A man stops me in the corridor. Masked, tailored suit, same kind of predator I’ve been a thousand times. He smirks like he’s caught me somewhere I shouldn’t be.
“Walker,” he drawls, “didn’t think I’d see you back in the pit.”
I know him—Elias Kane. Old rival. Sadist. The man who never fucks unless someone cries.
“I go where I want.” My tone is flat steel.
He leans close, voice low. “I hear you’ve been distracted.” Playing house, maybe?” His smile sharpens. “You know what happens to men who get sloppy in here.”
I grip his collar before he finishes the sentence, shoving him hard against the wall. The thud shakes dust from the rafters. His smirk never falters.
“Careful, Walker,” he whispers. “You’re shaking. You only shake when you’re already guilty.”
I let him go with a growl, but the damage is done—he’s smelled blood on me. And now, so will everyone else.
The pit opens at the end of the hall—an arena drenched in red light, velvet ropes, and an audience hungry for pain. Two men circle inside, stripped to the waist, skin already bleeding from the whip lashes decorating their backs. The crowd chants, feral and merciless.
Normally, I’d stand at the edge and watch until something inside me burned clean. Tonight, all I feel is restless. Hollow. Like every scream is an echo of her name.
The same girl from earlier spots me again. She crawls to my feet this time, mask tilted, lips parted, nails clawing at my shoes like I’m her salvation.
I should take her. I should let her swallow me whole and prove to myself I’m still the man they think I am.
But when I look down, all I see is Brooklyn’s face—eyes wide, mouth swollen, whispering Daddy like a prayer.
I grab the girl by the throat, tilt her head back until she gasps. “You’re not her,” I snarl, voice jagged with something that makes even the crowd nearby falter.
I drop her. Hard.
The pit roars around me, but I can’t hear any of it. Because in this place where I’m supposed to feel infinite, I’ve never felt more trapped.
And I already know how this night ends.
With me going home.
With me giving in.
I descend deeper.
Every level of Club Z is another circle of hell, each one filthier than the last. Upstairs it’s play. Down here, it’s punishment.
The air is thick with smoke and rot—sex, sweat, iron. Red curtains bleed against the walls, hiding screams you can only hear when you lean too close. Some men live for those curtains. For not knowing if what they’ll see is pleasure or pain until they’ve already paid the price.
I’ve seen it all. I’ve done most of it. But tonight every step feels wrong, like the walls are whispering her name at me. Brooklyn. Brooklyn. Brooklyn.
I grip the railing, knuckles cracking. I shouldn’t be here.
Elias hasn’t let me out of his sight. He circles me like a fucking jackal, his smirk stretched thin as the women on their knees around us.
“You’re restless,” he says. “When’s the last time you fed?”
“None of your business.”
He chuckles. “Everything’s my business. Especially when it’s about the great Dean Walker finally slipping. Tell me—what’s her name?”
I snap my gaze to him, sharp enough to cut. He just grins wider.
He knows.
