The cages glow in crimson light—metal bars slick with handprints, bodies pressed tight and begging for release or punishment or both. Chains clink like wind chimes in hell. Every inch of the room thrums with the unspoken law of predators and prey.
And I’m supposed to feel at home here.
I usually do.
A girl approaches, nothing but leather straps and high heels, eyes wide behind her mask. She puts her hand on my chest like she already belongs to me. Her perfume hits, sharp and sweet, and for a split second I think about taking it—taking her—using her body to burn out the fire clawing at me.
But the second her fingers graze my shirt, I see Brooklyn instead.
The way her lip trembled last night when she told me she didn’t hate me.
The way her voice cracked when she whispered, she felt guilty.
The way she’d still opened her thighs anyway, begging like she wanted to be destroyed.
My hand wraps around the girl’s wrist, tight enough to make her whimper. She mistakes it for interest. It’s not.
“Not tonight,” I growl, and push her away.
Rafe catches it. Of course he does. He’s leaning against the bar, glass in hand, grinning like he’s been waiting for me to slip. “Since when did Dean Walker turn down free flesh?”
My teeth grit. “Since when do you run your mouth in my direction?”
He laughs, unbothered, sipping slowly. “You’ve gone soft.”
Soft. The word slices something inside me.
I could prove him wrong. I could take the nearest body, bend it over the bar, and make the entire club remember who the fuck I am. I’ve done it before. They’d cheer. They’d clap me on the back and remind each other that Dean Walker doesn’t lose control—he owns it.
But all I can think about is her skin under my hand, her body arched under my mouth, her broken little voice calling me Daddy in the dark like it meant something.
I’m losing the battle already.
Rafe tilts his glass, eyes narrowing. “You want my advice?”
“No.”
“You’re a man who builds walls. Club Z is one of them. Don’t bring her inside, Walker. Walls don’t keep things safe—they keep you from drowning. And you?” He smirks, cruel and knowing. “You’re drowning.”
I finish my drink in one pull, the liquor scorching my throat. The club keeps moving around me, screaming, writhing, moaning, but it’s just noise. Static. Because my head is already back in that house, in that bed, with Brooklyn’s scent all over my skin.
I shouldn’t have come here.
I shouldn’t want her.
And yet I want nothing else.
The deeper I go, the darker it gets.
Upstairs, the bar is noise and sweat and money changing hands. Down here beneath the floorboards is where the rot breathes. The walls sweat crimson light, shadows writhing across stone like they’re alive. Women in cages swing from the ceiling, crying, begging, and laughing, some on their knees with their mouths wide open as if they were trained.
This is what Club Z is for—losing yourself.
No names. No morals. No lines.
I should feel steady here. I’ve always felt steady here. This is my kingdom, my hell, my place to bleed the world dry until nothing touches me. But all I can think about is Brooklyn’s voice in my ear, shaking when she asked what happens if I fall in love with you?
The memory claws up my throat until I’m almost choking on it.
