Capricorn, page 13
He did warn me.
I search for the right response—something to give me a sliver of advantage—but as he turns us toward the French doors across the room, my thoughts slam into a wall.
Near the champagne fountain, a woman leans in, her expression serious.
But it’s the man beside her who freezes me.
His masked face is angled enough to catch the line of his jaw, the sweep of hair curling over his collar, the distinctive way he stands.
Cocksure and ready to take on the world.
My breath stutters, then stops altogether.
Because for one impossible second…
I’m looking at Sebastian.
21
My mind is shattered. Even after dancing, dessert, and polite conversation that blurred into background noise, I can’t steady my thoughts. Now, as Mr. Davenport escorts Oliver and me down a quiet corridor, the music from the ballroom fades.
But I’m still haunted.
It happened so fast. A flicker of movement across the room, a man half-turned in profile, listening to something the woman beside him said. But for a single, unthinkable moment, I was certain.
So certain that my heart kicked out of sync and my breath stalled as I gaped at a ghost in a tailored tux.
It wasn’t him.
The hair was too dark, the jawline buried beneath scruff Sebastian would never grow that long. The stranger and his companion disappeared through the French doors, probably in search of a quiet place to rendezvous in the garden.
Not the love of my life.
Just a random man at a masquerade.
So why am I still shaking?
As Mr. Davenport leads us into a private lounge, I push the storm of thoughts aside. Whatever I saw or imagined won’t help me now. Not with what waits in this room.
“I’ll be right outside,” our host says, closing the door with a soft click.
I let the silence settle as I take in the space. Luxury meets privacy, with soft light spilling from crystal sconces. A floor-length mirror reflects the chaise and vanity, both framed in gold. Jasmine and secrets float on the air.
Oliver finds my zipper without a word. He draws it down with agonizing tenderness, and the silk falls away in a whisper of burgundy as his knuckles graze the curve of my spine.
“Arms up,” he commands.
I comply, watching his reflection as he retrieves a garment bag from a wheeled rack. What he pulls free is little more than white wisps and strategically placed panels.
“That isn’t a dress,” I say, challenging him with my tone. “It’s lingerie.”
“It’s both.” He traces the curve of my shoulder. “And something else entirely.”
The material seduces my skin as he slips it over my head. Each strap settles into place, forming a deceptive lattice. Hidden within the design are subtle metal rings and reinforced seams—attachment points disguised as ornament.
This gown was engineered for more than display.
After he’s done, he removes both of our masks. Then he bends to coax my feet out of the black heels I wore to the ball. Barefoot now, adorned in nothing but flowing ribbons of decadence, I glance once more at the mirror as he guides me toward the door.
What stares back isn’t the same girl who walked in.
The dress, if it can be called that, clings in open defiance of modesty. Pearl-white gossamer shimmers with every motion, sheer panels crossing under my breasts in a deliberate frame. My nipples peek through vertical slits, stiffened by the chill in the air. Cords and fabric flutter at my hips before trailing past my knees.
I don’t look like a queen.
I’m an ethereal offering.
And Mr. Davenport’s gaze lands on me with unsettling approval.
“Right this way,” he says, leading us into a library with walls of shelved books. The air reeks of lemon-polished wood and old money. Not a single window breaks the room’s dim hush.
A table holds two documents, a silver pen between them, and a leather folder waiting to seal the agreement.
“Standard nondisclosure,” Mr. Davenport says.
Oliver signs without hesitation, and I follow, my hand steady until the folder snaps shut with an echo of finality.
Mr. Davenport moves to a shelf behind him and presses on a book’s spine. A hidden panel clicks before swinging inward to reveal a staircase spiraling into the shadows.
“Shall we?”
My throat tightens, fear closing in fast. A dizzy second sends me reeling, and I shift my weight to counter the tilt under my feet. Both men catch the stumble.
Oliver grasps my arm, looking at our host. “Will you give us a minute?”
Mr. Davenport studies my flushed cheeks and shallow breaths, a flicker of compassion in his gaze. “Take your time. We’ll be down below with the slaves.”
His word choice scrapes through me like broken glass.
Slaves.
Not women or even wives.
He disappears down the staircase, and Oliver cups my face, thumbs a gentle caress at my temples. “You’re doing great. At dinner, you won over Davenport and Channing. Kayla and Virginia welcomed you with envy and admiration.”
His touch steadies my trembling, but fear still sours my gut.
“I know you’re scared.” His voice lowers to a velvety coax. “But you’re wired for this, Novalee.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
He extends his hand, palm up.
“I know you can, sweetheart.”
It’s a command disguised as an offering, but I take it. Adrenaline pulses through my veins as he steers me down the steps. Each one carries us deeper until we emerge into a circular chamber.
The couples stand in perfect formation, the men still in their tuxes from the ball, while the wives kneel at their feet—dressed like me but in different jeweled tones.
Ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, topaz, and beyond.
A rainbow of submission draped in shimmer and silence surrounds me, and I’m the pearl they mean to pry open.
