Chapter 15
Dahlia
I catch myself in the mirror of the penthouse’s elevator, my breath catching at the reflection. Me, in sheer black latex, a corset that laces tight up the back, long gloves that reach past my elbows, and the delicate line of the leather collar gleaming around my throat. No underwear. No escape.
The collar feels heavier tonight. Not in weight, but in meaning.
Dante stands behind me, tall and sharp in his obsidian suit, dark eyes locked on mine in the glass.
"Color?" he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
I whisper, "Green."
He kisses my temple. "Good girl."
My stomach knots. I don’t know if it’s dread or desire.
Maybe both.
Because tonight, we walk into the belly of the beast. The Gilded Cage—where names don’t matter, only power. And we’re going hunting.
The head of the Vesper Syndicate, the ghost behind a thousand ruined lives, is here. Dante confirmed it hours ago, combing through private networks of the sex club, triangulating locations. And if we don’t make our move now, the trail will go cold.
But what I didn’t expect—what I hadn’t counted on—is the weight in Dante’s voice. The way he watches me like this might be the last time. The desperation under his dominance.
It scares me more than the mission.
Dante
I shouldn’t have brought her.
But the second I thought about leaving her behind, I imagined her going off-script, hacking in without backup, putting herself in danger. Again.
She’s under my skin. Under my fucking soul.
And tonight, if things go south, there’s no telling how far the Vespers will go to silence her.
Under different circumstances, I would’ve saved her first real-life visit for when the concrete version of The Club was finished in San Francisco. But even that speaks to a future that widens the cracks inside me.
Focus .
The doors to the members-only club in Lower Manhattan open to us like a heartbeat—dark, throbbing, seductive.
Red velvet walls, bodies in motion, skin slick and glistening under strobe light. Eyes track Dahlia the moment we step in. Her tits press against the corset like a fucking invitation. But she’s mine.
Tonight, everyone will know.
“Stay close,” I say, voice low but firm.
“I always do,” she murmurs, slipping her hand into mine.
I should feel in control. Instead, I feel like I’m losing it.
Dahlia
I expected the sex club—since I was a submissive—to make me feel small. To feel overwhelmed by leather and leashes, the pounding bass of want echoing off the walls, the collective hunger in every look.
Instead, it makes me feel seen .
Because here, my submission isn’t weakness.
It’s currency. Power. A declaration of strength in surrender.
Dante’s fingers rest lightly on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd—less a nudge, more a silent tether. Every inch of my body is on display: black mesh corset, no bra, a collar so subtle most wouldn’t clock it as what it is unless they knew. And in here, everyone knows .
“Eyes up,” Dante murmurs in my ear, breath hot. “Confidence, not apology.”
I nod and keep moving. Past sin-drenched lounges, curtained alcoves hiding moans and power plays, red-lit rooms where shadows become theater. The scent of sweat and sex clings to the velvet-lined air.
A near-naked server walks us to a curved booth, and Dante helps me into it.
The man loitering near us watches me with too much interest—his eyes skating down my thighs, lingering on the curve of my breast. I feel the heat of Dante’s glare before I even look at him.
“Eyes the fuck off,” Dante says sharply. The man flinches and vanishes into the crowd.
“Was that necessary?” I tease under my breath, my lips barely moving. “If I had a whip, I’d have used it.” His voice is dark silk.
I smile. I shouldn't be enjoying this. I shouldn't feel this wanted here, but I do. Not just for my body—but for what it means when I kneel for him. For what it costs me. That makes it mean more.
Drinks arrive. I sip my fruity cocktail, moaning at the sublime explosion of passionfruit and rum.
Dante’s brow rises at the sound I make, then his eyes roam all over me, ownership-stamping. “You want a tour after you finish that?”
I swallow. Nod. “Yes, please, Sir.”
Dark eyes flare. He nods. Pleasure explodes beneath my skin. A handful of weeks ago, I would’ve hysteri-sobbed into my cereal if anyone had dared to tell me those three little words would make my pussy wet.
Now they spill freely with a terrifying willingness.
The moment I drain my glass, he rises. “Come, pet.”
The Gilded Cage is a cathedral of hedonism—smoke-laced air, velvet-draped alcoves, bodies in all shapes and sizes, in service, in pleasure.
I walk half a step behind Dante, my collar catching the low light with every breath. He’s calm. Controlled. But his loose hold on my wrist never leaves me.
I see thrones. Cages. A Saint Andrew’s cross lit like an altar.
My heart stutters at the sight of the naked woman tied to it. Head thrown back in abject pleasure as a man wielding a whip flays her. Thighs. Breasts. Belly.
Dante leans down, voice silk and steel in my ear. “Not everything here is for you, little thief. But everything I give you will be.”
