Nash looks me over once. Head to toe. Dress. Heels. Hair. Mouth.
Nothing in his face changes, but I know that look now. It’s approval sharpened into possession with a dash of surprise.
“So,” he says. “This is where you decided to run.”
“I didn’t run.”
Three pairs of eyes tell me exactly what they think of that lie.
Shiloh laughs softly. Ever says nothing, but his raised eyebrow calls my bullshit.
Nash tilts his head. “You broke out of Blackwood House, hid in a motel, and snuck into a private club through a side entrance using one of our staff.”
“I walked out of Blackwood House.”
“You are committed to semantics in a way I almost admire.” He licks his lips. “If I wasn’t ready to spank you.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Ileft, because none of you were doing anything to help me. If you’re going to drag me back, drag me back.”
Nash’s gaze flicks to my crossed arms and the swell of my breasts, pushed up by the gesture, then returns to my eyes. “Maybe. But first, since you wanted to see what’s down here so badly…”
His mouth curves. Not kindly.
“You wanted to see Noir Night…so we’re going to show you.”
My pulse stutters. He turns without waiting for agreement.
Ever touches the small of my back. Shiloh falls into step at my side, and suddenly I’m bracketed by them, being guided deeper into the club.
No, not guided. That’s too gentle to describe what’s happening. This forced tour feels less like hospitality and more like a sentence being read aloud.
“I feel like a prisoner on Death Row.” I mumble the words under my breath. Nash glances back, one brow lifted. Ever’s finger traces the line of my spine, a warning under the glancing touch, because he never just touches for the sake of it. There’s always a purpose. A message.
We pass curtained alcoves with narrow viewing windows cut into the walls. Through one, I glimpse a couple on a chaise, the woman’s mouth open in a silent cry while a man kneels between her spread legs devouring every ounce of her pleasure and another watches from a chair, stroking himself slowly. Through another, a woman is bent over the edge of a velvet couch while someone behind her grips both wrists in one hand and thrusts with lazy, punishing force. She’s enjoying it, if her moans and gasps are anything to judge from.
I drag my eyes away and find Shiloh watching me watch.
His mouth curves. “Educational, isn’t it?”
“Is that what this is?”
“Depends,” he says. “On what you came here hoping to learn.”
We move on.
Another corridor opens into a guarded room where the sounds are different. Less moaning. More voices. Male.Intent. Sharp with calculation. Through the door, I catch green felt, cards flashing under careful hands, towers of chips, whiskey, men who look like they could be judges or gangsters.
“High-stakes poker,” Shiloh says lightly when I slow. “You don’t get to go in there.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Nash says without looking back, “you haven’t earned the privilege of losing that much money.”
By the time they stop at the last door, my heart is a hammer in my throat. Nash opens it and gestures me inside.
The room beyond is quieter than the rest of the club. Intimate. Sealed off. Empty, at least of people.
A giant bed dominates the center, all black linens and carved posts. In one corner stands a large cross-like structure—wooden, polished, unmistakably built to bind a body to it. There’s a padded bench nearby, a wardrobe, a pair of heavy chairs, and a few scattered side tables holding things I make a point not to inspect too closely. I’ve seen them before, in porn. But I’ve never used them. Never had them used on me.
