Page 57

Chapter Two

The scent of leather and sweat clung to the air, underscored by the sharp bite of disinfectant.

No matter how often the club was cleaned, the aroma of human need lingered—musk, skin, the ghost of perfume and cologne.

Some scents were subtle, others too strong, but none could mask what really happened here.

Since this was a private club, sex was allowed.

Heat pulsed beneath the surface of it all.

Voices were low, as people conversed quietly, not wanting to disturb the scene going on at the main floor.

For people who wanted more privacy they had themed rooms upstairs and in the attic, but those who liked to watch and be watched were in the downstairs area and bar.

Nearby, a flogger struck flesh, and Henry turned his head to see sadist Connor working on his tiny submissive.

Suzie might look fragile, but she was a hardcore masochist and could handle a lot more than a heavy flogger.

Connor leaned his front against her back, one hand cupping her breast as he murmured something into her ear.

Suzie’s skin flushed, her breath shuddering through her teeth.

Henry exhaled, letting the familiar scene settle into his skin, seeping into the cracks of his thoughts. Club Indigo.

It wasn’t just a place to play—it was a place to learn. A sanctuary built by those who understood that kink was more than an indulgence, more than just ropes and restraints. This was where people came to grow, to explore, to push past the misconceptions and find what really spoke to them.

Co-founder Catalina had been one of the first to make that a mission, establishing the foundation of everything Club Indigo stood for.

She had trained with the best, honed her craft, and then taken it on the road, traveling across the country and beyond with her two slaves, Romulus and Remus.

They had given demonstrations that weren’t just performances but lessons—real, raw, and unapologetic.

They had taught people how to wield control without cruelty, how to surrender without shame.

Even now, years later, that philosophy ran deep in the club’s veins.

No one walked through these doors without understanding what it meant to be here.

Membership wasn’t just granted—it was earned.

Those interested had to attend a Kansas City munch, meet with members, and receive an invitation.

The process ensured that Indigo wasn’t a playground for thrill-seekers looking for a cheap high.

It was a haven for those who lived and breathed the lifestyle.

Here, people learned to listen—not just with their ears, but with their eyes, their hands, their instincts. Dominance wasn’t just about control—it was mainly about responsibility. Submission wasn’t about weakness—it was about trust.

It was knowing the way a sub’s body shifted before they needed a break, the tiny cues in their breath, the flicker of their fingers when words weren’t enough.

It was learning a partner’s triggers, their limits, their desires—not just to avoid harm, but to build something stronger, something real.

It was safewords spoken and honored. Limits set and respected.

It was pushing boundaries but never crossing them.

Henry had spent years here, perfecting that unspoken language. He had learned to read the smallest signs, to recognize when a sub was losing themselves in the right way—or the wrong one.

It made him a good Dungeon Monitor. A good Dom.

And a good Master.

Once.

His throat tightened. It had been nearly two years since Lincoln had set foot in the club.

Henry curled his fingers into his palms, willing away the restless energy burning beneath his skin. It wasn’t fair to blame Lincoln. No one chose to get sick. No one chose to have their body betray them. That damn coronavirus had stolen so much—from him, from Lincoln, from too many people to count.

It had taken fourteen months just for Lincoln to return to work, and even now, three years later, he still wasn’t the man he had been.

No one talked about the people left struggling long after the world had moved on.

Henry had seen it firsthand, and yet there were still people out there claiming it had never been real.

A sharp cry cut through his thoughts.

Henry’s head snapped up, scanning the room.

He caught sight of Connor by the St. Andrew’s Cross, standing over Suzie. She sagged against the leather, chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. The marks on her back were fresh, the welts vivid against her flushed skin.

Henry was moving before his mind caught up, closing the distance between them.

Connor glanced up as he approached, his brow damp with sweat. “She’s good,” he said, his Scottish brogue thick. “Went a little deeper than I expected.”

Henry’s gaze flicked to Suzie’s face, taking in the half-lidded eyes, the slack expression of contentment. She was floating, her body loose, her breathing slow. Still, Henry reached for the blanket draped over a nearby chair, wrapping it around her shoulders, letting her sink into the warmth.

Connor ran a hand over his face, exhaling. “Been a while since we played properly. Between Tim an’ Josh bein’ at West Point and Abby bein’ a pain in me arse, I’ve no’ had the time or energy.”

Henry’s lips quirked. “She still giving you hell?”

Connor groaned. “Seventeen an’ in love with Tim’s best mate. Ye know James and Laura adopted Josh a few years ago, aye? Lad’s twenty now, Tim’s nineteen, and they’ve been inseparable since middle school.”

Henry arched a brow. “And she’s losing it because they’re both in the military?”

“Oh, she’s proud as hell,” Connor said, shifting Suzie in his arms. “Just pissed she cannae be with them. And worried, since they’ll be second lieutenants soon. Won’t be long before they’re sent somewhere she cannae follow.”

Henry hummed, adjusting the blanket over Suzie’s shoulders before glancing at Connor. “Take her to the red couch. I’ll clean up.”

Connor nodded, murmuring something to Suzie as he carried her away.

Henry turned back to the St. Andrew’s Cross, running a hand over the smooth leather. His movements were methodical as he gathered the floggers, whips, and canes, wiping each one down with alcohol wipes. The sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with the lingering musk of sweat and leather.

The ritual should have settled him.

It didn’t.

He had always been a service Dom, looking after others, ensuring scenes ended well, making sure aftercare was handled properly. He loved the club, loved the community, loved knowing that within these walls, people could be who they truly were.

But as he glanced back at Connor, now settled on the couch with Suzie curled against him, the ache in Henry’s chest deepened.

