“Good. Because I didn't pay membership fees to spend my evening negotiating. Strip.”
I pulled back from the door, mind racing. Harrow was inside with someone. Someone he was corrupting with promises of fixed cases and disappeared evidence. Someone young enough to sound uncertain and desperate enough to listen.
I needed a natural entry point, something that looked routine instead of suspicious.
I waited three minutes, counting seconds with the accuracy my memory afforded, then knocked. Twice. Firm enough to be heard, soft enough to be deferential.
The door opened. Harrow stood in the gap, shirtless but still wearing his trousers, perfectly tailored charcoal wool that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. A black leather mask covered the upper half of his face, but it didn't hidethe silver threading through his dark hair. He was handsome in the way powerful men often were: polished, groomed, carrying authority like expensive cologne.
A silver fox, they'd call him. Distinguished. The sort who commanded boardrooms and courtrooms with equal ease.
“Yes?” His voice carried irritation and curiosity in equal measure.
I was already wearing a mask. I'd kept it from the wedding, hadn't removed it because Eden's protocol demanded anonymity beyond the front desk.
“Apologies for interrupting.” I kept my voice smooth, deferential, the tone of someone who understood hierarchy and respected it. “The receptionist mentioned you might appreciate additional company this evening. If I'm mistaken, I'll leave immediately.”
Harrow's expression shifted. Assessment. Calculation. The predatory interest of a man who'd learned to spot opportunity when it presented itself.
“Did she now?” His gaze travelled over me, cataloguing. Then he stepped back, held the door wider. “Come in. Have a drink first. I don't conduct business without proper introductions.”
I entered. The room was larger than I'd expected, designed like a luxury hotel suite—if a hotel suite came equipped with restraint points built into the walls and furniture that served function before aesthetic. A four-poster bed dominated the space. A St. Andrew's cross stood in the corner. A cabinet that probably held implements I didn't want to examine too closely sat flush against the wall.
A young man knelt on the floor near the bed, naked except for leather cuffs on his wrists, watching me with wide eyes. His breath came fast, his cock already hard despite or because of the fear I saw in his expression. Beside him, a woman reclined on a chaise, her dark hair cascading over bare shoulders, her bodydraped in silk that concealed nothing. She watched me with calculating interest, lips curved in a smile that promised cruelty wrapped in pleasure.
Harrow moved to the bar cart near the window. Crystal decanters caught lamplight, amber liquid glowing like captured fire. “Scotch? Or are you a bourbon man?”
“Scotch is fine.”
He poured two glasses, neat, no ice. Handed me one with the casual grace of someone who'd spent decades in rooms where power was traded over drinks. “I'm Elliot. Though I suspect you already knew that, or you wouldn't have knocked.”
“Callum. And yes. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Does it?” He sipped his scotch, studying me over the rim. “What exactly have you heard?”
“That you appreciate control. Structure. Rules followed to the letter.”
“Accurate.” He gestured toward the others. “Damian here is learning what proper submission looks like. And Lori works for the house. She's been kind enough to join us this evening.”
Damian nodded but didn't speak, his gaze dropping immediately. Submission practised enough to be second nature. Lori rose from the chaise with feline grace, crossed to us with hips swaying deliberately beneath the silk.
“Callum,” she purred, offering her hand. “Lovely name. I hope you'll stay.”
I took her hand, kissed the knuckles like this was a society function instead of whatever the hell this actually was. “Charming.”
Harrow watched the exchange with apparent amusement. “Lori specialises in certain appetites Eden caters to. She's very skilled.” He settled into the chair near the window, gestured for me to sit opposite. “Tell me, Callum. What draws you to Eden?”
The question felt loaded. I sat, cradled the scotch, bought myself three seconds to formulate an answer that wouldn't trigger suspicion. “Same as most, I imagine. The appeal of structured power exchange. Consent as law.”
“Interesting phrasing.” Harrow's fingers tapped against his glass. “You sound like someone who's spent time thinking about legal frameworks.”
“I've spent time thinking about what happens when frameworks break down.”
“Haven't we all.” He drank, his expression thoughtful. “That's what I find most compelling about this lifestyle. The inherent honesty in it. Two people negotiate exactly what will happen. Boundaries are stated clearly. Safe words are established. Everything that follows exists within parameters both parties agreed to.”
I listened, filing away his words. The way he framed it. Control as negotiation. Consent as contract.
“In my professional life,” Harrow continued, “I deal constantly with systems that pretend to be fair but operate on unstated rules. Politics masquerading as justice. Favouritism disguised as merit. Everyone lying about what they actually want and how they actually get it.” He leaned forward slightly. “Here? No pretence. I want control. Damian wants to submit. Lori provides professional expertise. We state these things openly, agree to terms, and proceed accordingly.”
