Page 18 of Bound

Pain he couldn’t think about right now. There really was that little thing called his real life to check in on. The staff who’d expected him Stateside by now. Shit, even his house and neighbors—the term being loose, of course. Nobody bothered each other too much on his end of Whidbey, but they did keep casual tabs every once in a while.

There was a familiar musical tone in his ear. He jolted from his reverie, not recalling having dialed the US country code and the private digits in Seattle. Christ. What kind of a pharmaceutical cocktail were they dripping into him?

“Thank you for dialing the administrative offices of Bastille, a Seattle nightclub for discriminating tastes. Please note that we do not take private playroom reservations via this line. Public dungeon space is available every night on a first-come, first-serve basis. Additionally, new member interviews are only conducted in person, and only after a full application and background check have been completed. If you’d like more information about joining or playing in Bastille, please consult our webs—”

Brick punched the seven key, which was Z’s office extension. Despite the hour—his sketchy math told him it had to be two or three in the morning in the US Northwest—he knew his night owl friend would likely still be awake and busy.

He’d met Zeke Hayes on a mission neither could ever speak about, in what seemed like another life. Their philosophical and spiritual approach to kink had strengthened their friendship, but none of that meant as much as Z’s earnest outreach to him after the failed mission with Asha. Ops weren’t the same after that, a confession he’d also entrusted to the guy, leading to them actually talking about the reality of the Bastille club. It didn’t take them long to find a space in Seattle’s warehouse district in which they quickly built out to their kinky hearts’ desires.

Helming Bastille’s grand opening and daily operations was exactly what Brick needed during those dark, unpredictable months. Once Zeke decided to step back from active service, it felt right to start sharing the Dungeon Master duties. Life had gotten into something resembling normalcy—whatever that even was when a guy transitioned from spies and subterfuge to whips and safe words—meaning he actually had free time for the first time in his life.

It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Sort of like this little R&R break, courtesy of the French military and his Arcadian hosts.

Which was why, as soon as Z’s voicemail filled his ear, Brick jabbed at the key to be rerouted to the club’s front desk.

He’d have better luck now. He was sure of it. Somebody was probably still in the building, though they had likely wrapped up playtime across the dungeon around midnight. He’d have preferred to speak straight to Zeke, but the guy was the father of an infant now, and sometimes “midnight snack” carried myriad new meanings.

“Bastille, front desk.”

Bingo.

As soon as the bright female voice filled the line, a grin spread across his face. If he couldn’t get Z, Caressa Fimmel was a damn close second. During the two years the woman had been the definition of indispensable for Z and him, he’d never heard a note of irritation or exhaustion in the woman’s voice. On top of that, she was a true Irish redhead with one of the most luscious figures he’d ever seen. If he was the kind of guy capable of mixing business with pleasure, he’d have likely booked her for weekly sessions at the end of his crop—and other interesting toys—but the woman had already seen the professional equivalent of his underwear drawer, and just the thought of dropping those walls for her was more bizarre than an episode of Space Force.

“Carey,” he said, rubbing a hand on his chest to ward off a fresh wave of discomfort. He’d been purposeful about using her nickname, but not because it was his usual preference. Suddenly, he felt like he had something to prove. A secret password, proving he wasn’t the big bad wolf tromping on her phone line in the middle of the night. “Hey…uhhh…it’s—”

“Holy. Shit.” The second syllable was such a giddy shriek, he was shocked not to hear tortured dog howls in the background. “Max fucking Brickham. What the hell? Is it honestly you?”

“Sure hope so.” As his grin suffused his words, the boulders in his chest dissolved. “How are you? And everyone else? What’s going on?”

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “Are you freaking serious right now? How are you? he asks. What’s going on? he also asks. Shooting my shit like there’s not a three-ring media circus right now, revolving solely around him, and—”

“All right, all right. I’ve been made aware of the crazy train. But in my defense, I only found out an hour ago, and—”

“No, no. Crazy won’t cut it,” she volleyed. “They’re rabid wolves, Brick. Thankfully not around here, since the club’s behind a corporate name. But at both ferry stops over to the island, as well as all over Whidbey itself, it’s open hunting season.”

He clenched his jaw, shifting again. His chest was still manageable, but it was because the rocks went ahead and plummeted to his gut.

“Fuck me sideways,” he growled.

“Oh, I think they’re already doing so,” Carey rejoined. “Probably a few other fun positions, as well. Not that any Dom through these doors cares to test my knowledge about the subject…”

She trailed off as he ramped up another low snarl. Damn it, how he yearned to launch into Papa Brick mode at her. To tell her not to give up—that there was a Dominant out there destined to make all her kink dreams come true. But he couldn’t. He was still locked up at the slew of daunting details she’d just revealed.

There were reporters on the ferries and traipsing all over Whidbey? Why? Unless Samsyn and Jayd had it wrong, every European media outlet had confirmed he left France on a plane likely headed for Arcadia. So what was their game in Seattle?

Shit.

Unless the story had blown bigger than they knew or he assumed and the reporters were desperate for any scoop at all. Unless they were all really sniffing around his home turf, hoping to unearth whatever new angle they could.

Shit, shit, shit.

That meant it was only a matter of time before someone sniffed harder than the rest. Until they connected him back to Bastille.

Forget fucking him sideways. This time, they’d be ramming him up the ass without a drop of lube.

That kind of media glare would turn Bastille into everything it wasn’t. A scandalous curiosity. A sordid sin pit. A place where “unnatural” people went to indulge their “perversions.”