Chapter 8
8
NICK
T he next morning, I’m up early. Sleep never really came—too much happening, too fast in some ways, too damn slow in others. In the safe house workspace, data scrolls across the monitors in cold, relentless lines. And the more I see, the clearer it becomes. It’s worse than I thought.
Hector Pardo isn’t just dirty—he’s a full-fledged traitor.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand across my jaw as I scan the decrypted files Logan pulled from Hector’s personal server. Years of illicit transactions, weapon shipments rerouted under the guise of Interpol operations, intelligence leaks sold to the highest bidder. All of it feeding directly into René Vallois’ network.
Cherise was telling the truth. I shouldn’t feel relief at that, but I do. Because it means I was right to let her in. It also means she’s in more danger than I originally thought.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I ask Logan on the phone.
“Christ,” Logan mutters. “This isn’t just corruption. This is full-blown treason.”
“I know,” I nod, even though there’s no one to see, barely acknowledging the obvious. My mind is already working through our next steps, calculating how much time we have before Vallois or Hector realize we’re on to them.
Cherise’s file—her escape, the evidence she stole—it’s all here. She was careful, but Hector must have realized what she took. She’s not just a loose end. She could be the death of him, literally.
Logan exhales. “We need to take this to Interpol…”
“No.” I cut him off before he can finish that thought. “We don’t know who’s compromised.”
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “So, what’s the play?”
The sound of footsteps crossing the floor alerts me that Cherise has entered the room. She comes to stand behind me clad in one of my assistant’s fitted sweaters and a pair of black leggings. The fire from the night before has faded into something quieter, something cautious, and fuck me, I feel it.
I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to look at her and remember how her body molded to mine when I cradled her on my lap up in the lounge at Opus Noir after our all-too-brief session. I don’t want to remember the way she gasped when I touched her, the way her pupils went dark with need when I told her to kneel.
I want to remember the years of silence. The way it felt to wake up one day and realize I could never go back. But my body doesn’t give a damn what I want.
I push back from the desk, finishing my phone call with Logan. “Get a full decryption on the rest of those files and get me an updated tracker on Vallois’ movements. If he’s got a deal coming up, I want to know before it happens.”
I end the call. Cherise has moved across the room and is standing by the window, her arms wrapped protectively around her. I stride toward her before I can second-guess myself. She hears me coming, turning just as I stop beside her. “You were right,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Hector’s deeper in this than even I thought.”
She takes a deep breath. “I didn’t know, I swear.” There’s no satisfaction in her voice, no I-told-you-so. Just exhaustion. She looks up at me then, her green eyes wary. “What happens now?”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I step closer, letting her feel the space between us shrink. “Now, Cerberus does what Cerberus does best. We take them down.”
Her lips part slightly, her breath shallow. I see the flicker of something in her gaze—something vulnerable, something she’s trying to hide.
I reach out, cupping her chin between my fingers, forcing her to hold my stare. “But that means you follow my lead, Cherise. Your life—hell, our lives—both depend on it. No more arguing. You do what I say, when I say it.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “And if I don’t?”
My grip tightens just slightly, enough to make her breath catch. “Then I’ll make you.”
Her pupils dilate; she’s aroused. I can tell she hates how she responds to me, but she doesn’t pull away. I release her just as abruptly, stepping back. “Take it easy,” I say, my voice rougher than before. “We move on Hector and Vallois soon.”
She exhales shakily, nodding. But as she turns to leave, I catch her wrist, holding her still.
I lower my voice, just for her. “I truly thought I did what was best, Cherise, for the both of us.”
She looks up at me, and for the first time since she walked back into my life, I see something break in her expression. “I don’t doubt it,” she whispers, and then she’s gone, leaving me standing alone, my chest tight, my fists clenched.
She shouldn’t be able to get under my skin this way, but she does—she always did.
* * *
That night we go back to Opus Noir . Cherise stands beside me, watching the room with a wary fascination that she’s trying desperately to mask, but I see right through her. I always have.
Tonight, the club hums with a darker kind of energy. The main dungeon is quieter, more exclusive. This isn't for the casual voyeurs who come for a taste of the lifestyle without truly understanding it. This is for the initiates, the experienced, and the ones who crave the deeper layers of control and surrender.
I guide her through the club, my hand firm at the small of her back. She’s dressed the way I told her to be—an emerald-green corset hugging her curves, a delicate lace thong underneath that offers the barest hint of modesty. She hadn’t fought me on it this time. That alone tells me more than she realizes. She’s resisting less.
Good. because tonight, I intend to teach her something very important.
"Why are we here?" she asks, her voice even, but I catch the slight hitch in her breath.
I lead her toward a private room, where a heavy crimson curtain separates the space from the rest of the club. "Because you need to understand how this world works. You need to know the kind of man I am now."
