1
LUC
Security footage from last night’s club session fills the monitors on my desk. I scan the feeds automatically, cataloging angles, noting the blind spots I designed into Dominion’s security system. Outside my office windows the Warehouse District bakes in August heat, tourists wandering past galleries and restaurants completely unaware of what happens two floors below.
My phone buzzes. Margot's name flashes across the screen.
"Talk to me."
"I need Rapier Strategic." Her voice is controlled, but tension cuts through the professional tone. My sister doesn't rattle easy. "One of my members is being threatened. Someone's been inside the private rooms taking photographs."
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "How long?"
"For some time—weeks, months—I don’t know for sure. The member just started getting them, but it’s obvious someone’s been watching her for quite some time. The photos are professional quality shots delivered to her home and office. Taken from positions that shouldn't be possible given our security setup." She pauses. "Taken from the blind spots you designed. The photos are date-stamped in the metadata. Icross-referenced with our booking logs and attendance records. Whoever took these had access during active scenes."
Fuck.
Those blind spots exist by necessity because total camera coverage in private BDSM rooms creates legal liability and trust issues. Members pay premium prices for guaranteed privacy. I designed strategic gaps where dungeon monitors provide human oversight instead of digital recording. Anyone who knows exactly where those gaps are has either studied the system extensively or had inside information.
"Send me everything."
"Already on your secure server. Can you take the case?"
Can we. Not will we. Margot's asking, not demanding, because Rapier Strategic is Remy's and my operation. She owns Dominion, and handles the club's operations, but when it comes to tactical work, she defers to the people who actually break things and people for a living.
"Let me pull the files and talk to Remy. Ten minutes."
I disconnect and pull up the secure server. The files load fast. First image makes my jaw tight.
Woman bound to St. Andrew's cross. Head thrown back, mouth open in what could be pleasure or pain or both. Professional camera work, proper lighting compensation, composition that frames her submission with artistic precision. Taken inside one of Dominion's larger private rooms.
Whoever took this knows my security system better than most of my own staff. Which means one of two things. Someone spent a lot of time studying Dominion from the inside… or someone has been given access most members never have.
Someone knew exactly where the cameras couldn't see.
I click through the rest. The timestamps span weeks. Whoever's doing this didn't start with threats. They started with observation. Different nights based on the dates, differentcorsets visible, different rope colors and equipment setups in the background. Rope suspension scenes. Impact play. Sensory deprivation. Each photo taken from angles that shouldn't exist in our digital records. Each one a violation layered on top of violation.
The threats start on image fourteen. Text overlay on a photo of her kneeling, collar visible around her throat.
I know what you need. I know what you crave. I know how to make you scream.
Next image shows her blindfolded, vulnerable.
You think Dominion keeps you safe. It doesn't.
Final image is from last night. Her wrists bound, body arched.
Soon you'll learn what real control feels like.
Cold slides down my spine. The language is specific, calculated. Not some amateur with a camera and delusions. Whoever wrote this thinks they understand her. Whoever wrote this understands the lifestyle. Understands submission. Understands exactly how to twist it into fear.
This is someone who understands the psychology, the power dynamics, the specific vulnerabilities that come with submission. Someone who's been watching long enough to know how to weaponize what she gives freely in controlled space. Not just watching her scenes. Studying them. Not the club. Her.
The shift from observation to action is there in the language. Whoever's doing this is escalating, moving from documentation to direct threat. The timeline's compressing. They're preparing to move.
I head down the hall to Remy's office. My brother's hunched over his laptop, Isabella beside him reviewing what looks like chemical threat assessments. They both look up when I enter.
"We have a case." I lean against the doorframe. "Club member being stalked. Professional photography taken fromsecurity blind spots. Escalating threats. Margot wants to know if we'll take it. Files are on the secure server under LaCroix."
