“Fuck you, Talon.”
He smirks, licking his bottom lip. “Not tonight. I’ve got plans.”
Before I can ask questions, Clara appears. Tight leather tank top, lavender token gleaming in the light. “There you are,” she purrs. “You’re mine tonight, slut. Let’s go.”
She doesn’t wait for him to answer, just grabs his arm and drags him toward one of the playrooms.
I hate that my stomach twists watching them go.
I toss back the rest of my drink, slap a bill on the counter, and follow. Not close enough to be obvious. Just enough to know where they’re headed.
The viewing gallery’s half full. I slip in quietly and press my fingers to the cool glass, staring into the room.
Clara’s already tugging his shirt open, pushing it off his shoulders. She’s talking too fast, the way she always does when she wants attention. Not once does she stop to ask his color. Not once does she check his limits.
And worse, she didn’t even ask if he was okay with being watched.
For all she knows, voyeurism could be a hard no. Hell, she didn’t even ask if he knew they were being watched.
This is exactly why Clara and I don't get along. She’s a pushy, self-absorbed, not-listening bitch who thinks “dominant” means “doesn’t have to care.”
Her nails drag down his chest like she’s signing her name there, and I can tell he’s trying to play along. But his face stays blank, tight, and it gives him away. He’s not into it. He’s standing there because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to walk away.
And maybe that’s the part that pisses me off most.
Because I taught him better than that, even in our one night together. He always knew I’d stop, knew he could say red at any time.
“Ask his color,” I mutter, but she doesn’t.
She pushes him down into a chair and kneels between his legs. Her lips brush his thigh, slow, and teasing. Still nothing. No spark, no reaction. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, and not for the reason anyone probably thinks.
Talon looks nervous, and he’s also sweating, not to mention his cock is as soft as my grandma’s banana bread.
The Dungeon Monitor steps forward.
“Color?”
“Green,” Clara says with a sigh, as if it’s obvious.
The DM looks at Talon. “You?”
He looks up—not at her, at the glass. Straight at me.
“Is that a mirror? Are people on the other side watching?”
“Yes. We’re fine,” Clara huffs.
“Red,” Talon says quietly, but it hits me like a slap.
“Pause,” the DM says firmly. “Reset.”
Clara huffs but stands. Talon leans forward, hands trembling slightly as he grabs the paper cup of water. His lips are pale. I can tell he’s embarrassed. I can also tell Clara doesn’t get it.
I’ve seen enough.
I step back from the glass and make my way to the bar again, ignoring the ache in my chest that I have no right to feel.
Hadley’s cleaning a spill when I sit down. She looks up. “You good?”
