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RYLEE

I ’m back in my bedroom, which is located in the private wing of the house. The Ranch is my childhood home. Growing up, from what I can tell in pictures, my mom tried to make it as normal and cut off from the business side as possible. Then, after she passed, Greta did, and she managed to keep it that way. Many of the girls here are family to me. If Greta was busy they helped take care of me. This life is all I know. These incredibly strong and powerful women helped mold me into the woman I am today. I wouldn’t change my upbringing for anything.

Greta also has her living quarters here. It’s the one place we are able to escape, if only for a few moments. We have a kitchen area, but we aren’t one to have family dinners.

Out back, the old swing set and sandbox I played in remain. Some girls will bring their kids here during the day, let them play while they set up their rooms for the evening clients or collect paychecks.

The house is large and has been in our family since my grandmother’s parents bought it when she was a child. Back then, it was just a home. Once they passed, Greta inherited it and turned this place into something exquisite. It’s where we can all come together and be ourselves for an evening. A place where we are safe to do what we love.

It’s 2025; slut-shaming will get you banned before you even step foot into The Ranch, and we aren’t opposed to a little harm, should the crime fit.

We live in a town where rules and laws are merely suggestions. I suppose The Exiled did one thing right. They control the police, the judges, and district attorneys. Brothels aren’t technically legal in Montana, so the last thing anyone is going to do is call the police in the event of suspected foul play.

At The Ranch, experimenting is encouraged and giving in to temptation and desires is a must. This is where I was free to give in to my dormant side. Greta has always said since I was a little girl, ‘ Embrace who you are; don’t hide from it or run. Chase your dreams, because if you don’t, it will only catch up to you in the form of regret. You have one life; regret shouldn’t be a thought. Living freely should be.’

Throwing my boots to the ground, I walk into my en suite and go immediately for the mouthwash.

I hate The Exiled. I fucking despise them.

I want to vomit.

Greta knows my stance on them, but still, she asked me to do the unthinkable to that monster. Perhaps she thought it was best to keep them happy than to be on their radar.

My face cringes at the memory of sucking his cock while being watched by his equally vile friend; it makes my stomach turn. That fucker, Darian, whose loyalty to his precious society has always baffled me. He forced his now wife, Cecilia, to marry him on Hell Fire Night. They threaten death if you don’t obey.

Her father would be turning in his grave.

Why? Because The Exiled killed him, the same way they eliminated Darian’s family.

Indirectly, they also caused her mother’s death—a car accident. And yet she still chose life over death. Turning her back on her principles for the sake of being able to see the next day.

Coward.

Rinsing my mouth out with the minty fresh wash, I spit the blue liquid into the sink and watch it trickle down the drain.

Looking up, I see myself in the mirror. My makeup is a mess. Black mascara running down my cheeks and lipstick worn off and smudged, stained around my mouth.

Moving my tongue gently along the inside of my cheek, I swear I can still feel his head pushing against it with the silver barbells leaving an imprint.

My sharp canines bite the inside of my lip, and my eyes hood as my mouth fills with saliva. The memory of his musky scent follows. My pussy tingles under my tight latex bodysuit, pulsating and begging me to grind against something. Desire moves up my body. I can feel my nipples harden; they are desperate to be pinched and pulled. The pads of my fingers barely touch my body, but electricity follows, dancing seductively with every inch I move. Reaching my throbbing cunt, I cup it tightly, and my pelvis takes control, slowly moving and rubbing my clit against the cool latex.

The nerves ignite as I chase what I crave. My head gets heavy, and my neck allows it to follow backward. With hooded eyes, I picture him, his cock, and how fucking phenomenal it feels rubbing against my tight walls. They tighten, trying to grip the cock my mind is seeing. A soft moan brushes against my lips, triggering my hips to move faster; the wetter I get, the more the latex squeaks against my hand.

I can feel my body getting warmer, causing my bodysuit to stick to my skin. It feels tighter the more I pant.

No.

Disgust returns to my mouth, and my stomach drops.

Immediately I freeze, stopping the chase.

Throwing my head back up, I look in the mirror and take myself in. “He is the goddamn enemy,” I whisper to myself, absolutely mortified.

Gripping the countertop, my body folds and my head falls on the cool marble in shame. Closing my eyes, I take a couple deep breaths in. My heart is beating in my ears in disbelief that I had a moment of weakness.

I nearly got off on him. What is wrong with me?

As much as I want to ride his ladder, it’s not worth going against everything I believe in.

A knock on my door startles me. I nearly jump out of my skin. Balling my hands into fists, my long black fingernails poke into the palms of my hands. I don’t move.

