I step closer. Not touching. Just close enough that she can feel me there. Feel the attention. Feel the heat.
“Careful, Kitten,” I growl, letting the word sink in, and letting my gaze drop deliberately to her ass before I drag it back up. “You keep talking like that and I might forget we’re supposed to leave.”
Her breath stutters. There it is.
The flush blooms high on her cheeks, real and unguarded, cutting straight through the bravado. She hates that it affects her. Loves it too. The contradiction lives in her bones.
That’s when the stress hits me.
Because she trusts me enough to stand in front of me like this. To walk into my world wearing my choice. To believe I’ll keep her safe while every predatory instinct in the room would love a taste. Including mine.
Especially mine.
I want to press her against the door. I want to peel this dress off her slowly and remind her exactly how devastating she is. I want to devour her until she forgets every doubt she walked in with.
Instead, I breathe.
Control. Always control.
I’ll bleed before I let anyone touch you. But I don’t say it. The promise is too sharp. Too honest.
“Ready?” I ask, because if I don’t move now, I won’t.
She nods.
Still pretending she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to me. She has no idea what she’s walking into—or how badly I want to keep her right here and never let the night begin.
The club breathes around us the moment we step inside.
Crimson leather. Black lacquer. Gold catches the low light like a promise you don’t make unless you intend to keep it. The music pulses through the floor—steady, controlled. Not chaos. A heartbeat. This place doesn’t overwhelm. It invites. Every detail calibrated to loosen restraint, and to blur the line between want and permission.
My hand settles at Violet’s lower back, firm and unmistakable. Not guiding her. Claiming the space around her.
The effect is immediate. Bodies shift. People part without looking twice, eyes flicking up just long enough to register me before moving aside.
This is my house.
Violet presses closer as we descend, her body aligning with mine as if instinct recognizes authority faster than her mouth ever would. Not fear. Never fear. Anticipation—sharp, and electric. She’s taking it all in, eyes bright, breath shallow, and curiosity flickering beneath that careful calm she wears when she doesn’t want to admit she’s affected.
My kitten likes to watch.
I scan the floor out of habit, not concern. Dante posted near the stairs, relaxed but alert. Nyx behind the cameras, already tracking movement patterns. Maverick drifting through the crowd like he belongs to it—because he does. One signal, and this place would lock down in under ten seconds.
Everyone here is vetted. Profiles cleared. Consent signed. Loyalists mixed with thrill-seekers who think danger is something you buy for the night. Volunteers hungry to be part of something they don’t fully understand.
Every dose logged. Every reaction cataloged.
This is science.
Even if it looks like sin.
As the dancefloor comes into view, Violet slows half a step. Bodies move below us—skin on skin, mouths open, and hands everywhere. People stripped bare in every way that matters, moving like the world outside this room no longer exists. Or maybe it does and that’s why they came.
Violet’s breath changes. I feel it before I hear it—the smallest hitch she tries to swallow. Her hands smooth the front of her dress, nerves disguised as vanity. Her shoulders roll back a fraction, posture adjusting, like she’s reminding herself she belongs here.
She shifts closer to me. Not touching. Just close enough that her hip brushes my thigh.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “Too much?”
