Page 9 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Ravenous might be a better word for the look in her eyes. The main reason why I want to delay her death is because I have to know what it means. Does she act on it? Will she reveal her true colors?

Finnigan snorts. “Almost like someone else I know.”

I glare at him because there’s no way he’s comparing that woman to me. No fucking way. But that stupid grin tells me that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“I’m happy to pay her a visit and get a read on her,” Vincent states.

The idea of him and Scarlet in the same space, together, alone, makes me irrationally annoyed.

He continues when I don’t weigh in. “If her lack of action so far says anything, it’s that she’s not a threat to you. Or us. No matter what, Carter, you know very well we will trust your decision. But make sure you make it for the right reasons.”

I’m not entirely sure what “right reasons” he’s referring to.

Pride is reason enough. The fierce look in her eyes is, too. What I usually need is a reason not to kill. But Miss Brasa-Glass confounds me and for the first time in a long time— ever —I’m stuck. Struggling to justifying.

Though, Vincent and all the other guys’ attitudes and trust are...umm... I guess the right word for it would be comforting.

“I’m going to the club tonight,” I say, getting up to leave.

“Metamorphosis?” Vincent asks.

I nod to him in response.

“I was expecting you to be thirsty for some...carving,” he says, “not burning off that type of steam. Is this woman—?”

“See you later.” I turn on my heels to head out of Midnight.

The guys protest, but I don’t care for their silly lines of questioning.

Before I’m out the door I check my phone, just in case I missed its vibration.

My shoulders slump.

No new text flashes on the screen.

* * *

Venetian, steampunk, horror, and more...so many masks surround me as I walk into Metamorphosis.

Masks must be worn at all times. This is the main rule in the fetish club owned by Morrigan Sinclair, who is Vincent’s wife, and Loreley Dietrich, her best friend. It doesn’t matter what type of mask you bring as long as it isn’t sheer or see-through.

One guy even came wearing a wolf head once.

Considering it looked like it came from a mascot suit, most people seemed to struggle to contain their laughter around him.

Until he ended up making one woman squirt and cry for half an hour straight, all while she was strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross.

Everyone saw that wolf mask a whole lot differently afterward.

Regardless of what people wear, the mask’s purpose is to protect our identities and provide comfort to everyone. Most people don’t want to know that it’s their boss watching them get paddled while strapped over a leather horse.

I personally don’t care much. Those who have come in contact with me will likely recognize my tattoos, anyway.

Not the ones on my body, but my throat and neck, forearms, and one hand.

The back of my neck holds a very vivid and, as I’ve been told, eerie eye, always visible above the collar of my shirt or jacket.

An abstract, ornamental grayscale piece resembling splinters and shards explodes around my throat.

There is no meaning. I simply wanted chaos, irregularity, madness in lines, and pain. I wanted pain.

The designs are recognizable to those who have been close enough to me, and if they see me here, I don’t care. At least they know The Sanctum is everywhere. Even in their deepest, darkest fantasies.

Because this is what Metamorphosis is at its core—the place where you can feel safe in your own skin. The mask you wear either helps you morph into the person you wish to become someday, or...it’s the real you that you cannot show to others.

For me, the mask is a mere accessory. I am exactly who I’m supposed to be. But I have to admit...there is a different thrill in the knowledge that I have no idea who’s watching me.

I have control in every single aspect of my life. I make it my mission to gain as much knowledge as possible about all that surrounds our businesses, Queenscove, our associates, and beyond. And Metamorphosis is a contrast to it all.

I know who I’m looking for tonight—Margo. Though here, she goes by Magpie to protect her identity. She hasn’t shared her real name with me, but I found it out anyway. Despite the rules, and considering who I am, my cock doesn’t touch just anyone, regardless of the latex layer of protection.

Margo is one of two women I play with here from time to time.

There were a couple more, but they had to be discarded.

I don’t care for attachments, and they refused to stay on the right side of the boundary.

Margo seems to understand that this is an exchange, a tit for tat.

She gets pain and pleasure, and I get the mental release that comes with inflicting it.

Perching on the last free barstool, I order a still water and turn to face the rumbling crowd. Almost all the round tables dotted around the center stage and in the shadows of the vast space are occupied, and all around them people are either dancing or simply caught in conversation.

It’s what I like about this place—you can come to watch, play, talk, or educate yourself on the lifestyle. There is no pressure, no expectation. A bracelet system is in place, and patrons know how to engage with you depending on the color you wear.

However, the most interesting things don’t happen on this stage, but down the wide corridor to the left of the bar, where six playrooms sit, three on each side.

The wall is only hip-height, and the rest is all window, apart from the door, allowing anyone to watch what’s happening beyond it.

If the players want, the curtains can also be closed for private sessions.

Or the window can be turned into a mirror, for those who like the thrill without seeing who or how many watch them.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“Hello, Magpie.” I turn to the left, where Margo appeared.

“I’m still getting used to your new mask. The top half with all its antique gold baroque elements is pretty, but the skull bottom half, weathered and grim, looks so...aggressive.”

That was the point.

“Are you available tonight?” I cut off the small talk.

“Always for you. Shall I go secure a room?”

I nod.

“Room three?” she asks.

I nod again.

She smiles from underneath the pink-feathered mask covering her down to the tip of her nose, and turns on her heels.

I watch her walk away, waiting for that spark to show up in the tips of my fingers.

The one that makes me itch for a paddle, for the feel of a pulse under my fingers as I ram my pierced cock into her, for the crack of the braided whip as it hits the skin.

And so much more. My brows knit together as I keep waiting for that moment, yet even by the time Margo returns, it doesn’t come.

“I wasn’t hiding . . . you simply didn’t find me.”

Scarlet’s daring words penetrate my mind, spoken in that soft voice that I can’t rip out of my brain no matter how hard I fucking try.

That must be it—I’m distracted. Tense. And that’s why my enthusiasm hasn’t come yet.

It will. It must.

The whole point of tonight is to get the dark-eyed woman out of my goddamn mind.

My pocket vibrates and I fumble to pull out my phone, rolling my eyes at my own impatience.

Bring it on, killer-boy.

Over and over, I read that challenge, along with that ridiculous nickname she gave me. With each re-read, I squeeze the device harder until I swear I feel it crack.

This kitten is playing with fucking fire.