Another loud knock follows.

Picking myself up, I try to fix the baby hairs and frizz that have since developed due to my lack of self-respect and control.

Next, the knob begins to rattle. The door is locked; they won’t get in.

Blowing out a deep sigh, I pad across the room and toward the door. The cool brass against my warm skin is refreshing as I turn the knob slowly. Opening the large white door, I peek through the slender crack and take in the one person I wish wasn’t standing on the other side right now.

Greta.

“We need to talk,” she abruptly snarks out at me.

Four words that never lead to anything good.

Blowing out a deep sigh, I open the door farther, inviting her inside. My toes curl in the plush black carpet as Greta makes her way past me. Once in, I swing the door closed behind her and hop to my king-size bed. White blankets with large white fluffy pillows decorate it, and a soft black cashmere throw is draped overtop.

Before tucking myself underneath the throw, I remove my tight and sticky latex and toss it toward my closet. Greta has seen worse; getting naked in front of her isn’t anything to be embarrassed about. As I get comfortable, I wait for her to take a seat on my black velvet oversized chair. It’s where she always sits when visiting me.

I watch as she gets comfortable, and I catch her glancing at me. Her face gives nothing away, always miserable. I haven’t a clue why she’s here.

Skipping formalities, Greta gets straight to the point once she has cleared her throat. “You’re going to see him tomorrow night. House call.”

Excuse me?

Instantly, my body reacts. Sitting up, my eyes widen in disbelief. “Not a fucking chance.” Greta rolls her eyes at my response, unfazed by my objection.

“No. No, you don’t get to say that, then roll your eyes at me. I go along with some crazy shit. Anything you ask, I do it, always without a fight. But not this. Never fucking this.” My chest is heaving with anger, and my hands softly tremble.

How could she? Emotion wells in my eyes.

If anyone should hold content against The Exiled, it’s her, then me as a close second. Fuck her for even thinking I would consider this.

“Ry, he has requested you. You’ve made an impression,” she follows up casually while reaching into her pocket for her pack of cigs.

Shaking my head, I reply, “I don’t do house calls. I don’t do vanilla. You know that. Does he? Or did you forget to inform him when agreeing I would do this?” I probe, raising my brow at her.

Flipping her lighter open, the flame ignites as she lights the cigarette, a long, skinny one hundred. Then taking a deep inhale, Greta looks me dead in the eye as she blows the smoke out, slowly with intent of showing me she isn’t fucking around.

She keeps the flame going.

Shaking her head at me, this level of intimidation is not something I have witnessed from her before. “You think he has never heard of you? Stupid girl.” Greta pauses; her tone changed, something I rarely see firsthand.

At times, she has to be firm with the girls if they have fucked up, or she is a straight-up asshole back to the men who think they own the place, but this is aerie. After taking another inhale, she continues. “Bigger things are at play here. Things that you could barely start to comprehend. Keep him close. If you ever want to take this business over, you must listen to me. Hear everything I am not saying. Do you fucking understand me?”

Her last statement stings. And my trembling hands stop. Silence engulfs the space as I absorb it all. My eyes shift back and forth around my room, not focusing on anything but seeing everything as my brain becomes frantic trying to decipher her cryptic words.

What is she talking about? Hell Fire Night just happened; what more could be happening?

As a million different scenarios flood my mind, I don’t even notice Greta and her glitter walker walking to the door. It isn’t until I hear the floor creak under her step that it catches my attention.

My head jolts, turning to face her. Greta is now standing in the doorway. She doesn't move, continuing to look out into the hallway.

Just as I think she is about to leave, she speaks. Her words come out hard and firm, but worry and fear are also noticeable. “There are things you aren’t privy to. But it appears the day is coming where you will be. I need you to be on alert when leaving the safety of this property. Be aware of your surroundings and call me if you sense anything off.”

As her last word is spoken, she continues into the hall and disappears. My body feels heavy because of the unknown. Energy changes have always physically impacted me. Pressure against my chest gets stronger the longer her words linger in my thoughts.

Picking my nail polish is a habit I have when my anxiety comes knocking. Instead of getting lost in it, I focus on my breathing, the sound of my heart, and the feeling of my soft blanket between my fingers. By the time I bring myself back and calm down, most of my fingernails have been affected. But then it clicks.

This could work to my advantage.

Greta is onto something.

Tapping my chin with my finger I get an idea.

It may not be her intent, but I can’t help the pull I feel to this thought.

The Exiled killed my mother. And now I will kill them from the inside out.

I smirk to myself.

Nathaniel Sinclair, how may I be of service?