Chapter 6

AVERY

I follow her. Because of course I do. What else is there?

My focus narrows to the space between her shoulder blades, the rhythm of her steps. Victoria walks ahead of me without a single backward glance, and somehow it feels like a conversation anyway. The deliberate sway of her coat. The precise, unhurried click of her heels on the stone floor. The exact, unwavering rhythm of her steps, never rushed, never unsure.

She’s not showing me the club. She’s showing me her world.

We stop in front of a door that doesn’t look like much – matte black, seamless, with no visible handle. Just a single, old-fashioned brass keyhole, gleaming in the low light. She doesn’t use a key. She presses her palm flat against the wood beside it. A soft, mechanical click echoes from within, a sound of heavy bolts sliding back. The door swings inward on its own.

The first thing I notice is the floor. Not tile. Not wood. It’s padded, covered in a dark, textured material that looks like it would muffle even the sharpest heel. The walls are lined with the same dark, sound-absorbing panels, and in the center–

Chains.

Not dangling haphazardly like some Halloween prop. No, these are anchored with purpose into the ceiling itself, two sets of them, at different heights. Heavy, polished stainless steel cuffs are attached to the ends, their clasps open and waiting. They gleam under the room’s low, amber pin lights.

Then my eyes moved to the chair in the corner.

The chair – if you can call it a chair, is angled strangely, all of it padded in smooth black leather, with wide straps at the wrists and ankles that I probably shouldn’t look at too closely if I want to keep breathing normally.

And then there’s the smell. Not unpleasant, but unmistakable. The rich, clean scent of well-oiled leather, the warmth of human skin, and faint, faint traces of patchouli and cedar.

Victoria steps inside like it’s her living room, her posture relaxing into the space. I hover in the doorway, my hand still on the frame, which I tell myself is because I’m assessing the situation, not because my thighs just pressed together on their own with a sudden, hot clench.

“This is…” I start, but my voice deserts me. My brain is still doing the frantic math between what is this place and why do I want to find out so badly.

Victoria glances back at me, leaning one shoulder against the wall like she has all night to watch me process, to watch me squirm. “This is where people come when they don’t want to pretend.”

My mouth is dry, my tongue feeling too thick. But I force a smirk, a weak defense. “And what, you just… chain them up?”

Her gaze lingers on my face for a beat too long, seeing right through the bravado. “Only if they ask.”

I don’t move. I’m still standing in the doorway, one foot in the cool, blue-tinged hall and one on the threshold of this warm, amber room. But she’s watching me like she knows exactly how close I am to stepping further in. Like she can feel the magnetic pull I’m trying to resist.

And she’s right.

Because whatever this is – danger, temptation, a heady cocktail of both – it’s pulling harder than my sense of self-preservation. It’s a low, throbbing hum in my blood, more compelling than fear.

Before I even consciously decide, before my brain can form a single coherent warning, my foot moves. It crosses the threshold. The padded floor gives slightly under my weight, and the door swings shut behind me with a soft, final sigh.

×××

VICTORIA

She crosses the threshold like she’s walking onto unstable ground. Her arms are held slightly away from her body, as if she’s not sure whether to brace herself against the walls or keep her hands safely tucked in her pockets. I know that look intimately – the split-second war between I shouldn’t be here and I need to know what happens if I stay.

Her eyes perform the usual, telling dance. They flick to the stainless steel cuffs first. Then they dart to the strange angles of the chair, its straps speaking a silent, explicit language. Finally, they land on me.

I don’t move. I keep my shoulder anchored against the wall, the cool of the panel seeping through my jacket. The lighting here is precisely angled, leaving half my face in deep shadow – a deliberate trick I learned years ago. People always fill the darkness with their own fantasies. It’s more powerful than anything I could show them.

She doesn’t realize it yet, but the simple act of stepping over that sill was her first real answer.

“This isn’t for everyone,” I say. My voice drops naturally, lower and more intimate. It’s not a performance for seduction – though I am acutely aware of its effect – but because this room demands it. You speak in here as if the walls themselves are listening, absorbing every whisper.

Her gaze cuts back to the closed door for a fleeting second. I don’t miss it. The instinctual check for an exit. “Not planning on bolting, are you?”

Her mouth curves at one corner – not quite a smile, but a ghost of one. A defiance that’s all the more compelling for its fragility. “Not yet.”

That’s all the confirmation I need.

I push off the wall and take two slow, measured steps toward her. I don’t reach out. I don’t invade her space. I just close the distance enough that the air between us shifts, grows warmer, charged with our shared breath. “You know why I showed you this room?”

Her breath hitches, a tiny, caught sound she tries to mask with an inhalation. “Because you think I’m like… them?” She says it like a challenge, but her voice lacks its earlier edge.

I shake my head once, my eyes never leaving hers. “Because you don’t know yet if you are.”

Her pupils darken, swallowing the grey of her irises. She thinks she’s hiding her reaction, but I see the frantic flutter of the pulse at the base of her throat. I see the subtle shift in her stance – a barely perceptible lean, a half-inch closer to me that her conscious mind hasn’t yet authorized.

It would take nothing to close the final distance. To back her against the padded wall and test the exact boundaries of that intoxicating curiosity.

But I don’t.

Instead, I let my gaze travel over her – a slow, deliberate inventory from the vulnerable line of her throat, down the front of the suit jacket that molds to her form, to the slight tremor in her hands. I see the shiver she tries to suppress, a fine tremor that ripples through her.

“Curiosity,” I say, my voice a low murmur as I step past her. My finger traces the cool, unyielding curve of the steel cuff. “Is the most dangerous thing you can bring in here.”

