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“Ready to go inside?” Jigsaw slides his arms around my waist, pulling me back against him.

His solid body surrounding me finally helps me draw my first full breath in minutes. The steady weight of him quiets the static in my head.

I’m not new to people. I talk to grieving families for a living. I navigate strangers’ worst days with steady hands and a gentle voice. Small talk and surface-level connection? I can do that all day, every day.

But tonight is different. It’s personal. These people matter to Jigsaw. And I want them to like me. I want to fit in and be accepted.

Wanting something I’ve only experienced once before—at the bonfire—keeps me wound tight with anxiety. They accepted my weirdness then. Surely, they’ll notice how awkward I am this time?

No, these nerves twist my insides with a different kind of tension. Why?

The porn stars? Maybe. I have zero experience or knowledge about that industry.

Coffins, embalming, formaldehyde ratios, flower arrangements, grief management—those I can handle in my sleep.

I can sew a shattered jaw shut and make it look like it never happened.

But sex on camera—lighting, angles, what positions look the best for an audience?

Nope. That’s a whole different universe.

One I have no map for. No script. Just insecurity and a lingering fear that I’ll be the weird, awkward outsider who wandered onto the wrong set.

My creepy doll story probably won’t help me at this party.

Hope reaches out, giving my arm an affectionate squeeze. “Go ahead. We’ll be in soon.” She flicks her gaze to Jigsaw. “Wait until you see what the guys did to your clubhouse.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groans. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“It has to be seen to be believed,” Hope promises.

As we step inside the doors, a black curtain blocks our view. Red glows around the edges. A biker standing to the side pulls the curtain back, motioning for us to move forward.

“What the fuuuuck?” Jigsaw mutters.

Rooster leans in and shouts, “It gets worse, don’t worry.”

We step into a large room glowing with bloodred lights. The furniture to the right appears to be all black leather couches, chairs, and ottomans. At least seventy inches of television screen takes up the wall behind one couch. Congratulations, Stella! scrolls over the screen with 500K underneath.

“Why does it look like the devil’s darkroom in here?” Jigsaw asks Rooster.

More like vampire’s whorehouse.

A low, sensual beat thrums from hidden speakers. Loud enough to add to the ambiance but not drown out conversation. Gasping, thumping, and grunting comes from one corner, and I crane my neck, looking past Jigsaw toward a pool table being violated by at least three people.

“Oh my,” I gasp and quickly look away.

Jigsaw curls his hand around mine. “Do you want something to drink?”

I eye the bar straight ahead of us against the wall. Two girls in what looks like red lingerie are behind the long wooden counter, serving drinks to people. “Uh, sure.”

Rooster follows us over to the bar.

“What’s with all the red?” I ask Jigsaw. “I thought your colors were blue and silver?”

“I have no idea.” Jigsaw pauses. “No, I have an idea.” He slides a look Rooster’s way. “Stella’s ‘theme’ for the night?”

“Got it in one.” Rooster points at Jigsaw, then nods to a hallway on his left. “Other rooms have purple lighting,” he adds in a sarcastic tone, “blue, green, and I don’t know what else.”

We stop at the bar and one of the girls slides over to us. “Hi, Jiggy!” Her bright gaze lands on me. “Hi, Margot, right? We met upstate.”

She looks familiar. The only club girl who’d been decent to me up there. Unusual name. L something…“Lala, right?”

Her smile widens even more, pleased I remembered her name. “That’s me.”

“Hi, again.” I lift my hand in a quick, dorky wave. Lala responds with a similar gesture, helping me feel less goofy.

“What can I get you?” She turns slightly, the movement shifting the lace covering her breasts enough that one almost falls out. What an uncomfortable outfit for serving drinks.

I glance up at Jigsaw but his grim stare’s focused on the shelves of bottles on the wall, or maybe the mirror behind it.

“The selection’s not bad tonight,” Lala says. “Pretty much any soda you might want, some fruit juices, lots of different beer, and I can do some mixed drinks. Our signature drink for the night is what we’re calling the Velvet Crown—it’s champagne with a splash of blackberry liqueur.”

“Oh. That sounds interesting.” I glance up at Jigsaw. “I’ll try that.” My voice comes out almost like a question.

Why am I asking his permission to have a drink?

One corner of his mouth tips up and he brushes his knuckles over my bare arm. “Have anything you want.”

“Coming right up!” Lala says.

I’m so focused on watching Lala make my drink, I don’t notice the other woman sliding over to Jigsaw.

