1
RAINA
The first thing that hits me when I walk into Haus of Sin is the smell.
Money. Musk. Trouble with a capital T.
It hangs thick in the air, like an exotic perfume.
My voice comes out in a whisper. “What have I got myself into?”
Every rumor slams into me at once. Haus of Sin. The invitation-only, underground pleasure mansion for the elite. Hidden deep in the woods of Silver Star Mountain nearPortland.
My pulse thunders in my ears. Part of me is screaming to turn around and bolt for the door before this velvet-lined nightmare swallows me whole. The other part stays rooted, stiff with nerves and stubborn pride, because I need this job more than I need my dignity.
A gorgeous redhead glides down the grand staircase.
Not walks. Glides. Like the house itself is carrying her.
Her skin is porcelain smooth. Her body is wrapped in black lace and velvet that fits like it was designed to be worshiped. Her fingers trail along the brass railing with lazy confidence, the kind that only comes from being admired, desired, and obeyed without question.
The chandelier catches the shine of her hair and turns her into something unreal.
“You must be the new chef,” she says.
Her voice is warm and sweet, with a sharp edge hiding just beneath it.
“Hi. Yes. I’m Raina,” I reply, forcing steadiness into my tone while my insides quietly spiral.
Her hips sway with every step. Not an invitation. A declaration. She was born to entice. To draw. To conquer. She’s at ease in her skin, while mine still feels too tight.
Too tight. Too raw. A body I am learning to live in again after my ex dismantled my confidence one careless sentence at a time.
Dumped two weeks before Valentine’s Day.
He said I was too chubby for a man like him, that my body was not fit for the image he had to maintain in Manhattan. As if being an associate at some prestigious law firm made him royalty. He humiliated me and then walked away without a care. Fucker.
Congratulations, Jeremy.
You won capitalism and still sucked in bed.
“I’m sorry. I thought this was a private winter estate,” I say, my eyes scanning the lobby.
Everything gleams.
High ceilings.
White and gold decor that sparkles against the shadows.
Sculptures of naked bodies that look too human to be art.
The scent of leather mixes with pine and faint traces of lust.
A moan echoes from somewhere nearby, low and throaty.
My breath catches. I can't believe my ears.
This is definitely not a winter estate. Unless Cupid got weird this year.
