playing."

"Oh, I really do like her," Nessa said, grinning.

"Don't," Isla warned, her eyes never leaving mine. "She won't last a month."

"Want to bet on it?"

The challenge hung in the air between us, sharp and dangerous.

Then the doors opened, and Killian walked in.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, dark and expensive, and his eyes went straight to me. I watched his gaze travel over my simple black dress, saw his jaw tighten slightly.

So he'd noticed the rebellion.

"Ladies," he said smoothly, taking his seat at the head of the table. "I see you've all met Cassia."

"We've been getting acquainted," Isla said sweetly. "She's... refreshing."

Killian's eyes were still on me. "She's perfect."

"She's not wearing the dress you sent," Mira observed quietly.

Silence.

Killian's fingers drummed once against the table. "No," he said slowly. "She's not."

Everyone was watching now, waiting to see how this played out. I could feel the tension, thick enough to cut.

I met his gaze steadily. "Red's not my color."

"Everything's your color," he said. "Stand up."

"Excuse me?"

"Stand. Up." Not a request.

I considered refusing. Considered making a scene on my first night. But something in his expression told me that's exactly what he wanted. A reason to punish me in front of the others, establish dominance, show them all who was in control.

So I stood slowly, kept my chin up, my expression bored.

Killian rose too, walked around the table until he was standing in front of me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne again, feel the heat radiating off him.

"Turn around."

I did, slowly, letting him look. Let them all look.

"You're right," he finally said. "Red isn't your color. Black is better. It matches that fire in your eyes." His hand came up, fingers trailing along my shoulder, down my arm. Possessive. "But next time I send you something to wear, you'll wear it. Understood?"

"Or what?" The words were out before I could stop them.

His fingers tightened slightly on my arm. Not painful, but firm. A warning.

Then he leaned in close, his lips nearly brushing my ear. "Or I'll dress you myself. And I promise you won't enjoy it."

He released me and returned to his seat like nothing had happened.

"Sit," he said. "Eat. I want to look at you while I do."