“What do you want tonight?” she asks in a raspy tone.

I glance over and she’s leaning on the bar with her boobs pushed so far out of her lacy top I spy areola.

“Just a beer, Bonnie. Thanks,” he answers without looking at her.

Lala passes me a champagne glass. Under the strange red lighting, the bubbly liquid takes on a muddy hue. Lala garnished it with a plump, fresh blackberry on the rim. I pop that in my mouth first, then take a sip.

Bonnie slides down closer to me. Mean-girl eyes focused on my face.

I take a sip, blinking against the unexpected rush of sweetness.

“We named it that after that really smooth, velvety sensitive spot on the head of a guy’s dick,” the girl says, her red lips tilting into a smirk as she peers up at Jigsaw.

I almost gag on the small sip.

Behind Bonnie, Lala shakes her head.

Clearing my throat, I set my glass on the bar top with a sharp clink loud enough to get Bonnie’s attention. “You named a drink after the corona of the glans penis? Bold choice.” I tilt my head, keeping my voice sugary sweet. “Fun fact, did you know the glans and shaft shrivel postmortem?”

“Ewww.” Bonnie sneers. “What?”

A strangled snort escapes Jigsaw. Shoulders shaking, he glances down at me. “Warn your man when you’re about to get clinical.”

“Weirdo,” Bonnie mumbles, storming off to harass her next victim.

Coming from her, I’ll consider that a compliment.

Lala rushes forward, bracing her hands against the bar. “That’s not true. Or if it is, I didn’t know that’s why they named it that when I offered you the drink.”

“It’s okay.” I twirl the stem of the glass between my fingers. “It’s good. Thank you.”

Trinity wedges herself in next to me, resting her hand on my shoulder. “I swear this clubhouse doesn’t always look like the bordello from hell,” she says against my ear.

I huff a soft breath of amusement and give my glass another twirl. “My first thought was ‘vampire whorehouse.’ Bordello sounds so much classier.”

She lets out a quick laugh, points to my glass, then holds up two fingers to Lala. “We’ll have to make a T-shirt to mark the occasion. I Survived the Vampire Bordello .” She twirls her hand in the air. “We’ll ask Shelby to come up with the slogan—she’s better with words.”

Jigsaw leans closer, his warm, solid body pressing tight against my side. “Thank you for letting Margot know it’s not always like this, Trinity.”

Her gaze flits around the room. “I mean, besides the lighting and big screen o’ porn nailed to the wall, it’s not that much different.”

“Not helping.” He flicks his hand at her in a mock shooing motion. “Get outta here.”

She grins. “Hey, I’m not knocking it. Upstate built a whole new clubhouse for their deviants.”

Lala hands Trinity two glasses. “Thanks, Lala.” She nudges me with her elbow and tilts her head to the side. “We claimed one of the rooms down there if you want to come join us later.”

I nod quickly, not sure I’m comfortable leaving Jigsaw’s side yet. “Okay.”

“Text me, I’ll come find you.”

“Thanks, Trin,” Jigsaw calls after her.

She melts into the crowd, carefully holding the glasses to avoid spilling on her dress.

A low murmur of excitement races through the room and someone pulls back the curtains by the front door with a dramatic flourish.

A tall, painfully thin and pale woman with jet black hair, red lips and what looks like a see-through slip of a dress walks in and lifts her arm, waving like a queen acknowledging her subjects.

“The guest of honor must’ve arrived,” I say to Jigsaw.

He grunts an affirmative sound and turns away from the door.

Applause breaks out, whistles and cheers following in her wake. Someone yells her name, and a group of men near the bar surge forward like she’s a celebrity—which, I guess she is to a certain demographic of people.

I glance up at Jigsaw, but his expression is unreadable—flat, detached, as if he’s already checked out of this part of the night.

That should comfort me. It doesn’t.

Compared to what I’ve seen in this clubhouse tonight, asking Jigsaw to teach me the joys of sex seems positively demure.

Now that I’ve witnessed what he’s usually surrounded by, he clearly had all the right qualifications for the job. No wonder he’s so good at sex.

But watching the way the women behave—how freely they touch, how little they wear, how shamelessly they offer themselves and how eagerly some of the men lap it up—ties my stomach in knots.

If this is the world he’s used to…

How long before the quiet girl who works with the dead starts to bore him?

How long before he craves a woman who’s bolder, louder, and more daring?

Someone who’s more comfortable surrounded by all this sexual chaos?