As Oliver urges me forward, I catch sight of Kayla in a scarlet ensemble that glows in the soft lighting. She offers a slight nod, but her posture says more than words.
We’re all bound by the same rules tonight.
I scan the dim room, gaze darting from couple to couple until it clicks. Twelve in total, situated around an altar-like table where a frosted bottle and silver spoon await.
Vance’s elixir.
My stomach clenches as I recall the unbearable consequences of three measured doses.
The incessant throbbing.
Blood surging in an endless loop.
No relief.
Oliver guides me to the center and picks up the bottle. “Dr. Morgan’s invention is quite genius,” he announces to our audience. “One teaspoon arouses, two creates desperate need, and three does both while making climax physically impossible.”
He pours the first spoon and lifts it to my lips. “It’s an effective way to punish disobedience, or as in the queen’s case, ensure purity. As a virgin, her hymen must remain intact, orgasm denied.”
If the liquid had a taste, I imagine it would burn bitter. But it slides down smooth, one spoonful after another, until the last drop is gone and every eye in the room watches in curious wonder.
Without another word, Oliver works the features of my garment, finding the anchors and winding the cords around my limbs, crafting bonds from the same material that whispered across my skin moments ago.
Through heavy-lidded eyes, I spy the wives undergoing the same transformation, each woman rising to her feet to become a slave.
Oliver nods toward Mr. Davenport, and something clicks overhead. A quiet whir follows as the cords of my gown begin to tighten.
At first, I stay grounded, my heart racing as fabric draws taut. Then the system claims me, hidden pulleys lifting, inch by inch, until I’m suspended in the air like a splayed starfish caught in a current.
It’s a pose I can’t control and wouldn’t know how to name, my arms and legs bent and spread apart.
The others ascend around me, twelve women hanging in a carousel of living marionettes, circling the virgin at the center.
Some are gagged. Others grit their teeth as jeweled anal plugs breach their rears in silent ceremony. Virginia Davenport, draped in plum, already has her mouth wrapped around her husband’s cock.
Oliver ambles closer, attracting my focus as he pulls a pair of clamps from his pocket. He holds up the delicate adornments, pearls swaying from the ends. “You have such responsive nipples. I can’t resist.”
My first instinct is to protest. Didn’t he inflict enough pain the other night? But as a loud moan breaks the quiet, colliding with someone else’s guttural wail, I bite back an objection.
He asked me to trust him. That’s all I can do.
His finger grazes an exposed peak, and the first flutter of need stirs at my core. He fastens the clamps with measured pressure, making my breath hitch at the bite. It’s a pain I know well now, fueling arousal while never dulling the sting of those pinchers.
“These are gorgeous on you.”
His dark, sensual praise shoots straight to my sex, a live wire I can’t fight. Like a carnival ride poised to drop, I’m a powerless passenger.
Oliver moves behind me and steps between my legs. The cords pull taut as he brings me closer, breath ghosting across the flesh of my thigh. Then his tongue finds me in slow, familiar strokes.
Even without the effects of the elixir rushing through my bloodstream, I have zero defense against this man. A violent jolt takes me, hips straining against the bindings.
Holy hell, denial scorches every nerve. Minutes in, I’m dripping for him, crazed for a release that won’t come.
“Please, sir.” The title escapes before I can swallow it.
He groans, thick with satisfaction. “That word was made for your lips.”
Then he doubles his efforts, clamping his teeth around my clit and shaking his head, wild and relentless. My stomach heaves, as if trying to purge the orgasm from my system, but the pressure only builds—an endless rush of blood that won’t stop.
I choke on a cry.
The room hums around us in cries, gasps, and the slap of flesh, but all I feel is him.
“I need to…please, Oliver!”
“That’s it, sweetheart.” His amusement vibrates against my flesh. “Beg like I said you would.”
“It’s too much,” I whimper.
“It’s not enough.” His tongue plunges into my opening, and I pant through raw, uncontrollable pleas.
In my delirium, I sense the tremor in his breath, the rough imprint of his fingers on my thighs. He moans against my mound, betraying the fracture in his control before abruptly veering back to yank on my restraints.
He spins me around and adjusts the cords until I drop a couple of feet, all gentleness gone. His zipper comes down in a rough tug, and then he’s guiding his cock to my lips, eyes hooded and crazed.
Something primal rises in me. I open without thought, starved for the taste of him, and he slides right in. His essence hits me first, a mere second to register the feral notes of his desire before he drags me down his length, holding me there for the longest seconds of my life.
“Relax your throat.”
I try. I do. But he’s thick and relentless, pushing deeper until I’m gagging around him.
“Fuck, yes, Novalee,” he grits out, teeth clenched as his pelvis grinds in sharp, rhythmic bursts. “Such a good fucking girl.”
Those obscene words do something to me.
I swallow him down, despite the gagging and drool escaping my bruised lips.
He locks my head in place, controlling the angle, setting an unapologetic pace as he claims my mouth and throat with complete abandon.
It’s not until he’s close, breaths ragged and muscles tight, that he pulls out. His swollen tip gleams wet, and I only get a glimpse of his impressive shaft before he whirls me around again.
