Chapter 6
6
NICK
C herise is here. Yesterday I put her up in one of Opus Noir’s privacy suites, which is not ideal. I wonder fleetingly if she noticed the St. Andrew’s cross in the room or even understood its purpose.
Today it feels like a lifetime has passed, although I know it’s only been ten years. She’s seated in a chair across the desk from me. She’s here. She’s alive, and she’s standing in my world, looking like she’s seconds from bolting.
I lean back to listen to her version of how she got herself into this mess. It pretty much confirms what we’ve been able to find out. Hector Pardo is a traitor and a bastard of the first order, and Vallois is a cancer that needs to be eradicated.
I shouldn’t be affected by her; shouldn’t let the memory of how her body once felt beneath mine creep into my being like an insidious whisper. But my mind is a traitor, bringing back the scent of her skin, the way she used to melt for me with the slightest command.
She shouldn’t be here, yet she is.
I inhale, slow and measured, before pushing off the desk. I can’t afford distractions. Not with Vallois moving weapons through Monte Carlo like the rat bastard he is. How the fuck did she get messed up in all of this?
We have a brief and awkward conversation. I find myself crossing my arms and leaning back—I try to catch myself. Exhibiting body language that hints that I may feel a need to defend myself isn’t good, but I can’t seem to stop. I confirm for Cherise that she’s in danger, but that we’ll keep her safe. I also let her know from this point forward, she’s not in control. I am. I lay down the ground rules to which she agrees. I don’t think she realizes fully the chain of events she set in motion. She may well find following my rules is not as easy as she believes it will be.
She was pissed yesterday—she had a right to be. Today, the anger seems to have given way to fear. That’s good. Maybe she’ll listen to me and do what I tell her. If she does, she might just survive whatever’s coming. She may not realize it, but her actions have ignited a firestorm. I only hope I can keep her from getting burned.
I see the way her throat moves as she swallows, the way her body responds to me even when she’s trying to hold her ground. That part hasn’t changed. Neither has the way I want to push her past those defenses, past the polished facade she’s spent years perfecting.
But first, I need to deal with the people trying to kill her.
* * *
I’ve changed into my leathers before I lead Cherise onto the dungeon floor, the chandeliers casting a golden light that refracts off mirrors and polished mahogany. Plush velvet seating curves around low tables where men and women drink expensive whiskey and watch the night unfold.
Cherise stays close to my side, her body humming with the awareness of where she is, what this place represents. The corset I chose for her fits like a glove, a dark, sapphire blue that brings out the storm in the colored contacts. The thong offers little in the way of leaving anything to the imagination.
Interesting that her sex is well-groomed. I wonder if Hector allowed her some curls, or did he insist on being bare? I know which one I would have insisted on. The outfit borders on indecent—because I want them to look. I want every man in this club to know she belongs to me.
She hasn’t said a word since we entered, but I feel her gaze on me, the heat rolling off her in waves.
I pause by the bar, my fingers grazing the small of her back. "Stay close."
She snorts, but she obeys.
Good girl.
Logan Radcliffe, formerly with British Intelligence or MI-6, steps from the shadows with the effortless precision only the English ever seem to master. His tailored leathers are immaculate—of course they are—and he surveys Cherise with a raised brow and a flash of dry amusement.
“So this is the notorious ex-fiancée,” he muses, voice smooth as single malt and twice as sharp. “Must say, mate, she’s a damn sight more intriguing than the files suggested.”
Cherise stiffens; her spine straightens. "I’m right here, you know."
Logan chuckles—even that seems to have an English accent—but I cut him off with a look. "Cherise, you’re a sub in a lifestyle club. You don’t speak to Doms in that manner. Do it again and I’ll put you on high protocol.”
“What’s that?”
“It means you don’t speak until your Dom, that would be me, tells you to.” I turn back to Logan. “Status on Vallois?"
His expression hardens. “He’s been maneuvering, quietly. Word is, he’s about to secure himself a new supplier.”
I nod. "Keep your eyes on him. I don’t like how fast this is escalating."
Cherise shifts beside me, arms crossed. "You’re talking like this is a war."
I glance down at her. "That’s because it is. And lose the attitude,"
Her breath hitches, but before she can say anything, a familiar figure steps into view.
Valentine Duret—one of Vallois’ men.
His gaze locks on Cherise, curiosity flickering behind the smooth facade.
I react without thinking. My hand slides to the back of Cherise’s neck, fingers threading into her hair as I pull her flush against me. "Kneel," I murmur against her ear. “Spread your legs and bow your head so Valentine doesn’t get a good look at your face.”
She tenses. " Nick...”
"Now."
A heartbeat of hesitation. Then, she obeys, sinking gracefully to her knees. A perfect, beautiful submission. Jealousy flashes through my brain. Where did she learn that? Had Hector taught her? Valentine raises a brow but says nothing, moving past without stopping. When I’m sure he’s gone, I release my breath and look down at Cherise. Her chest rises and falls, her lips parted, her pupils blown wide.
I extend my hand. She takes it, but the way she looks at me when she stands tells me everything. I may have just played my role to perfection, but so has she.
Opus Noir hums with life around us, a slow, indulgent pulse of whispered commands, moaned responses, and the unmistakable crack of leather meeting skin. The scent of warmed leather and exotic perfume lingers in the air, mixing with the low thrum of music that keeps the energy just below a fever pitch.
