Something flickers in his blue eyes, and he nods.
“The boss?” I ask, confused. “What does it say?”
He shows me the slip of paper, and all it has is the number ‘6’ scrawled in the middle.
“Private room six,” he says quietly. “Invitation only.”
My pulse spikes again, but this time it’s different–laced with something I can’t name. Whoever “the boss” is, he’s been watching us. Watching Hunter unravel. Watching me lean into it.
I guess it no longer matters what Hunter or I want.
Someone bigger than both of us is now in control.
16
Hunter
The slipof paper feels like a brand against my thigh as I lead Arianette down the hallway. The corridor is narrow, lit only by sconces that throw long shadows across the burgundy walls. Doors line both sides–some closed, some cracked ajar, some wide open like invitations.
We pass the first open one, and I feel her hesitate. Inside, a woman is bent over a velvet bench, wrists bound in red rope, while two masked men fuck her. One is in her mouth, the other is driving into her from behind. Her moans are muffled and greedy. Arianette’s breath catches, audible even over the wet slap of skin. She doesn’t look away.
I just can’t look away fromher.
The whole day has been spent around her. From the moment I walked into breakfast and saw her sitting at the table, to her down on the floorboard of my truck, sucking DK’s cock. The room at Royal Inkhad been so closed in and tight. Hours of watching her tiptoe through her closed off memories. And then now, here, having her in the place that feels sacred to me.
In the room across the hall, a man is on his knees, face buried between a woman’s thighs while she grips his hair and rides his tongue like she’s trying to break him. Another woman watches from a chair, legs spread, fingers working herself in slow circles. Arianette stumbles, catching herself on the wall.
I’m reminded of my first night here. How I finally found a place I understood: raw, unapologetic, structured. There’s no doubt her body is answering before her mind catches up: thighs pressing together, her chest rising faster, the bars in her nipples poking through her sweater.
Room six is at the end. The door is already ajar, a slice of warmer light spilling out. I push it open and guide her inside.
The space is smaller than the lounge, but richer. Black walls, a low ceiling, one wide bed draped in deep crimson sheets. Heavy curtains frame a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall, but I know better. It’s one-way. Someone’s behind it. The King.
A single chair faces the bed. On it, a black envelope stamped with a NS on the front in silver. Tearing open the edge, I find a card inside. Simple instructions in elegant script:
Masks stay on.
Strip her.
Make her feel it.
You have permission.
My cock jerks hard against my zipper. The word sinks into me like teeth. The card in my hand trembles slightly as I read it again.
You have permission.
Three words, and my blood roars in my ears. Permission to let the thing inside me off its chain. The thing that’s been clawing at my ribs since I was sixteen and watched my father bruise a woman until she begged for more.
I’ve kept it leashed with distance–vents, masks, one-way glass. Watching, but never touching. Because if I touch, if I start, I might notstop. I might take the pain too far and love every second of it. I might become exactly what I fear.
But tonight the King is handing me the key.
A low speaker crackles to life somewhere in the wall, the voice distorted–deep, calm, commanding.
“Close the door.”
I kick it shut behind us. The click echoes.
