Chapter 6

Saga’s breath hitched, her muscles locking in a momentary, electric spasm as Magnus’s hand clamped onto her hip. The suddenness of his touch, contrasted with the lingering, ghost-like pressure of the announcer’s fingers, sent a jolt of disorientation through her. For a heartbeat, she was nothing but a collection of raw nerves and vibrating skin, suspended between the fading roar of the crowd and the crushing reality of the man beside her. Then, the tension broke, and she felt the steady, irresistible force of his grip guiding her toward the velvet curtain of the wings.

“The showing is over,” Magnus murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her shoulder as he steered her out of the spotlights. He didn’t look at the audience, his focus entirely on the flushed, shivering wreckage of her composure. “Well ... the public one is.”

The transition from the blinding white glare to the dim, heavy shadows of the backstage area felt like falling underwater. The noise of the crowd became a distant, muffled hum, replaced by the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the silicone plug shifting deep within her with every step. Magnus didn’t let go; he kept her tucked tight against his side, his thumb continuing to graze the sensitive skin of her thigh in a slow, possessive cadence.

“The run way walk was a lovely appetizer, Saga,” Magnus murmured. He didn’t let go of her hip; instead, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh with a possessive force that grounded her amidst the swirling chaos of the runway. He leaned in, the scent of cedar and cold ambition clinging to him, and his lips grazed the shell of her ear. “But let’s be honest, you didn’t endure the fucking and the plugging just to walk in a circle for a few thousand strangers. That was merely the warm-up. The curated tease to whet the appetite.”

Saga’s breath hitched, her pupils dilating as she felt the sudden shift in the room’s energy. The high-fashion artifice of the Black Tape Project was beginning to peel away, revealing the raw, predatory machinery beneath. She looked up at him, her gaze swimming with a mixture of exhaustion and frantic craving. “The ... the after-party,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the receding thunder of the crowd.

“The showing,” Magnus corrected, his eyes flashing with a dark, calculated hunger. “The real event. The one where the tape comes off, the plugs are discarded, and you stop being a sculpture and start being the real you.”

“Where are the others?” Saga breathed, the question escaping as a low, needy moan that vibrated against Magnus’s chest. She shifted her weight, the silicone plug inside her giving a wet, heavy lurch that reminded her of how thoroughly she had been claimed. The high of the runway was fading, replaced by a void of anticipation. “I haven’t seen Arthur or Elias since Zach took me ... and Julian...” Her eyes drifted toward the perimeter of the dark wings, searching for the familiar, clinical gaze of her husband. “Is he still here? Is he filming this?”

Magnus’s smile didn’t reach his eyes; it remained a predatory curve of amusement. He let his hand slide from her hip down to the curve of her backside, his fingers grazing the edge of the vinyl tape with a slow, deliberate friction. “Patience, little bird,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. “They’re around. They’ve just been busy preparing the stage for your transition from art to object.”

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her flushed skin. “As for Julian ... he’s just finishing the setup. He’s making sure the lighting is exactly right to capture every single ripple of your surrender. He hasn’t missed a second of your performance.”

The center of the room had been transformed into a stadium of light, a bleached expanse of white that felt less like a stage and more like a surgical theater. The spotlights didn’t just illuminate Saga; they dissected her, stripping away the remaining illusions of the runway and leaving her exposed in a high-definition glare that made every bead of sweat and every glistening line of vinyl look like a map of her own submission. Around the perimeter, the atmosphere had shifted from the frantic energy of a fashion show to the relaxed, predatory patience of a lounge. Men leaned back in deep leather chairs, swirling amber liquids in crystal glasses, their conversations a low rhythmic hum that sounded to Saga like the idling of several high-performance engines.

She felt their eyes, not as a collective mass, but as individual probes. Off to the side, the announcer and Zach were locked in a quiet conversation, their heads bent together in a conspiratorial huddle. Every few seconds, their gazes would drift back to her, sweeping over her body with the detached, professional curiosity of appraisers assessing a piece of livestock. They weren’t looking at the artistry of the tape anymore; they were staring at the way her thighs trembled under the weight of the plug, the way her chest heaved in the sterile air, and the way she looked utterly broken and beautiful under the oppressive white light.

A soft, mechanical whirring sound drew her attention to the periphery. There was Julian, his expression one of focused, artistic intensity. He wasn’t looking at her face; he was looking through the viewfinder of a massive HD camera, his fingers deftly adjusting the focus ring to capture the exact moment a single drop of Magnus’s cooling seed escaped the seal of the plug and traced a slow, silver path down her inner thigh. He smiled, a thin, satisfied curve of the lips, as he pivoted the lens to capture the raw, pulsing vulnerability of her core. He was documenting her transformation, treating her body as a living archive of her own debasement.

Zach’s approach was silent, his footsteps swallowed by the oppressive hum of the room’s electronics. When he finally reached her, he didn’t use the clinical grip of a stylist; instead, he placed a hand on her forearm with a lightness that felt almost deceptive. The warmth of his palm contrasted sharply with the chilled, sterile air of the small theater, and for a moment, the touch felt like a lifeline in a sea of predatory gazes. He squeezed her arm ... a gesture of genuine measured congratulations for a performance that had left the audience breathless and Saga trembling.