Connor was a sadist, his tendencies fitting seamlessly with Suzie’s need for pain. They understood each other, balanced each other.

Just like Lincoln had needed him.

Just like Henry had needed Lincoln.

His fingers tightened around the flogger in his hands.

But Lincoln wasn’t here.

And Henry wasn’t sure if he ever would be again.

Henry grabbed a bottle of water and a few squares of dark chocolate from the refreshments table. The foil crinkled in his grip as he crossed the room, his focus narrowing on Connor.

The couch was nestled in the corner of the main room.

Flanked by two oversized plants, it offered just enough privacy to feel intimate while still being part of the club.

He’d spent countless nights there with Lincoln, the two of them sinking into the cushions after a scene, Lincoln loose-limbed and content, his head resting against Henry’s shoulder.

The soft hum of conversation around them, the distant crack of a whip, the steady rise and fall of Lincoln’s breath—those moments had been theirs.

Now, someone else occupied that space.

Suzie curled against Connor’s side. Her body had relaxed in the deep, boneless way that only came after the absolute surrender of subspace.

Connor’s fingers moved idly through her hair, murmuring something too low for anyone else to hear.

Whatever he said made her sigh, pressing closer, utterly at ease.

Henry’s throat tightened.

He should have looked away, should have kept moving, but his feet slowed, hesitation curling in his chest like a fist. The sharp ache was so sudden, so visceral, that for a fleeting second, he glanced down, almost expecting to see a wound carved into his skin.

Nothing.

Just the steady rise and fall of his own breath, the weight of something invisible pressed against his ribs.

He exhaled and stepped forward, holding out the water and chocolate. “Here. You’ll need it.”

Connor took the bottle with a nod, twisting the cap off with one hand. “Thanks.” He broke a square of chocolate and handed it to Suzie before popping one into his own mouth. His gaze flicked up, sharp despite the exhaustion pulling at his features. “Sit.”

Not a request.

Henry hesitated.

Connor didn’t press, just watched him, his expression unreadable.

This was his club. His people. He had spent years within these walls, making sure everyone was safe, seen, taken care of.

And yet, standing there, watching Suzie curled against Connor’s side, Henry felt removed. Set apart. Like something fundamental had shifted, and he hadn’t been able to catch his balance since.

But now?

He rubbed his palms against his thighs.

Connor exhaled, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Ye look like shite.”

A dry chuckle worked its way up Henry’s throat. “Thanks.”

“Ye’re welcome. But really.” Connor’s lips quirked, but his gaze stayed steady. “How are ye, Henry?”

The question settled between them, weighty in a way Henry wasn’t ready for.

And for a moment, he had no idea how to answer.

Henry let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over his jaw. The weight of Connor’s gaze sat heavy on him, steady and unrelenting.

“So,” Connor said, twisting the cap back onto the water bottle, “You gonna tell me why Lincoln’s no’ been around?”

Henry swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He could deflect, brush it off, give some vague excuse about work or schedules, but Connor wouldn’t let him get away with that. And honestly? He was too damned tired to pretend.

“I don’t know.” The words tasted bitter. “I really don’t.”

Connor hummed, a low sound of consideration. “That’s no’ like him.”

No. It wasn’t.

Lincoln had always been devoted, always present, always right there beside Henry, in sync with him in ways that still took his breath away after all these years. But the past year—hell, the past several years—had pulled them apart in ways Henry still couldn’t wrap his head around.

Connor didn’t push. He let the silence settle, his fingers still stroking through Suzie’s hair, keeping her close.

Henry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been different since…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Since he got sick. Since COVID changed everything.”

Connor nodded, slow and thoughtful. “So ye just let him drift awa’?”

The question landed like a slap.

Henry’s fingers twitched, curling into his palm. “You think I wanted this?” His voice came out rougher than he intended. “You think I don’t miss him every damn day?”

Connor’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his gaze softened. “I didnae say that.”

Henry inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. “He needed rest,” he said, quieter this time. “I gave him space. I thought that was what he wanted.”

Connor leaned back against the couch, watching him carefully. “Aye, but what if he didnae know how to ask for anythin’ else?”

Henry’s stomach twisted.

Before he could respond, a soft hum came from Suzie as she stirred, stretching like a lazy cat against Connor’s side. Her lashes fluttered, and she let out a pleased little sigh before tilting her head toward Henry.

“Permission to speak?” she asked.

Connor snorted. “Since when d’ye ask for permission?”

Suzie shrugged. “I know Henry is into 24/7 TPE, just wanted to be mindful of his wants and needs.”

Henry swallowed.

It had been a long time since anyone had worried about his wants and needs.

“Granted.”

Suzie shifted, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders before meeting Henry’s gaze.

“Lincoln’s a total sub, Sir. You know that.

He thrives on structure, on knowing what’s expected of him, on…

you.” She hesitated. “But he’s also proud as hell.

Stubborn. And if he thought he was failing you—if he thought he wasn’t enough—he’d shut down before admitting it. ”

Henry stared at her, the words hitting too close, too raw.

She continued, her voice softer. “He must have been exhausted for a long time. But I saw him last week at the Sweet and Savory Table.”

Henry’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“The bakery,” she clarified. “He was there with a few people from his firm. Looked better than the last time I saw him.” She tilted her head.

“Maybe he’s more ready to get back in the proverbial saddle than you might think, Sir.

But maybe he needs something softer now. Not less intense. Just… different.””

Henry sat back, the air suddenly too thick, his pulse too loud.

Was Lincoln ready?

And if he was, why hadn’t he come to him?