Cherise stays close, her eyes scanning the lounge, taking in the world she’s just been dropped into. She’s bracing for something—what exactly, I’m not sure. Maybe for me to push her into submission, or maybe for me to humiliate her or make her feel owned. But that’s not how this works, not unless the sub wants it that way.
Submission isn’t taken. It’s given, and right now, she doesn’t know what the hell she wants.
She crosses her arms, her voice sharp. "So, what now? You parade me around like your new prize?"
I glance down at her, my expression unreadable. "I don’t parade and you’re not a prize." I lean in, lowering my voice just enough to make her breath catch. "But if you keep looking at me like you want a fight, I’ll be happy to put you on your knees, shove a ball gag in your mouth and show you what losing feels like."
Her pulse flutters in her throat, but she doesn’t move away—a challenge. No problem, I accept. I slide a possessive hand to her lower back, guiding her forward. She stiffens slightly but doesn’t resist.
Good girl.
We move deeper into the club; the sound of a flogger being used draws her attention to the raised platform at the center of the dungeon floor. A woman is bound to a St. Andrew’s cross, her wrists and ankles secured, her body writhing as each stroke of the flogger lands across her back and thighs. The Dom wielding it is precise, controlled. His strikes are more caress than punishment, his sub’s cries laced with pleasure, not pain.
Cherise inhales sharply. I watch her closely. She’s fascinated. Curious. And giving off signs of arousal—her scent, her dilated pupils, her flushed skin.
Her chest rises and falls, her lips parting as she watches the way the woman’s body absorbs each strike, the way she melts into the sensation, offering herself freely.
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. "Breathe, Cherise."
She shudders, snapping out of whatever haze she’d just fallen into. "I—what?"
I chuckle, knowing exactly what’s happening. "You liked that."
She huffs out a breath, her cheeks flushing. "That’s not...”
"Don’t lie to me." I grip her chin, turning her face toward mine. "Not here. Not when I can see exactly what you’re thinking."
She tries to look away, but I don’t let her.
"You want to know how it feels?" I ask, my voice low, intimate.
Her breath catches. "I don’t...”
I tilt her chin up gently, forcing her to meet my eyes. "One word, Cherise... if you want out, I’ll walk you out of here and hand you over to the authorities. No questions. No judgment."
“Hector is the authorities—at least part of them,” she whispers, voice tight.
I exhale slowly, letting the tension bleed off. "All right," I say, quieter now. "Cerberus will protect you."
“I don’t want Cerberus to protect me,” she says fiercely. “I don’t know them. I know you. I need you to protect me.”
Something inside me twists, something I thought I'd buried a long time ago. I nod once, steady and certain. "Then you do it my way. You trust me. You follow my lead."
Something flickers across her face—fear, defiance, a decade’s worth of grief and hope colliding. But underneath it all, I see what matters most: she still trusts me. She always has.
"Fine," she says, barely above a whisper.
I slide my fingers over the column of her throat, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse. "Good girl."
Her pupils dilate at the praise.
I lead her toward the platform, stopping just at the edge where the Dom is finishing his demonstration. The audience murmurs their approval as the scene ends, the submissive’s body still shivering from the impact, her eyes glassy with pleasure.
I turn to Cherise, my fingers tracing the delicate line of her arm. "Your turn."
She inhales sharply; her gaze snapping to mine. "Nick?"
"Trust me."
Her hands clench at her sides, and I know she’s fighting herself. But then, with a slow, measured breath, she nods.
I step onto the platform, my presence commanding immediate attention. The crowd stills, eyes tracking my every movement.
Cherise stands before me, hesitant but proud, her chin lifted in defiance even as she submits.
I reach for the flogger, testing its weight, making sure she watches the way I handle it.
"Turn around and take hold of the cross," I instruct. She hesitates only a second before obeying. I loosen her corset, and she grasps at it as it begins to fall away. “Hands on the cross or I’ll put you in restraints facing the audience.”
“Bastard,” she hisses.
"Good girl," I murmur again, just to see her reaction. Her breathing falters.
I move behind her, letting the leather strands whisper over her shoulders, her back, not striking yet—just letting her feel the anticipation, the possibility.
"Nick," she murmurs, her voice unsteady.
"Shh," I soothe. "Let me show you what this can be. Let me help you get rid of the tension that is riddling your body. Let go." And then I strike. Not hard. Just enough to awaken her skin, to send a sharp, tingling heat radiating outward. She gasps, her body tense, but she doesn’t pull away.
Another stroke. Firmer this time.
She shudders, her lips parting, her body swaying toward me instead of away.
I let the flogger drag over the back of her thighs, watching her tremble. "Still with me?"
She nods; her voice breathless. "Yes."
I lean in, letting my breath brush her neck. "Good."
The next strike lands perfectly across the backs of her thighs, and she moans before she can stop herself. Her reaction is immediate. Raw. Pure need.
And fuck, I feel it too. My blood is on fire, my cock already hard at the sound of her surrender.
I drop the flogger, spinning her to face me, my hands gripping her waist, pulling her against me. Her pupils are blown wide, her breath shaky.
"You feel it now, don’t you?" I murmur.
She swallows, her fingers gripping my shirt. "I—I don’t...”
I catch her chin, tilting her face up. "Don’t lie to me, Cherise."
Her chest heaves, and for a second, I think she’ll deny it, but then she licks her lips, her body betraying her. "Yes," she whispers.
And just like that, I know. She’s mine—at least for the duration of the fight. I surprise myself as the thought crosses my mind: if I play my cards right, if I can keep her alive, maybe for much longer than that.