Dark Needs (Tales of Dystopian Decadence Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

did not change. “The master is waiting for you,” he answered in a deep voice. The hulking butler stepped aside and gestured toward the interior of the house, an invitation for me to enter.
    I stepped over the threshold and looked around, finding it difficult not to admire what I saw. As much as I wanted to hate it, the interior of the house was the most beautiful I had ever seen. It put the luxurious school to shame. Whereas St. Eden’s had a dark, plush sort of magnificence about it, the DeVille home had an airy look that was incongruous with the Hollywood Hills setting and exterior architecture. It had the open feel of a home in the Atlantic territories – old Cape Cod or the Hamptons in the decades before the war – with white walls and hardwood floors. Instead of flickering gas lamps, there were a few well-placed electric lights. If I expected some kind of dark, sordid den of iniquity based on what I knew of the Regime or the way the house looked from the outside, this was not it.
    There’s still the upstairs, I reminded myself. Plenty of room for kinky secrets up there. In fact, I would be disappointed if there weren’t any… Just to confirm my expectations, of course. Not because I actually wanted to be subjected to DeVille’s specific tastes.
    “This way,” the butler intoned.
    I turned to follow his muscular form up the straight staircase, my eyes darting left and right. Even though the headmistress had arranged this match, I did have the option of refusing. However, I had to follow through completely with the first meeting before exercising that right. Only then would she seek another patron for me. Knowing I had that choice did not make this any easier. Still, there couldn’t possibly be a worse match than Icharus DeVille. Could there?
    The upper area was really more of a loft, open to the downstairs, with only a few rooms. The butler – I privately thought of him now as Mr. Muscles – indicated I should knock on the door before me.
    Ah. Zero hour.
    I took baby steps forward until there was nowhere else to go. I banged my fist against the door once, twice, then a third time. Before I could even clasp my hands behind my back in the customary submissive posture I’d learned at school, the door opened. For the length of time I stood there glaring down at my black Mary Jane shoes, I was surprised Mr. Muscles didn’t just shove me into the room.
    But he seemed to maintain a respectful distance as a masculine voice asked, “Well, are you going to come in, or do you want to do this in the hall where anyone can see?”
    I’d rather not do this at all.
    Compressing my lips to stifle the first thought that sprang to mind, I squared my shoulders and took a few steps forward, aware I was shuffling my feet as I did so. Nervousness and anxiety weren’t conditions I was prone to, but punching someone in the face in a fit of rage? I’d been known to do that. And what I didn’t want to risk was looking up at my host and letting my anger get the better of me.
    The door clicked shut behind me and then I heard another click. A lock, I guessed.
    “Miss Johnstone, after last night’s meeting, I’m under the impression that you really don’t like me.”
    “Whatever gave you that idea?” The moment the words left my mouth, I realized it was bad form to speak in such a way. However, I wasn’t a submissive or service-oriented slave. Protocol was not something anyone should expect of me.
    Unless he found a way to make me accept it.
    I heard the soft sizzle of a match flaming to life. In a few seconds, I detected the unmistakable smell of a cigar. It was a pleasant odor, as well as one I’d always associated with powerful men. A man who could earn his dominance and mastery of anything in life – business, politics, women…
    “Let me think about it. When we met last night, you called me ‘Icky,’ then proceeded to throw my own drink in my face, kick me in the shin, and run out on the meeting like your ass was