by Jenna Jaxon
Nigel shoved the mask onto Katarina’s face, almost suffocating her. Flailing, she tried to pry the mask from her face and was rewarded with a cuff to her head. By the time the world stopped spinning, she was pressed tight against Nigel’s chest and being borne down the corridor. The rank smell of his sweaty, unwashed body permeated the mask. She fought back a wave of nausea. A thunderous roar emanated from behind a dull red curtain, as though an entire army caroused there. Her stomach cramped with fear.
They stopped before the doorway. The swordsman bent his head to whisper, “If you try to run, to take the mask off—anything at all—my sword will find its mark before the night is over.” Then he heaved her over the shoulder of a blond giant dressed in the purple and white robes of a Roman senator. A soft “ugh” escaped her along with her breath as she landed on his collarbone. She hung there, struggling to breathe, less afraid of suffocating than of what lay beyond the red curtain.