He fucking knows.
But before I can carve the smile off his face, the crowd howls. A new performance takes the pit—one woman, strapped to a chair with barbed wire binding her wrists. The masked man circling her wears leather gloves slick with oil, flame licking the tips of his torches.
The audience chants, half in lust, half in bloodlust.
I should watch. I should let the fire eat away at me until there’s nothing left but the merciless man I’ve always been.
But my chest tightens. Because all I can see is her strapped there. Brooklyn, bound and begging. Her voice hoarse as she called me Daddy. Her body trembling under my hands when she whispered, what if I fall in love with you?
My cock is iron-hard. My fists are steel.
I can’t tear my eyes from the stage. The man lowers the torch toward the woman’s thigh—slow, deliberate, a predator teasing prey—and the crowd erupts when her scream splits the air.
Elias leans in, his voice low enough only I can hear. “Remind me, Walker…is that how you break them? Or do you prefer the slow burn of their hearts instead of their skin?”
I shove him back, fury snapping my control, but he only laughs like he’s already won.
The truth is, he knows because he’s seen it. The crack in my armour.
I can’t stay here. Not another second.
The pit howls behind me, but I push through the bodies, through the masks, through the women clawing at my sleeves.
With every step back up the stairs, I hear her name louder. Brooklyn. Brooklyn. Brooklyn.
I should’ve walked out, but Club Z doesn’t let go that easily.
I don’t even make it to the door before she’s there—blocking my path like she’s been waiting for me all along.
Tall. The red dress was painted on as if poured straight from a wineglass, and a slit ran high enough to reveal the black garter biting into her thigh. Lace hides half her face with a mask, but she painted her mouth blood red.
“Dean Walker,” she purrs, lips wrapping around the name like a lick. “I didn’t think you still came down here.”
I don’t answer. My silence is answer enough.
She presses closer, perfume thick with smoke and spice. Her nails trail down my chest, a razor-sharp promise through the fabric of my shirt.
“You used to own this floor,” she whispers, standing on tiptoe so her mouth grazes my ear. “The women still talk about you. The one who didn’t just fuck—who ruined. You could have any of us. Tonight. Now. No strings.”
Her hand drops lower, bold fingers skimming my belt.
And for a moment—just a split fucking second—I let myself imagine it.
Taking her against the wall.
Reminding myself what it feels like to devour without guilt, without consequence, without soft brown eyes watching me like I’m more than the monster I am.
But then her perfume fades under something phantom.
Brooklyn’s scent. Sweet, maddening.
Her voice in my head—What happens if I fall in love with you?
I grab the woman’s wrist before she can touch me again. Hard enough to make her gasp.
“Don’t,” I growl. My voice is rough, shredded by the war in my chest. “You’re not what I want.”
Her laugh is sharp, mocking. “Careful, Walker. Sounds like you’ve finally found your weakness.”