When I turn back to face her, she hasn’t moved. She’s still standing there, her body a tense line of conflict, watching me with an expression that lays her utterly bare. She’s trying to decide whether to walk back out that door…

…or ask me to lock it.

×××

AVERY

I should’ve walked back out when I had the chance. I know that. But the second the door sighed shut behind us, the acoustics of the world changed. It wasn’t quieter, not exactly – just… contained. The dense walls seemed to swallow every sound, holding my breath, her words, the frantic thrum of my own pulse inside this padded box.

And now she’s standing in front of me, her voice a low vibration in the insulated silence, saying things that are probably meant to make me think twice… but all they’re doing is winding the coil of tension in my belly tighter. Curiosity is the most dangerous thing you can bring in here.

Right. Well. That’s a problem, because I’m practically choking on it.

I watch her hand trail along the cold curve of the cuff, her fingers testing its weight, and a hot, involuntary clench seizes my inner thighs. It’s not subtle. The soft rustle of my trousers is deafening. I know she sees it.

Victoria has this way of looking at you like she’s measuring two things at once – the person you are right now, all nerve and defiance, and the one you might turn into if you’re stupid enough to let her. And I hate how much I want to find out which one she prefers.

She hasn’t touched me again, but the ghost of her grip is a brand around my wrist. The memory of her fingers, warm, controlled, and final, is a live wire. My skin hasn’t forgotten, and neither has the rest of me.

I can’t even tell if I’m breathing normally. My chest feels too tight, each inhalation shallow.

I try to play it cool, the words feeling flimsy as I force them out. “So… do you bring all your guests in here, or just the ones who look good in your suits?”

Her mouth curves – not a smile, exactly. More like an acknowledgment that she’s caught me doing exactly what she wants: deflecting with sarcasm instead of admitting the truth screaming in my veins.

She steps closer. Just enough for me to catch the faint, expensive trace of her perfume. “If you were like the others,” she says softly, “you’d already be asking to try them on.”

My eyes flick to the cuffs again before I can stop them, a traitorous glance and she’s still watching me. Waiting for me to move or speak or flinch.

But I don’t.

Because if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I always want to see what happens next, even when every sane instinct is screaming to run.

She waits until I’m looking right at her, until my gaze is trapped in hers, before she moves. One step, slow enough to make every nerve in my body twitch in anticipation.

I swear the air between us gets heavier with each inch she closes. She’s not even touching me yet, but I can feel her. My skin prickles, hyper-aware, as if it already knows what it wants.

Her eyes don’t waver. They stay locked on mine, steady, confident, the kind of look that says she knows exactly how far she can push me before I break.

“Step closer to the chair,” she says. Her tone is low, even. Not a suggestion. Not a demand. Just… the only option that feels possible.

I don’t move right away. My body vibrates with the urge to obey. My brain stalls, screaming a warning. Because I already know – if I follow through, I’m letting her set the pace. I’m surrendering the lead.

“Or,” she says, softer now, the word a caress and a challenge, “you can always leave if you want.”

My stomach knots. I hate that she says it like she’s giving me freedom, when it feels like the most profound dare I’ve ever faced.

And before I even make the conscious decision, my feet are moving, carrying me toward that chair like it’s magnetic, my steps silent on the padded floor.

It’s bigger up close – solid, high-backed, imposing. Made for someone to sit down and not get up until she says so. The arms are wide, spread apart, a design that makes certain postures… unavoidable.

I can see it – a vivid, unwelcome flash of myself in that chair, hands gripping the cool leather arms, posture open and vulnerable while she stands there looking at me, deciding whether I’ve earned her touch. The thought hits me with physical force, pooling heat right at my center until I have to shift my weight to keep from showing it.

But she notices.

Her gaze drops, slow as sin, to the slight, nervous adjustment of my stance.

“You’re wondering,” she says, her voice dipping so low it feels like a physical touch in the shadowy room, “what it would feel like.”

My mouth is desert-dry. I want to answer. But I can’t. The words stick somewhere between my throat and my pride, choked by the sheer, terrifying want.

She steps in closer, erasing the final buffer of space. I can feel the body heat radiating from her, a wave that makes my nipples tighten instantly against the silk of my shirt. Not a single point of contact, but it feels like she’s touching me everywhere.

She leans in until her mouth is a breath away from my ear. I smell her – warm skin, faint perfume – and it makes me dizzy. “Here’s the thing, Avery…” The way she says my name is slow, deliberate, filthy. Like she’s tasting it, trying it out in every tone she plans to use later. “…once you sit, you don’t decide when you leave.”

I still don’t answer. Because I know if I open my mouth, it’ll either be yes or please– and neither of those feel safe right now.

Her breath grazes my jaw, a phantom touch, and my knees nearly buckle. “You want to know, don’t you?”

God, yes. Yes until my voice cracks. But the confession dies behind my lips.

And then – she steps back. That sharp, cruel loss of her heat and proximity almost knocks the air from my lungs. A confused, desperate sound catches in my throat. I don’t know if I want to slap her or follow her and beg.

“That’s enough for tonight,” she says.

Smooth. Controlled.

As if she hadn’t just stripped me bare and left me trembling on the edge without even laying a hand on me.

I don’t move. My body is a live wire, humming with unmet need, refusing to believe she’s ending it here. My pulse hammers in my wrists, my throat, between my legs.

But she’s already turning, walking away, leaving me standing alone with the intimidating silhouette of the chair and the relentless, pounding echo of my own desire.

And fuck me – I already know, with a certainty that terrifies and exhilarates me, that I’ll be back to see what happens next.