The private room he chooses is all dark velvet and low lighting, the kind of place where shadows cling to the walls and secrets are expected, not hidden.
A leather bench takes up the center, flanked by mounted rings, silk ropes, and mirrored panels.
The glass wall on one side is tinted, but I sense we’re being watched.
That’s part of it.
That’s part of him.
Dante closes the door behind us, locking it with a soft, metallic click. I stand where he left me, breath shallow, body already alive with nerves and want. Because I know what’s coming. I asked for it. Begged for it.
And tonight, I aim to earn it.
He steps closer, circling. His eyes take in every inch of me—collared, dressed to tempt, already wet.
“You trust me, little thief?”
“Yes, Sir.”
His hand lifts. Strokes down my jaw. His touch is reverent. “Good. I want them to see. I want them to know that you belong to me.”
I shiver. He sees it. Smiles.
“Strip,” he says softly. “Slowly. Keep your eyes on mine.”
Ties. Fabric. Skin. I obey.
When I’m naked and trembling, he leads me to the bench and bends me over it—slow, careful, like I’m precious. Because to him, I am. His to wield. His to vanquish.
He binds my wrists to the rings with crimson silk. Fastens my ankles wide. Then his hands trail up my thighs, over the plug still in place from earlier, until I whimper.
“Color.”
“Green, Sir.”
“Such a good submissive,” he murmurs. “You’re becoming everything I promised to make you.”
His mouth finds my neck. My shoulder. The base of my spine. “You begged me to teach you. Look at you now.”
He unfastens the plug that’s become a part of my daily routine now with a twist that makes me gasp. “You’re going to feel every inch of me, Dahlia.”
He circles me again. Again. Trailing. Savoring . Kissing. Biting my nipples. Until slick drips down my thighs and hunger claws through my soul. “Please, Sir. Fuck me. Please.”
A clack of his belt releasing. The grind of a zipper as my breath catches in anticipation. Then he’s there. Poised. My Dom and desired doom.
I moan as he lines himself up—hot and hard and relentless.
Then he pushes in. Slow. Unforgiving.
“God,” I cry out.
“That’s right,” he growls. “Take it. Take your Master’s cock. Show them what you’re made of. Who you were made for.”
He fucks me with brutal reverence—one hand gripping my hip, the other sliding around to rub slow, wicked circles over my clit.
“You feel this?” he breathes. “This stretch, this fullness? That’s me filling every inch of your greedy little body. Opening you up to who you were meant to be.”
“Yes—Sir—I—Thank you.”
He hisses. Grows impossibly thicker. “Again. Thank your Master again, sweet Dahlia.”
Two hands on my hips, his grip cruel and steady and keeping me in the crosshairs of pleasure. “Th-thank you, Sir.”
“Tell me how you feel. Tell me why you’re dripping like a faucet. Tell me why this little cunt is strangling my cock like I owe it rent money?”
“Yes… no… Sir… God, please. More!”
“More of what, my little cum-slut?” His voice is a sea of gravel. “Tell me why you need more.”
My vision hazes. “Because it’s good. Fuck it’s the best. You’re the best, Sir!”
He thickens, fatter, drags his piercings over every sensitive cell. My body responds. Tightening. Slicking. Desperate for release. He knows, of course. Feels everything.
And he growls his warning. “You don’t get to come yet. Not until you prove it.”
“P-prove what?” I whimper.
“That you’re mine. That you surrender.”
He grabs a fistful of my hair, pulls me upright until my back arches, my breath ragged.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of my jaw. “You were made for this. For me.”
I nod, nearly sobbing with the effort of holding back. “Please.”
He rewards me with another thrust. Then another. Then stops.
“You want to come, little thief?” His voice is fire in my ear. “Then give me your eyes. Right here.”
He spins me around so I’m facing him, fills my vision with him. Only him. He strokes himself slowly while watching me tremble, spread wide and wrecked.
His other hand rubs at my wet cheeks, at the tears that have fallen in his honor.
Then he pulls me close, takes my tongue with his in a filthy, sloppy kiss.
“Keep your eyes on me when you come,” he says. “Don’t you fucking look away.”
I don’t.
And when he slides back into me and gives me everything— everything —I shatter. Gasping, sobbing, broken open in every way.
And still, he holds me.
“Perfect,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”
Dahlia
I’m boneless when we return to our seat, courtesy of two more orgasms and the best aftercare in the world.
Dante starts to raise a brow when I order another cocktail, but then he stills beside me.
My heart slows. Follows his gaze. “Who’s that?” I ask.
“Varric. Vesper Syndicate.”
I nod. Watch him from beneath my lashes.