Isabella

I'd stripped for countless eyes in my career, from the lecherous stares of frat boys to the cold dead-fish gazes of seasoned perverts. But this time, I felt exposed... more like judged.

The blood-red silk of the designer dress they'd sheathed me in clung to every curve, the expensive fabric whispering against my skin like a lover's depraved caress. No doubt the offensive garment cost more than my very life was worth to these monsters.

"Ah yes, I can see vhy he vould choose you to carry his heir," Motya rasped as she dragged her dissecting regard up and down my body.

Not in the lewd, undressing way of the club's patrons. No, her inspection was coldly mechanical, clinical - like a surgeon visually dissecting a naked corpse on the table before the first incision.

Motya slowly circled me, hunched over her brass-tipped cane like the calculative matriarch of a pack of hyenas examining its latest prey.