Lube drips between my ass cheeks.
My breath snags on a shudder.
Oliver isn’t afraid to inflict pain, so I know it’s going to hurt. As the straps of my dress tilt my ass in his favor, I brace myself.
Just breathe.
His hands are warm and steady on my hipbones as he eases in the tip, allowing me precious seconds to adjust. But it’s not enough, and I’m unprepared when he impales me on his cock in one savage thrust.
We let out identical groans that live on opposite ends of the spectrum.
One born of pain.
The other of pleasure.
He takes me like a force of nature, as if he’s been running this scenario through his head every night for the last three weeks. He’s a master at leveraging my vulnerability, employing gravity to open me to every thick inch of him.
Each thrust drags a sobbing moan from my being, and I don’t know which is stronger—the burn or the need to fly.
The elixir keeps me skyward as he drives toward the finish line. He lets go of my hips and hauls me back with an arm across my stomach, his chest flush to my spine. His mouth finds my neck, breath scorching against my skin. Then he sinks his teeth into my shoulder, and that’s when I feel it.
The instant he lets go.
Still buried deep, he groans through the release, his growl vibrating on my collarbone as he brands me there with a kiss.
It’s a mark of ownership that stings more than it soothes.
Because virgin or not, in the middle of a deviant circle in a foreign land, I belong to Oliver Whitney.
For several moments, his breaths outpace the beats of my heart. Tension bleeds from his frame, his release still echoing through our joined bodies. His fingertip trails down my thigh, the touch tender before slipping away.
He steps back, and I’m left hanging in the aftermath as the rasp of his zipper breaks the silence.
Around us, the chamber stirs. Tuxedo jackets rustle, and voices murmur as the men tend to their wives. One by one, the women descend with unsteady grace, limbs loosening as they return to the ground. But I remain suspended, a trussed offering, the storm quieting around me while it still screams through my blood.
Oliver begins to take down his masterpiece. As he lowers me to my feet, sweat and pheromones coat my skin. My thighs tremble, nipples numb beneath jeweled vises. He removes the clamps, unwinds cords and ribbons, his touch no longer possessive.
Now it’s worshipful.
Free of restraints, I sink against him, intoxicated by endorphins and boneless with need. He embraces me in the quiet, and then, with a reverent whisper meant only for me…
“Thank you.” He brushes the hair back from my flushed cheeks. “I have the antidote. If you wait for me in your suite, I’ll reward your patience.”
I blink at him, still floating between reality and the dark euphoria of the evening. “I didn’t know there was an antidote.”
“Vance doesn’t advertise it.” He nods toward the men and their wives. “We have business to discuss, but afterward, I’ll come take care of you.”
My sex throbs in anticipation.
As Kayla and Virginia gather me between them, each taking an arm, my sluggish thoughts unravel. We make our way up the staircase, through the library, and back into the powder room, where my evening gown and shoes wait.
I halt in front of the mirror and trace the forming bruise on my collarbone. Something about the mark excites and unsettles me. I can’t explain why, but it’s visual proof that tonight happened.
Kayla helps me back into my dress and heels.
Virginia shoves an unwanted glass of water into my hands.
I set it aside, unwilling to let go of this haze.
Outside the lounge, Oliver’s security duo hovers. One steps forward and explains that the guard outside my door hasn’t returned from his break. He’ll stay behind to assist Oliver while the other escorts me back.
I can only nod, the weight of tonight’s experience silencing my tongue.
We ascend the grand staircase in silence, each footfall echoing through the late hour. At my suite, I fumble with the keycard, my nerves still misfiring. Twice, I miss the slot before the lock finally flashes green.
The room swallows me in darkness as I step inside, the heavy door slamming shut behind me. I reach blindly for the light switch I haven’t yet memorized, and that’s when I see it.
A shadow where none should be.
With a hoarse gasp, I freeze against the wall. Every nerve flares. Fear cinches my vocal cords, trapping a scream that won’t break free to alert the guard outside.
I stumble, disoriented and spiraling in terror, searching for the door handle.
Then I register it.
A voice I know better than my own.
One I thought I’d never hear again, drifting to my ears on a ghostly prayer.
“Novalee.”
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading Capricorn. As many of you know, this book took much longer to finish than I ever imagined.
There were times I wanted to force it, to just write the damn thing, but the words wouldn’t come. Looking back, I think I understand why. So much of Novalee’s pain mirrored my own, and I needed to live through certain things before I could do her story justice. Oliver, in particular, revealed himself in ways I never expected, and the longer I sat with this book, the more the characters began steering the story on their own.
If I had forced it two years ago, or even one year ago, Capricorn would have been a very different book. And honestly, that would have been a shame, because the version that finally made it to your hands is the one I believe was always meant to be read.
This is the longest installment in The Zodiac Queen so far, a result of the time it spent simmering in my mind and the space I gave it to grow.
To everyone who waited through the delays and canceled pre-orders, I owe you everything. Your support has changed my life and the lives of my family in ways I will never be able to fully explain. I’m so grateful for you.
