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I react without thinking. My hand slides to the back of Cherise’s neck, fingers threading into her hair as I pull her flush against me. "Kneel," I murmur against her ear. “Spread your legs and bow your head so Valentine doesn’t get a good look at your face.”
She tenses. "Nick...”
"Now."
A heartbeat of hesitation. Then, she obeys, sinking gracefully to her knees. A perfect, beautiful submission. Jealousy flashes through my brain. Where did she learn that? Had Hector taught her? Valentine raises a brow but says nothing, moving past without stopping. When I’m sure he’s gone, I release my breath and look down at Cherise. Her chest rises and falls, her lips parted, her pupils blown wide.
I extend my hand. She takes it, but the way she looks at me when she stands tells me everything. I may have just played my role to perfection, but so has she.
Opus Noir hums with life around us, a slow, indulgent pulse of whispered commands, moaned responses, and the unmistakable crack of leather meeting skin. The scent of warmed leather and exotic perfume lingers in the air, mixing with the low thrum of music that keeps the energy just below a fever pitch.
Cherise stays close, her eyes scanning the lounge, taking in the world she’s just been dropped into. She’s bracing for something—what exactly, I’m not sure. Maybe for me to push her into submission, or maybe for me to humiliate her or make her feel owned. But that’s not how this works, not unless the sub wants it that way.
Submission isn’t taken. It’s given, and right now, she doesn’t know what the hell she wants.
She crosses her arms, her voice sharp. "So, what now? You parade me around like your new prize?"
I glance down at her, my expression unreadable. "I don’t parade and you’re not a prize." I lean in, lowering my voice just enough to make her breath catch. "But if you keep looking at me like you want a fight, I’ll be happy to put you on your knees, shove a ball gag in your mouth and show you what losing feels like."
Her pulse flutters in her throat, but she doesn’t move away—a challenge. No problem, I accept. I slide a possessive hand to her lower back, guiding her forward. She stiffens slightly but doesn’t resist.
Good girl.
We move deeper into the club; the sound of a flogger being used draws her attention to the raised platform at the center of the dungeon floor. A woman is bound to a St. Andrew’s cross, her wrists and ankles secured, her body writhing as each stroke of the flogger lands across her back and thighs. The Dom wielding it is precise, controlled. His strikes are more caress than punishment, his sub’s cries laced with pleasure, not pain.
Cherise inhales sharply. I watch her closely. She’s fascinated. Curious. And giving off signs of arousal—her scent, her dilated pupils, her flushed skin.
Her chest rises and falls, her lips parting as she watches the way the woman’s body absorbs each strike, the way she melts into the sensation, offering herself freely.
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. "Breathe, Cherise."
She shudders, snapping out of whatever haze she’d just fallen into. "I—what?"
I chuckle, knowing exactly what’s happening. "You liked that."
She huffs out a breath, her cheeks flushing. "That’s not...”
"Don’t lie to me." I grip her chin, turning her face toward mine. "Not here. Not when I can see exactly what you’re thinking."
She tries to look away, but I don’t let her.
"You want to know how it feels?" I ask, my voice low, intimate.
Her breath catches. "I don’t...”
I tilt her chin up gently, forcing her to meet my eyes. "One word, Cherise... if you want out, I’ll walk you out of here and hand you over to the authorities. No questions. No judgment."
“Hector is the authorities—at least part of them,” she whispers, voice tight.
I exhale slowly, letting the tension bleed off. "All right," I say, quieter now. "Cerberus will protect you."
“I don’t want Cerberus to protect me,” she says fiercely. “I don’t know them. I know you. I need you to protect me.”
Something inside me twists, something I thought I'd buried a long time ago. I nod once, steady and certain. "Then you do it my way. You trust me. You follow my lead."
Something flickers across her face—fear, defiance, a decade’s worth of grief and hope colliding. But underneath it all, I see what matters most: she still trusts me. She always has.
"Fine," she says, barely above a whisper.