Page 7 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

T he neon sign pulses above me like a heartbeat, painting the sidewalk in blood-red light.

Crimson. Tristan’s newest investment opportunity. He described it as “upscale with serious potential”—basically a cash cow if we handle it right. I volunteered for the initial meeting, desperate for any distraction from the absolute shitshow my life has become.

Mortelle’s threats hanging over my head like a guillotine. My psychotic stalker playing mind games. The walls closing in from every direction until I can barely fucking breathe.

I need a break. Something, anything, to shut up the voices in my head for one goddamn night.

Inside, the club feels like stepping into a secret world—all shadows and whispered promises wrapping around me like expensive cologne. The owner greets me with practiced smoothness, walking me through membership details, clientele demographics, their “ironclad discretion policies.”

Tristan’s going to eat this shit up with a spoon.

But I’m barely listening. My attention keeps drifting to glimpses of private rooms beyond the main floor, where the air feels charged with something darker. Like a secret waiting to bruise.

The owner catches my wandering gaze and smiles.

“Ah, you’re curious about our private rooms. That’s where members can safely explore their deeper fantasies—dominance, submission, pain, pleasure.

Everything is consensual, meticulously negotiated beforehand, and overseen by our professional staff.

” His voice drops to something almost reverent. “Discretion, of course, is paramount.”

“Of course.”

I nod like this is just another business discussion, forcing my expression to stay casual even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. Consensual. Negotiated. Safe words and surrender.

The idea of placing my fate entirely in someone else’s hands feels both completely alien and dangerously seductive. I’ve spent my entire life building walls of control, wielding power like armor against the world.

But here, behind these doors, where that control gets stripped away without hesitation—something deep inside me stirs. Something hungry and urgent that I refuse to name.

“Our guests find freedom in restraint,” the owner continues, studying my face like they can read every thought I’m trying to hide. “It’s about trust and vulnerability…allowing someone else to guide you completely. Have you ever experienced that, Mr. Jackson?”

“I don’t believe I have,” I lie smoothly.

Freedom in restraint. The words echo in my head, taunting me. Isn’t that exactly what I’ve been craving without even realizing it? But the thought of actually admitting it, let alone acting on it, makes my chest tighten.

“Would you like to see how far trust can go?”

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with possibility and danger. I should say no. Should stick to the business discussion and get the hell out of here before I do something stupid.

Instead, I nod.

Anticipation builds sharp and electric as we move deeper into the club’s velvet-lined heart. I haven’t felt this restless, menacing excitement since that night at Untamed—the night everything went to hell and I came face-to-face with darker parts of myself I didn’t know existed.

I’ve spent months trying to forget what happened there. What the three of us did together, the raw cravings it awakened. But not every memory of that night is something I want to relive. It’s also the reason I witnessed a murder I was never supposed to see.

I was a coward then, running from truths too sharp to hold. And I’m still running now, cornered by ghosts I refuse to face.

The demonstration room is intimate and dimly lit, decorated in leather, silk, and polished chains that catch the light like jewelry. Every detail feels deliberate, designed to provoke responses I’m trying desperately to suppress.

A low hum builds in my stomach as the owner gestures to a solitary chair tucked into the shadows.

“The demonstration will begin shortly. I’ll leave you to observe.”

They slip away without another word, leaving me alone with the thunder of my heartbeat echoing in my ears. I sink into the plush leather seat, forcing indifference into every line of my body.

Then the door opens.

Two figures step inside: a woman in a mask and skin-tight black leather that hugs every curve, followed by a tall, muscular man who drops to his knees the moment he crosses the threshold.

I watch, transfixed, as she methodically secures his wrists above his head with leather restraints attached to chains hanging from the ceiling. He gasps when the restraints tighten, his body somehow relaxing even as he’s stretched taut and vulnerable.

She circles him slowly, predatorily. Her fingers trace his shoulders, his chest, down his rigid torso.

My mouth goes desert-dry.

I’ve tried to understand this sick fascination.

Spent hours buried in psychology books late at night, scouring websites for any explanation of why the idea of giving up control like this ignites something deep inside me.

Nothing has helped. No answers, just theories I reject because accepting them would mean admitting weakness.

And I am not a weak man.

I’ve achieved everything I’ve set my mind to through sheer force of will. Overcoming this twisted desire should be no different.

My mind flashes back to Untamed—to Selene bound between Tristan and me, her soft pleas mixing with my own unspoken hunger. That night was the closest I’ve ever come to truly letting go, and now, watching this, I’m reminded just how close I am to crossing that line again.

I shift restlessly in the chair, furious with myself. Control defines me. It fuels my success, my survival, my entire identity.

