I nearly tripped on the uneven stone. We spent three weeks with both of them during the Labyrinth investigation.
“They’ll see us,” I managed.
“Yes.” Kiernan glanced at me. “And you’ll see them. That fear you’re feeling right now? They felt it once too.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.
Ophelia walked beside me, her heels clicking on the flagstones. She wore what Kiernan had chosen for her—a deep-green dress that barely covered her thighs,the neckline plunging to reveal the curve of her breasts. No bra. No underwear. She’d blushed when she emerged from her room, but the look Kiernan gave as he took her in made her cheeks pinken for an entirely different reason. My guess was, if he put his hand between her legs, she’d be drenched with desire.
“Beautiful,” he’d said and left it at that.
My own outfit felt almost pedestrian by comparison. Dark jeans, black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to my forearms, leather boots. When I’d asked why, Kiernan had simply said, “You’ll blend in better this way.”
I hadn’t asked what I’d blend in with.
When we came to a door at the end of the tunnel, Kiernan produced a key, and the lock turned with a click.
He pushed it open, revealing a narrow stone staircase that curved upward into darkness. Music pulsed faintly from above.
“Rules,” Kiernan said as we climbed. “Stay with me at all times. Don’t speak to anyone unless I introduce you. If someone approaches you directly, defer to me.” His voice echoed off the stone. “What you see tonight stays here. These people trust this space with their secrets.That trust is sacred. And remember—red and yellow are always available to you. For any reason. At any moment. No explanation required.”
At the top, Kiernan pushed another door open, and we stepped into a world I hadn’t known existed.
The main floorof Thorned Thistle resembled a high-end lounge with leather sofas, dim lighting, and a bar staffed by attractive men and women dressed in crisp black. Music played at a volume that encouraged conversation without drowning it out. Well-dressed people mingled with drinks in hand, their laughter and chatter indistinguishable from any upscale club in Edinburgh or London.
Details emerged as my eyes adjusted. A woman in the corner wore a collar of braided leather. A man knelt beside an armchair, his head resting against his companion’s thigh. Subtle power dynamics played out in every interaction—who stood, who sat, who spoke first, who waited for permission.
“This is the social floor,” Kiernan said, guiding us through a crowd of nearly fifty people with a hand on each of our lower backs. “Members gather here to connect, negotiate, and decompress. The scenes happen below.”
We descended another staircase, this one curving downward into warmer air and lower light. The architecture changed—exposed stone walls, wrought-iron fixtures, alcoves shrouded in shadow. Doorways lined the corridor, some open, some closed. From behind the closed ones, I heard sounds that made my heart race.
“Observation rooms,” Kiernan said. “Pay attention and learn.”
He led us to an alcove with a large window—one-way glass, I realized. Inside, a woman was bound to a wooden frame, her arms stretched above her head, her body naked except for a blindfold. A man circled her slowly, trailing something across her skin. Leather strands that left pink marks in their wake.
Ophelia tensed beside me.
As the scene unfolded, the woman’s body relaxed into each stroke rather than tensing against it. Her lips parted on sounds we couldn’t hear through the glass. The man spoke to her constantly, and she nodded or shook her head in response.
I glanced at Kiernan. He wasn’t paying attention to the scene. He was studying us.
His eyes followed Ophelia’s face, her breathing, the flush creeping down her throat. Then he turned to me,and I felt the weight of his assessment—cataloging my responses, filing them away.
“Oliver.” His words took on that edge I was beginning to anticipate. “Behind her.”
I acted on instinct, positioning myself behind Ophelia. Kiernan’s hand found mine and guided it beneath the hem of her dress.
“She’s aroused,” he said. “Feel it.”
My fingers slid between her thighs and found her slick and swollen. She shuddered against me.
“Keep your hand there,” Kiernan ordered. “Feel how her body responds to what she’s seeing.”
On the other side of the glass, the man brought the flogger down across the woman’s thighs. Her spine arched, and her mouth fell open in a silent cry. Between my fingers, Ophelia clenched.
“She likes that,” Kiernan observed. “The impact. Notice how wet she gets when the leather strikes skin.”
He was right. Each time the flogger connected, Ophelia grew slicker against my hand. Her hips twitched, seeking the friction I wasn’t giving her.
