Taking the Stage

Chapter Five

“Hold!” The command ricocheted through the bloodlust clouding Roseâtre’s vision. A sharp, shooting pain flared around her wrists, emphasizing the command until her fists jerked open and her knees collapsed. She crashed to the stage, just two feet from the man—no, the tiger—she’d allowed the blasphemy of seduction.

Short, fast steps clicked across the stage. That Heidi allowed Rose to hear her approach was a distant show of respect.

Very distant.

Anthony’s lust-filled gaze roamed over her face, a turbulent storm of emotion illuminating every feature. Heavy brows drew together as his gaze rose from her to the woman bearing down on them. Roseâtre knew Heidi was behind her, but the command—an indelible imprint on her soul—held her firm.

The enchanted shackles on her wrists burned. Normally invisible to the naked eye, magic flared where the slave bands held.

She would hold.

Until she was released.

If she was released.

“What the hell do you both think you’re doing?” Heidi appeared in her peripheral vision.

“Rehearsing.” Anthony’s answer was ridiculous, yet at the same time, it echoed with honesty.

“Really?” Unfortunately, Heidi didn’t believe him any more than Roseâtre did. “Roseâtre?”

She panted, the Amazon warrior within her scrabbling against the bands of authority and submission. She’d allowed herself to be shackled. There was no shame in the gold-embossed manacles securing each wrist.

“He’s a were,” she confessed the source of her sin. The shackles allowed nothing but honesty. “I was trying to kill him.”

Anthony’s gaze was a visceral scrape across her skin. He shook his head, a gesture that was both surprisingly comforting and catlike in the same moment. “We were playing.” His interruption was unexpected and unwelcome.

Allowing his lies to protect her from punishment would be an unforgivable stain on her honor.

“Are you sure?” Heidi squatted down until she was eye level with Roseâtre, the force of the hold command securing the Amazon to the stage. Her docile position a demand of the shackles, a willing concession to the oath she’d sworn.

“Yes. He actually tried to seduce me. But he’s a were. Worse, he’s a weretiger.”

Heidi sighed, a soft, breathy whisper of regret.

“She didn’t try to kill me.” Anthony was on his feet now, the sheen of his gold skin reflecting the overhead lights. The muscles rippled across his shoulders as he extended his arms. “Bruises. No wounds.”

The stage manager spared Roseâtre a rueful look. “I am sorry, Roseâtre, but reparations must be made.”

“You will not punish her.” The budding threat in the weretiger’s throaty vocals sent an impermissible flux of lust through her being. Was the cat seriously trying to protect her?

Given a few more moments, she would have tried to separate his head from his shoulders.

Or left him neutered.

The combination of betrayal and protection made her head ache.

“Or what?” Heidi stood now, facing down the tower of angry cat in male form. How had Roseâtre never seen it before? Forced to study him from beneath her lashes, her body locked until Heidi saw fit to free her, she couldn’t imagine him as anything but the great white tiger.

His vivid blue eyes were rounded, inner eyelids blinking over slender slits of black. Cat eyes.

She’d closed her thighs over his back and reveled in the feeling of his fur against her most intimate areas. The verboten exposure to the feline species was bad enough.

To a weretiger. It was an unimaginable betrayal to her tribe, her mother and, most of all, to herself.

Her mother would flay the skin from her back until no animal-caressed part of her remained.

Still. “Don’t.” Roseâtre couldn’t believe she was warning off the tiger. Confronting the stage manager wasn’t a healthy occupation. Despite her less than formidable appearance, Heidi maintained a collection of puzzle boxes in her office, dating to all periods of history. Rumors abounded that each puzzle box served as a cage for some poor, unfortunate soul who pissed Heidi off.

Worse, the stories told of the victims within the puzzle boxes, reduced to action-figure size and serving as toys for Heidi’s talkative minion, a demonic little imp that followed her like a chattering child.

“I won’t allow her to punish you.” Anthony’s words washed over her, cool air drifting in from the water, supplanting the hard heat of the day. The show of solidarity was as ridiculous as it was unexpected.

And thrilling.

Admit it. You like it, the nasty little voice in her mind taunted. But that voice was a product of her time in the Midnight Mystery Lounge and clashed angrily with the Amazon princess, buried, half-forgotten in the sands of boredom and repetitive life.

She ached for just five more minutes. But five minutes of passion or battle? The two desires seemed intertwined.

“You allow or prevent nothing,” Heidi responded, prim, cold, immovable.

Take a hint, Anthony. She’s meaner than you are.

“If I’m the alleged victim of her attack and I say it didn’t happen, then there’s nothing to deal with. We still have two hours of rehearsal left.”

But, of course, the cat didn’t take the hint.

Men.

“She has admitted her intentions. I have already had one report from Stan regarding pulling you off her. Now I find the two of you grappling again.”

Anthony shrugged, but the motion belied a deeper stiffness in his posture. Roseâtre’s eyes stung as she tried to watch what was happening, the force of lifting her eyelids and staring across the plane of her forehead sending spikes of pain into her brain.

Was Anthony really considering attacking the stage manager?

“We were rehearsing. It’s a passionate performance. You’re going to have to expect some skin on skin.”

“Oh. Do tell?” The dry tone crackled with skepticism.

