That knot loosens, but doesn’t disappear.
Sy reminds me gently not to push myself for the next day or two. Not to chase memories or force anything loose.
“Thank you,” I say, “for helping me through the process.”
“Nope. Don’t thank me. We all have the same goal, Baroness.” His jaw tenses. “To find out who is really behind these kidnappings and stop them.”
It’s dark when we get outside, further proof of how long we’ve been here. The cool air feels grounding. In the truck Hunter says, “I’m sure you’re tired, so we can head–”
“I’m not,” I blurt, then clarify. “I’m not tired.”
A jolt of energy ripples along my nerves. Like whatever dam had been holding back the memories burst, and gave me a surge of adrenaline with it.
“I’m not ready to go back to the House of Night.” The words spill out before I can second-guess them. “I need… something else. A distraction.”
Hunter glances at me. “Where do you want to go?”
I stare out the window, studying the lines of the Royal Ink building. “I don’t know. I’ve never been anywhere. Before the King took me to the House of Night, Strong Manor was all I knew.”
“The King said to take you to Perilini. He didn’t give permission for you to go anywhere else.” He cranks the engine and shifts the truck into gear, and that urge not to go back to the chapel hits me like a wave.
“You’re afraid I’ll run or do something crazy. I won’t. I promise.” Hunter flicks on the blinker and merges into the road, obviously unpersuaded, so I flip it. “Okay, what would you do right now if you weren’t babysitting me?”
“I don’t think it’s anything you’d want to do,“ he says without hesitation, which means there is definitely something.
“We’ll never know unless you show me.”
This time, hedoeshesitate—just a beat. Long enough for me tosee him make a decision I don’t get a say in. Then he makes a sudden U-turn, the truck swinging in the opposite direction, tires humming louder against the road.
“Don’t forget,” he says quietly, eyes fixed ahead, “you asked for it.”
With nothingbut the rumble of the truck and some kind of obscure rockabilly music playing on WXFU, Hunter drives us downtown. Soon, we’re close to campus, where the name on top of the building shines like a beacon: Maddox Hotel.
I’ve seen it, of course, the tall corner spires could be seen from Strong Manor, but I’ve never been inside. Hunter drives past the covered entrance and eases the truck to a stop in a parking lot behind the building.
A single unmarked door waits at the end, black paint chipped. He gives me no explanation, no warning about what we’re about to step into. I just watch as he knocks twice.
A slot scrapes open, and dark eyes on the other side flick over us.
“Velvet abyss,” Hunter says, voice low and rough, the words curling like smoke.
The slot snaps shut. Bolts slide. The door swings inward.
The bouncer doesn’t speak, just hands me a mask as we step inside. It’s black and made of lace and covers my eyes and nose, but leaves my mouth bare. The elastic slides into place behind my head, and suddenly half my face is gone–anonymous, unreadable. Hunter already has his on, everything about his face obscured but that strong jaw.
We descend a narrow staircase lit only by sconces that bleed red light onto burgundy velvet walls. The air grows warmer, thicker, scented with jasmine and leather. My pulse kicks harder with every step.
At the bottom, the space opens, and I’m engulfed in a chamber. The ceiling is painted black, swallowing what little light there is. Three low chandeliers drip crystals and cast pools of molten goldacross the floor, but the glow never reaches the corners–those stay shadowed, secretive. Everything is plush and indulgent: deep couches, low tables, bodies moving like they have all the time in the world.
No one looks directly at anyone else, but they do watch. I can sense it like a crackle in the air. Masks hide eyes; glances slide sideways, lingering. Mouths are visible–smiling, parted, wet. A woman in a silk slip leans against the wall, head tipped back, a man presses into her, his gloved fingers tracing her throat. Across the room, a man on his knees worships the arched foot of someone seated above him. Moans drift from the hallway that branches off the main lounge–soft and unashamed.
I stop just inside the threshold, trying to take it all in. My skin feels too tight, too aware after the murkiness of being under hypnosis.
“What is this place?” I whisper to Hunter.
“Welcome to Noir Sanctum.” He guides me forward, not touching–nevertouching. “It’s a sanctuary for those who seek pleasure with rules. Clear signals and consent are carved into every corner. No one touches without invitation. No one speaks names.” He glances over at me. “It’s the only place I feel comfortable in my skin.”
We move deeper. A couple on a velvet chaise has left the door to their alcove cracked open–inside, candlelight flickers over bare skin, slow thrusts, a woman’s back arching as her partner takes her from behind. A small cluster of masked figures watches quietly from the hallway. One man’s hand rests lightly on his own thigh, the only sign he’s affected.
