We step inside, and Haven unfolds exactly as I remember—velvet alcoves, leather furniture, dim amber lighting that casts everyone in shadows and gold. But this time, I'm not balancing drink trays or dodging wandering hands.
A woman in a collar kneels at her partner's feet near the entrance. Another man guides his date toward the private rooms, hand firm on her neck. Everything here operates on a frequency I'm only beginning to understand.
Asher leads me to the bar, finding a table with two chairs nearby.
He orders from the waitress in the same black uniform dress I used to wear, not even bothering to look up at her. "Macallan 25, neat. And a glass of champagne for my wife."
Wife.The word feels foreign, but it sends a shiver down my spine.
The waitress comes back a moment later with our drinks, and I reach for the champagne, tilting it back, but Asher's hand darts out and stops me.
"Sip it slow. I want you relaxed, not drunk."
Nodding, I take a small sip, bubbles fizzing on my tongue. The club hums with conversation, people moving in and out of shadowed corners. A woman laughs, high and bright. Somewhere deeper in the club, a sharp crack echoes.
My pulse kicks up with equal parts dread and anticipation, remembering that Asher promised to spank me. Heat pools low in my belly even as my shoulders tense.
"How are you feeling?" Asher leans closer, voice low enough that only I hear.
"Nervous," I admit.
"Color?"
I meet his eyes. "Green."
His smile is slow, approving. "Good girl. Finish your drink, then we'll head upstairs."
I take another sip, letting the champagne warm me from the inside. Across the room, I spot a familiar flash of purple hair. Kacey, deep in conversation with someone I don't recognize.
Asher's hand finds mine under the bar, squeezing. "Eyes on me, Sugar."
I tear my gaze away from Kacey, focusing on him instead. Steel-gray eyes, sharp jaw, the way his thumb strokes my knuckles.
"Better." He finishes his whiskey in one swallow. "Ready?"
I drain the last of my champagne and nod. "Yes, Sir."
He stands, pulling me with him. We bypass the main floor, heading toward a staircase tucked behind a velvet curtain. Each step takes us higher, away from the crowd, into quieter territory.
Private rooms.
Asher's domain.
The hallway upstairs is lined with doors, each one closed and soundproofed. He stops at the third one, punching in another code. With a soft click, the lock disengages.
He pushes the door open, gesturing me inside.
The room steals my breath.
Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on one wall reflect everything. A king bed draped in black silk dominates the center. Along the far wall, there’s an overwhelming amount of equipment that I've only seen in movies—leather cuffs, ropes, a bench with restraints, a cabinet I can only assume holds more tools.
Asher closes the door behind us, the lock clicking back into place. He moves to a small table, lighting candles that cast flickering shadows across the mirrors, before his eyes lift to meet mine.
"This is where I come when I need control." His voice is measured, careful. "And tonight, I'm going to share it with you."
35
GRACE
