Page 9

Chapter 9

King of the Cage

Galina

L ate afternoon light spills through the Velvet Echo’s windows like liquid gold, staining the empty club in hazy warmth that feels all wrong here. The stage sits bathed in it—quiet, reverent, like something holy and forgotten. For a second, I almost believe the room isn’t soaked in secrets and sins.

Almost.

I shouldn’t be here. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to leave, to retreat to my drafty Queens apartment and scrub Vasiliy’s fingerprints from my mind. But sleep has become a stranger since that night in his office—since the moment he taught me that pleasure can feel like punishment and wanting him is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

And yet…I can’t stay away.

I step forward, drawn like a moth to flame, my heels ticking against the floor like a countdown. The pole waits at center stage, bathed in fractured sunlight, and for a moment, it feels like coming home. Like a version of myself I left behind is waiting there—spinning, defiant, untouchable.

I used to hide in the wings while the dancers performed, my tiny body curled into velvet curtains while my father barked orders and toasted bribes. I memorized every twirl, every flip, every time a woman wrapped her strength in grace and dared the world to watch. Their power soaked into my bones before I ever learned what kind of power it was.

I curl my fingers around the pole. It’s cold and smooth, familiar in a way that aches. And then—I move.

A crouch. A push. A single pivot. My muscles stretch into remembered rhythms, breath syncing with the motion. It’s not performance. It’s escape. A language my body still speaks fluently, even if my heart’s forgotten how to believe in it.

I kick off my heels. Let my bare feet touch the stage like it’s sacred. Spin again. Stretch. Reach. With every movement, I loosen another thread holding me together too tight. No eyes. No expectations. For a breathless moment, I’m free.

“Slower, lisichka .”

His voice cuts through the quiet, deep and rough, curling around my name like smoke.

I freeze mid-spin, hands gripping the pole tighter than I should, breath catching sharp in my throat. My body knows him before my mind registers the sound. Knows the weight of his stare. The way he carves up silence with nothing but presence.

He stands in the doorway like he owns the air itself. Vasiliy Volkov, wrapped in shadows and hunger. The afternoon light catches the steel in his gaze, but it’s the heat there that undoes me. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak again. Just watches.

Watches the bare soles of my feet. The rise of my dress. The way my fingers cling to the pole like I’m holding on to something more than metal.

My heart slams against my ribs as I meet his eyes.

And still, I don’t move.

Because I want him to see me.

All of me.

The girl who once danced in secret. The woman who’s trying not to fall apart. The enemy he thinks he can break.

Let him watch.

Let him burn.

“I thought I was alone,” I manage, my voice thinner than I want it to be. The tremor betrays me. Not because I’m afraid of him, but because I’m afraid of what I’ll let him do to me if he asks.

He’s already done too much.

His smile is slow. The kind that says he’s not just watching me; he’s imagining a dozen different ways to devour me.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Show me what Boris Olenko’s daughter really knows about running a gentleman’s club.”

His words strike a nerve. Not because they’re cruel. Because they’re bait.

And I take it.

I turn back to the pole, rage and want knotting in my chest. If he wants a show, I’ll give him one he won’t forget. I move not like a girl performing for a man, but like a woman daring him to lose control.

The pole becomes my weapon. My escape. My defiance.

I spin, twist, and stretch, each motion cutting sharper. My body remembers what I was raised around, what I saw from the shadows of this stage, behind velvet curtains and locked doors. My body was made to move like this, and it does, fluid and precise, unbothered by the man in the dark.

But I feel his gaze like a brand.

He’s watching me with that predatory stillness—silent, but wound tight. My dress rides higher with each arc, each flip of hair. My skin flushes under his attention, but I don’t stop. I control this moment. My body. My performance.

And yet, when I land on the stage and his voice slides through the thick silence, I feel it down to my bones.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs.

He takes a seat like it’s a throne, commanding the room with nothing more than a glance and a breath. His presence curls around me like smoke.

“Don’t stop now.”

My lips lift into a smirk, and I walk toward the edge of the stage. “I’ll keep going,” I say, my voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “But I want something in return.”

His interest sharpens. “What do you want?”

“A chance to pitch an idea.”

He gestures for me to continue, and I do—without words. Just movement.

I slide against the pole again, spinning down, arching my back in slow surrender to the moment. His gaze follows me like a touch I can’t escape. Heat crawls up my spine as I drag the zipper of my dress down, the sound obscene in the silence between us. The fabric slips to the floor, pooling around my feet. I’m left in nothing but black lace and raw intent.

His knuckles go white around the armrest.

“Imagine this,” I breathe. “A fashion runway meets seduction. Exclusive shows. Lingerie, couture—each piece custom, each moment unforgettable.”

He swallows, and it’s not subtle. I see the tension rip through him like lightning.

I hook one leg around the pole, stretch, spin. “No club in the city could touch us.”

He leans forward slightly, his voice rough when he speaks. “And the twist?”

I land with a slow, grounded slide. Rise. Walk barefoot to him.

“The twist,” I say, circling him like a lioness, “is that the fantasy is untouchable. They can look. They can crave. But they don’t get to touch. Not even in the private rooms.”

I lift my foot, settle it lightly on his thigh.

