Page 47 of Fractured Loyalties

I don’t respond.

“You’re not protecting her anymore. You’re claiming her.”

“And?”

Lydia narrows her eyes at me. "Does it matter how you do it, as long as the threat’s gone?"

I meet her gaze evenly. "I don’t care."

She doesn’t answer. But her frown carves deeper into her face, like she’s seeing something she doesn't want to name.

By midnight, the weight of the day is a fucking vise on my chest, a restless hunger clawing for release. I leave Lydia to her glowing screens, her world of endless feeds, and slip into the night. Backroads twist under my tires, leading to the husk of ahidden opera house, its faded grandeur swallowed by shadow. No lights. No sign. Just an unmarked door, heavy with secrets.

Discentra.

Inside, the air hits me like a lover’s breath—thick with the musk of leather, the sharp sting of candle wax, and the raw, metallic edge of desire. The low, throbbing pulse of electronic bass hums beneath the floor, a primal heartbeat setting the rhythm of this hidden world.

Shadows cling to the walls, broken by the glint of mirrors and the flicker of masked figures gliding through the haze. This is where pretense is fucked away, where masks reveal more than they hide.

Dominic Hale—Dom—stands behind the bar, a goddamn king in his shadowed domain. Old money and darker appetites carved into his sharp edges, he holds a lowball glass, amber liquid catching the dim light. That amused, knowing curve of his lips greets me, a silent nod to my return.

“You’re haunting my corridors again,” he says, voice low, a velvet blade.

“Temporary,” I shoot back, holding his gaze.

He raises a brow, cutting through the bullshit. “You needed a mirror.”

It’s not flattery, not a jab—just raw truth, sharp as a scalpel. Dom sees through the masks I wear elsewhere, knows I’m not here for cheap thrills or empty fucks. I’ve come to face myself, to let this place strip me bare, where ritual and rules reflect what I’ve buried.

I nod, once.

He tilts his glass toward the corridor, shadows beckoning. “Pick a room. Red for pain. Black for pleasure. White if you just want to watch.”

I choose white.

The chamber is a sanctuary of silence and velvet, its walls swallowing sound and secrets. The leather armchair claims me, its cool embrace sinking into my skin, carrying the faint scent of aged smoke and disciplined restraint. I settle in, my pulse syncing with the bass vibrating through the floor, the world narrowing to the one-way glass before me—a portal to my own fucking truth.

On the other side, a woman stands, bare except for long silk cuffs that gleam against her wrists and a black velvet blindfold that cloaks her eyes. Her body is a fucking masterpiece, her spine a perfect arc, her chin tilted in poised submission.

Every curve is a testament to control, her skin glowing under the dim light, nipples already hard with anticipation. She’s a canvas of restraint, her stillness a quiet offering to the ritual about to unfold.

Her Dominant emerges from the shadows, a figure carved from darkness and intent. Tall, masked, his sharp-cut black shirt clings to his lean frame like a lover, every muscle taut with purpose. He moves with predatory grace, silent, needing no words to own the space. A soft snap of his fingers cuts through the quiet, and she sinks to her knees, fluid and graceful, her body unfolding like a goddamn prayer.

There’s no fear in her—just the intimacy of trust, her obedience a fucking gift. Her breath deepens as he circles her, his presence a gravitational pull. She arches toward him, craving his touch before it lands, her body attuned to his unspoken commands.

His fingers graze her collarbone, a whisper of contact that lingers at the pulse hammering in her throat—not a grip, but a claim, a reminder of who owns this moment.

A soft moan escapes her, reverent, the sound hitting me like a shot of whiskey, burning straight to my core.

He binds her wrists with the silk cuffs, deft fingers weaving them into a hooked chain dangling from the ceiling. Her arms stretch upward, her body elongating, breasts lifting with each breath, a faint sheen of sweat catching the flicker of candles. Her breath hitches as the chain pulls taut, her pussy glistening faintly in the low light, her submission a quiet power etched in every line of her form.

Each move is ritual, deliberate, a dance of control and consent. His hand trails down her spine, slow, igniting shivers that ripple across her skin. She leans into his touch, her lips parting in a soft, “Fuck,” that’s half-plea, half-worship.

He answers with a leather crop, its tip brushing her inner thigh—a tease, not a strike—drawing a gasp that hangs in the air like smoke. The crop traces her curves, lingering at the swell of her ass, leaving faint red trails—not from pain, but from the heat of her own desire. She sways in the chains, her body a taut string humming under his command.

The air thickens, charged with their unspoken hunger. His control is absolute, but it’s her willingness that fucking binds them, her trust sharpening every touch. He steps closer, his breath hot against her ear as he murmurs something too soft for me to hear.

Her body responds instantly, a shiver cascading down her frame, her lips parting in a silent cry. The crop falls away, his hand taking its place, fingers curling possessively around her hip, pulling her ass against his groin. The chain clinks softlyabove, her body swaying in its hold, her submission a fucking beacon in the dark.