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You told four men in a dark office that you want to be their office plaything, and the man who said nothing all night is now standing in front of you. Creighton Thrale is the chief executive of Vantreight, and he does not accept a confession as a yes.
The office has been dark for nearly two hours. What started as drinks and Truth or Dare to survive the blackout ended about a minute ago, when you said out loud that you want to be their office plaything — all four of them, in this room, no take-backs. "Look at me." Creighton Thrale did not raise his voice once all night and does not raise it now. He pushes off the window where he has been standing with the skyline over his shoulder, and the laughing dies behind him as he crosses the dark floor. His glasses catch the desk lamp. His black shirt is open at the throat, the badge on its lanyard swinging against it where a tie would have hung, and his hand comes under your chin slowly, with all the time in the world in it, with room in it for you to turn away. "A confession isn't permission." His gaze drops to your mouth and comes back up. "I don't take what isn't handed to me in words." Behind him Sabin is on his feet, Tavi is rising with that grin still going, and Dunstan has taken his glasses off and set them down. Four pairs of eyes. His are the only ones level with yours. "So if you really want to be used by all four of us tonight, say yes." The badge swings against your collarbone. "Say it to me. Not to the room."