Page 85 of From Hell

He pulls me to my feet and leads me through the corridor of curtains. “You’ll know.”

Jaxon knocks on a nondescript door in the restaurant hallway. I would have walked right past it another time. It swings open to reveal a dark velvet curtain and a reception desk in front of it. A smiling hostess and security guard greet us inside. They look at Jaxon and pull the velvet curtain aside to reveal a dimly lit corridor sloping down the further we walk. Cables run overhead, and dirty white subway tiles line the walls. It’s barely wide enough for a single person to pass.

“What is this place?” I ask once we’re out of earshot of the reception desk, though my voice seems to echo loudly.

“You’ve heard of London’s hidden underground tunnels?”

I nod. There are rumors of hundreds of secret tunnels, passageways, ducts, sewage pipes, and chambers below the streets of London. You are walking over one of them anywhere you go into the city.

“This is one of them. A Cold War-era escape tunnel that connects to a lost underground station and a secret bunker. The owner of The Dorset converted it to an exclusive speakeasy club a few years ago.”

“Is that legal?”

“Probably not, if the Vice brothers are involved.” Jaxon doesn’t look at me to answer the question, which makes me bolder.

“The Vice brothers? The owners who owe you the favor?”

“Well, one of them does. The other is dead, I believe.”

The door at the end of the tunnel is new, with reinforced metal around the wood edges. Jaxon pushes it open, and a blast of cool air crawls over my skin and rushes down my spine. The glow of lights and pull of music hit me at once as we alight onto a metal walkway above a cavernous club, the dance floor below filled with gyrating bodies.

“This way.” Jaxon leads me past the winding staircase to the lower floor, to the right to a roped-off area, where a gallery with a bar and lounge seats overlooks the dance floor. The men on the rope nod to let Jaxon pass, eyeing me up as my heels clang on the grating, trying to keep up with Jaxon’s huge strides.

We head straight to the bar where a man wearing a dark dinner jacket and trousers with closely cropped brown hair stands. He turns when he sees us, eyes ringed with black narrowing, hands in stark bandages curling into fists. It’s Christian, true to timing, watching us approach.

Then he takes a tin from his pocket and pops something pill-like in his mouth, a sly smile etching slowly onto his face.

“Do you remember the plan?”

“Yes,” I breathe out.

“Good. Then let’s put on a show.”

* * *

JAXON

The way Christian’s eyes light up when he sees what I’ve brought with me, my little fox wrapped up in a fucking bow, makes my blood boil.

“So, who is this delightful piece of ass?” Christian asks, his eyes sliding over Laine like she’s a ripe peach for the taking. He reaches out to caress Laine’s cheek, but I drag her back, risking a glance in her direction. She is tense next to me, eyes wide, skin pale, following my instructions to a T: look afraid, say absolutely nothing.

Christian raises a brow. “Keeping her for yourself?”

I let a dark smile taint my lips despite the snarl threatening to erupt. “We have things to discuss first.”

“Fuck business before pleasure,” he scoffs. “Why not have both?” He gestures to a private lounge behind the bar.

I lead Laine into the curtained-off area with its own bar. There are other girls in various stages of undress, all high on narcotics, all out of their heads. There are no other Lucians. Christian was never one for sharing after the initiation sacrifices.

“Help yourself to whatever candy you want,” Christian’s voice has a slight slur to it, high as a kite himself, as he comes up behind us, making a sweeping motion to the baggies of pills and lines of powder on the table. “I’ve just ordered another case of White Heart.”

As Christian turns his attention to the server bringing the drinks, I pour a shot of White Heart for Laine from the bottle and hand it to her.

She leans close, her hair tickling my neck, warm breath heating the blood at my throat. “What is it?” The urge to push her head down to where my aching erection is building has me on edge.

“Gin mixed withwhiteabsinthe,” I murmur back, pouring one for myself. It’ll help me relax, if nothing else. And I’ll need to for the next part of this charade. Energy crackles through the air, as it always does when I’m close to releasing the side I keep locked away.

With Laine here, it’s fit to explode.