His jaw ticks.

And I lean down, whispering near his ear, “They’ll pay anything for something they can’t have.”

His hand shoots out, gripping my ankle tight.

“Careful, lisichka ,” he growls. “You’re playing with a tiger.”

My lips brush his jaw—not a kiss, just a promise. “Good thing I know how to play.”

The tension hums between us, a bomb ready to detonate, and I wonder if either of us will survive it.

Vasiliy shifts in his seat, trying—and failing—to hide how tightly wound he is. His jaw clenches, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. He’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, and I can see the cracks forming. Gray eyes storm dark. Fists clenched too tightly on the arms of the chair. A man seconds from breaking.

And it thrills me.

“That was…unexpected,” he says at last, voice hoarse, scraping like gravel. He nods toward the stage, but his gaze doesn’t leave my body. “Well executed. The dresses could be showcased there, here—” His hand gestures toward the platform, like he’s trying to talk himself out of reacting. “With the right lighting…it becomes a wonderland.”

I can’t help it. I laugh—short, sharp, and unexpectedly real. It bursts from somewhere deep in my chest before I can cage it. I lift a hand to cover my mouth, startled by the sound. That girl—the one who used to laugh like that—feels like a ghost now.

His head tilts, like he’s just witnessed something rare and wants to memorize it. “Go on,” he says, voice softer now.

“Fashion doesn’t define us,” I say, my voice low. My hand skims down the curve of my body, slow and sensual, not for him, but for the version of me I want to become again. His eyes flicker, his control fraying visibly with each inch I trace. He wants to reach for me. I can see it in the way his hand flexes. But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

“This isn’t about dresses or lighting,” I continue, each word winding tighter between us. “It’s about power. Performance. Pleasure.”

“Pleasure,” he repeats, the word dark on his tongue. Then he smiles, slow and sharp, the kind that feels like being skinned alive and kissed better in the same breath. “This club has always been in the business of pleasure, lisichka . Lust sells. It always has.”

He leans back, fingers brushing his jaw, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve. “Tell me, how does your little rebrand improve revenue streams? What are you offering that we’re not already selling?”

I step sideways, closer to the pole again, letting my fingers brush the cool metal. I give it a flick, let it hum with potential. “Because this isn’t about cheap thrills,” I say. “It’s about creating something they’ll never forget. Something exclusive. Untouchable.”

I gesture to the stage. “Anyone can find a lap dance and watered-down vodka in a strip mall off the highway. But this?” I glide one hand up the pole again, arching slightly, letting the light hit my skin in a way that draws his gaze like a magnet. “We make them beg just to be in the room.”

His eyes darken, the sharp lines of calculation behind them sharpening. He’s thinking now, not just watching. And that’s exactly what I want.

“And what kind of clientele does this fantasy attract?” he asks, the words clipped.

I smirk, slow and feral. “Do you really want this place crawling with Antonovs? Men who smell like stale vodka?”

I move in. Cross the last few feet and brace my hands on either side of his chair. I don’t touch him, but I feel the heat ripple between us like a live wire.

“Or do you want politicians?” I challenge. “Billionaires. Hollywood royalty. The kind of men who pay five figures for an experience they can’t find anywhere else. The kind who’ll never touch but will spend a fortune pretending they might.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does. It’s subtle, but I feel it. He’s listening now. Really listening.

“And if you’re still not convinced…” I let my voice drop as I slide my palms up his chest and press him back into the leather sofa. His muscles go rigid beneath my hands, all coiled tension and unspoken need. But he doesn’t stop me.

He won’t.

Not when his control is already unraveling in slow, delicious strands.

“Let me show you the club’s most exclusive offering,” I whisper, my breath skimming the edge of his cheek. “The one that’ll have clients lined up and clawing just to get a taste of something they’ll never touch.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me like I’m a weapon he forgot how to disarm.

“Show me,” he finally rasps, like velvet dragged across gravel.

I smile, letting one bare foot slide forward until it rests against his thigh. His body responds instantly, tension rippling through him as his jaw tightens. I let my hips sway as my hands glide over my waist, then down the curve of my thighs, drawing his eyes with every movement.

“This is the twist,” I murmur. “We give them the illusion of access. Beauty they can see, crave, but never have. No touching. No taking. Just hunger. Just longing.”

His breath hitches as I lean in again, bracing myself against his knees, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “When the show ends, they leave with nothing but the memory. And they’ll pay anything to chase that feeling again.”

I flick my tongue against his skin—barely a touch, just enough to leave a spark—and he inhales sharply, a growl rumbling in his chest. His hand clamps around my waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind me who he is.

“Careful, Galina,” he says, his voice all grit and heat. “You’re playing with a starving beast.”

I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, my pulse thrumming. “Maybe I like dangerous games,” I whisper, letting the challenge hang between us.

He holds my gaze, fury and desire locked behind storm-gray eyes. His control is fraying—I can feel it in the way his grip lingers, in the tension crackling in the air between us.

Then he lets go, slowly. The only part of him that moves is his hand, lifting to pat his thigh.

“Sit on my lap, lisichka ,” he says, his voice calm now—too calm. But the heat beneath it? That’s the warning.

The game isn’t over.

It’s just begun.