“Anthony, stop.” Roseâtre couldn’t believe it even as the words rolled off her tongue.

“So you want to be punished?” Flickers of irritation fanned the cat’s hostility.

“No. But seeing you neutered by someone else isn’t in my plans either.”

Heidi laughed. It wasn’t a friendly sound.

Roseâtre pushed her head up a spare inch, but it cost. The daggers of pain pressing into her skull slashed against her spine. She found Anthony staring at her, mutiny etched into every tense feature. Tears of agony threatened, but she held them off by sheer force of will.

She was a battle-trained warrior. She was a princess.

Crying wasn’t built into her genetic code.

“Heidi, I’ll submit to whatever punishment you deem fit.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue. “Anthony defended himself. I attacked.”

“I know you did.” The statement stilled whatever fervent defense Anthony prepared. The cat scowled, thunderclouds darkening his blue irises. Heidi cut between them and gazed down at Roseâtre with a curious expression of regret. “We can’t afford for the Overseers to notice this infraction.”

The verbal slap stung. But Heidi was correct. The loss of Pandora echoed through the theatre, a subtle, brutal underscore to the theatre’s already tenuous stability. Declining profits, bad reviews and desperation forced Heidi to hire Anthony and his cats in the first place.

The alternative was unthinkable.

“I understand.”

“The new show opens in fourteen days.” That was different. They’d only had a week before.

“Why the extension?”

“The Overseers will be hosting an event and their guests will be our audience. They have ordered the delay.”

Roseâtre’s stomach plummeted.

Not only could they not fail. They had to be spectacular. Or retribution would be swift and brutal.

Fortunately, she could heal from most injuries within fourteen days.

“We’ll be perfect.” And by the gods, they would be. If she had to debase herself to the cat every night for the foreseeable future, the show would be unforgettable.

“Wonderful.” Heidi clucked approvingly and gestured with two fingers for Roseâtre to rise. The pain burrowing into her released immediately and she surged to her feet. Anthony sidestepped the stage manager, hovering closer.

Surprisingly the gaze he cast over her was tinged with concern. Filing the information away for inquiry later, she hoped he could keep his mouth shut before they dug their grave any deeper.

The shackles on her wrists were still warm, a burning reminder of the control Heidi exerted over her. The stage manager’s rueful expression worried her more than Anthony’s tongue. Particularly when Heidi tugged a chain holding a single golden key from around her neck.

Roseâtre froze.

Her soul pleaded. But Heidi’s lips firmed into a thin, uncompromising line. She turned away from Roseâtre and faced Anthony.

She couldn’t.

“Mr. diNapoli, as you are the victim of the assault…”

She wouldn’t.

“…it is to you that Roseâtre’s punishment shall fall. You will not scar her. You will not permanently injure her.”

Roseâtre died a little inside.

“You will return her to my keeping as healthy as I pass her to you. But for the next fourteen days or less if you deem the punishment to be complete, Roseâtre is yours.”

She did.

Anthony stared down at the golden key in his palm. “You own her?”

“Yes.” Succinct and direct. “And for now, so do you. Don’t abuse the privilege.” The stage manager nodded briskly, favoring Roseâtre with another mysterious yet regretful smile. “Try to behave. I’ll inform Cerveau.”

“But…” The word stole out of her before she could swallow the syllable.

“I’ll take care of her. I promise.” Heidi didn’t give promises lightly, but the oath was as binding as any that Roseâtre had delivered through the years and she bowed her head in acceptance.

As quickly as she’d appeared, Heidi left. Anthony held the key in the palm of his hand. Conceivably, she could strike before he realized what it could do. She could take the key from his palm, reclaim her freedom and kill the cat.

And be banished for her temerity.

If she was lucky.

If she wasn’t, Cerveau might pay an even heavier price.

Roseâtre squashed the longing within her, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. She would take whatever punishment the cat could dish out. It was merely another battlefield to be faced.

To be conquered.

To be endured.

The end result would be the same. She would return to protect her shield-sister.

No other outcome was acceptable.

Anthony tossed the key and caught it, his gaze dark with speculation. “I don’t suppose if I asked you what this did you would answer?”

“You have no reason to assume that, no.” Roseâtre selected the words carefully.

“No, I don’t.” He studied the key, his nostrils flaring.

What did he smell? Our lessons indicated that cats were not the greatest of trackers, relying more on their sight and their reflexes than their sense of smell.

But she’d never observed one up close. Certainly not as close as they’d been when she’d straddled his leg.

Or as close as she’d wanted when she considered straddling the erection that thickened beneath his jeans. Heat ached between her thighs.

Unbelievable.

Even knowing exactly what he was didn’t diminish her desire.

“But she said you were mine and this is a key. That implies ownership.” He asked no question, so Roseâtre kept her own counsel. His head tilted, still studying the key, he lifted it to his nostrils and inhaled a slow, deep breath.

“So the question is, what is this a key to?”

Unfortunately, Anthony chose that exact moment to look directly at her and Roseâtre lifted her hands, the gold shackles shimmering with warmth. A band of heat appeared around her throat and though she couldn’t see it, she knew it was a shining, golden collar, embossed in a language she had never understood.

“They go to these.”