Yet here in the dark, nothing has ever excited me more than watching it stripped away.

The woman speaks softly, her voice rich and commanding as she runs a riding crop slowly down his abdomen, teasing just above his waistband. My lungs tighten. When she strikes—a light, testing blow—he grunts, and the sharp snap of leather on skin echoes through the quiet room.

She moves to a nearby table, lighting a thick black candle with practiced efficiency. My eyebrows furrow as she returns, candle raised, molten wax dripping dangerously close to his bare chest.

When the first drops fall, he jolts like he’s been electrocuted, groaning deep in his throat.

I know the wax isn’t as hot as a regular candle, but that first shock still has to be intense.

The woman whispers something I can’t hear, and soon he’s arching eagerly toward each heated drop, completely unraveling in front of her.

My cock strains painfully against my zipper.

Why the fuck am I responding like this? It goes against everything I am, everything I’ve built. The way I need control should turn me off from all this completely. But watching him willingly suffer, surrender everything to her will, makes my heart race like I’m the one bound and helpless.

I close my eyes for just a second, and in the darkness behind my eyelids, it’s not him chained to that ceiling.

It’s me.

My hands above my head. My voice cracking with need. Her fingernails dragging across my skin like she’s claiming ownership.

Heat floods through my veins at the thought, followed immediately by crushing shame.

I clench my fists until my knuckles turn white, fighting down my arousal, reminding myself that I am not weak. Refusing to acknowledge this craving as anything but an inconvenient distraction.

Not sure what the hell I was thinking coming here tonight, but it definitely wasn’t this.

Another groan cuts through the room—raw, unfiltered pleasure—and shame coils deep in my gut like a living thing. I hate how much I envy him. Hate how desperately I want to be the one surrendering completely, even as I cling to the lie that I don’t.

Every day is a fucking war. Against Mortelle, my stalker, my own reflection in the mirror. Control is the only thing keeping me upright, keeping me sane.

But here, in this dark room, watching a man bound and powerless and worshiped—this is when I feel most alive. Most free.

And that terrifies me more than any threat waiting beyond these walls.

But my body doesn’t give a damn about terror.

A second strike lands, harder this time. The man groans, his back arching beautifully, muscles rippling beneath the strain. My hips shift before I can stop them, seeking friction, relief, anything.

I shouldn’t want this. Not here. Not ever.

And yet I’m utterly consumed by it.

The woman pauses, head tilting slightly. Her eyes glint behind the mask, and for one breathless moment, I swear she sees me. Not just the anonymous observer in the shadows. Me .

When she finally turns back to her willing victim, I exhale slowly, unclenching my fists one finger at a time.

“You like this, don’t you?” Her voice carries clearly across the room. “Letting me own you completely.”

The teasing edge in her tone scrapes along my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Isn’t it freeing to let go of all that control?”

The sub nods eagerly. “Yes, Mistress.”

Jealousy twists sharp and hot in my stomach, tangled with something far worse—longing so intense it feels like drowning. I imagine calling out just once. Begging her to see me. Bind me. Strip away the crushing weight I carry on my shoulders every damn day. Force me to give in to what I really want.

The scene ends quietly. She praises him gently, touches him like he’s something precious. Unfastens his restraints with careful attention. Then they’re gone, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my composure.

Only when the door clicks shut do I let my body slump back into the chair—wrung out and ashamed, still trembling with leftover adrenaline. Disgust simmers beneath my skin, but it can’t smother what’s still burning inside me. Like a sickness I don’t want cured.

The club owner will be back any minute. I need to get my shit together.

Standing too fast, I nearly stumble—adrenaline still flooding my veins. But then I see it: a black envelope resting on the chair beside me, silent and smug. My heart instantly slams into overdrive, dread pooling sharply in my stomach.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t…

With hands that shake despite my best efforts, I tear it open. One card inside. Familiar silver script that’s been haunting my nightmares:

You looked so needy tonight, Aaron.

Maybe next time it’ll be you begging.

She was here, watching me fall apart. Mocking every secret I’ve buried so deep I thought they’d never see daylight.

Twisting the knife with surgical precision.

My fists tighten like I could crush her name between my bones. She thinks she owns me now—knows what I want, what I fear.

She thinks I’ll break.

Let her think it.

It’ll make destroying her even sweeter.

I shove through the club doors and into the night air, lungs burning like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. She’s crossed a line that no one survives crossing.

She crawled into my head, found my weaknesses, and decided to exploit them.

Now I’ll return the favor.

When I find her, and I will find her, I won’t be the desperate man she saw tonight.

I’ll be her worst nightmare.

And she’ll wish she’d killed me when she had the chance.