Her gaze flickers to mine. “I already know what kind of man you are.”
I push the curtain aside and guide her inside. "No, sweetheart. You don’t."
The room is intimate, dimly lit, designed for control and submission. A St. Andrew’s cross stands against one wall, a padded bench sits in the center, and an array of tools—floggers, cuffs, restraints—hang neatly on display. The air is thick with anticipation.
Across the room, a Dom—Matthias Varenne, one of Opus Noir’s most respected trainers—stands with his sub, a petite brunette named Alina. She’s bound at the wrists, her body relaxed in anticipation.
Cherise tenses beside me, eyes flicking between the couple and me. "Why are we watching this?"
"Because I need you to see what trust looks like."
Matthias moves with practiced precision, trailing the falls of a soft flogger down Alina’s back. She shivers but doesn’t flinch. When he finally strikes, her head tilts back, her mouth parting in pleasure, not pain.
I lean into Cherise, my breath a whisper against her ear. "She’s not afraid, is she?"
Cherise swallows. "No."
"Because she trusts him." I brush my fingers down her arm, feeling the slight shiver that runs through her. "That’s what submission is, Cherise. It’s not about pain. It’s about giving up control and knowing you’re safe."
She inhales slowly, as if she needs to remind herself to breathe.
"Come here."
She turns to me, suspicion warring with curiosity. "What?"
I take her hand, guiding her to the padded bench in the center of the room. I don’t force her. I don’t have to. Her body follows on instinct, even as her mind fights the pull.
"I’m not binding you," I murmur, my hands resting on her hips. "I’m not even restraining you. All I want is for you to trust me."
Her pulse jumps against her throat. "And if I don’t?"
I tighten my grip, just enough to remind her who’s in control here. "Then you walk away. But we both know you won’t."
I ease her down onto the bench, guiding her until she’s settled on her knees, her arms resting against the cushioned surface.
"Close your eyes."
"Nick…"
"Close. Your. Eyes." I repeat.
She hesitates, then obeys.
Good girl.
I move behind her, running the leather falls of a flogger down the exposed skin of her back. Not striking. Just letting her feel the weight of it as she shudders.
"Breathe," I command softly.
She does.
I trail the flogger lower, across the curve of her ass, between her thighs. Her body is taut, waiting for something, bracing for it. I give her what she’s waiting for.
The first strike is featherlight, barely more than a whisper against her skin. She gasps, her fingers curling into the cushion. The second is firmer.
Her back arches.
"Still with me?" I ask, my voice low.
"Yes."
I reward her with another.
Her body hums beneath my touch, instinctively seeking more even as she fights the surrender.
"Good girl," I murmur, dragging my hand over the warmed skin where the flogger landed. She trembles at the contact, her body betraying her once again.
I lean over her, my chest pressing lightly against her back. "Now, tell me what you’re feeling."
She hesitates, her breath coming fast. "I don’t know."
I smile against her ear. "You do. Say it."
She swallows hard. "Alive."
That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. I pull back, studying her. Her eyes are still closed, her lips parted, her body buzzing with the aftermath of submission. She’s beautiful like this.
And I am completely fucked. I step away before I do something I can’t take back. “Come with me,” I say quietly and lead her up to the lounge, taking a seat and moving a floor pillow between my legs, nodding to it.
She doesn’t have to be told. She sinks onto the pillow and rests her head against my thigh. She needs to feel this. To understand what submission really is. That it isn’t weakness. It isn’t about losing control—it’s about giving it, and for the first time in the dungeon, I see her do just that.
She shifts slightly, finding a more comfortable position, never moving her head. I stroke her hair with my hand, absently. She finally looks up, her green eyes filled with something I don’t quite expect. Curiosity. "Say something," she murmurs, her voice hoarse.
I take my time before I respond. "You liked that."
A shiver runs through her, barely perceptible. "I didn’t say that."
"You didn’t have to."
I watch as she swallows, her throat working, her mind trying to piece together what just happened between us. She’s overwhelmed. She’s exhilarated. And she has no idea what the hell to do with those emotions.
Which is exactly why I have to stop this.
I stand, more slowly this time, scrubbing a hand through my hair to steady myself. "Cherise... we can’t let this go any further."
Her brow pulls together, confusion flashing across her face. "What?"
"This," I say, motioning between us, between whatever this current is that keeps pulling us closer, tighter. "It has to stop. Before it costs us both more than we can afford."
Her mouth parts, disbelief softening the anger that’s starting to rise. "Excuse me?"
"You’re not getting dragged deeper into this," I say, my voice low but firm. "You did enough bringing me the intel. You did more than enough surviving everything they threw at you. Let me handle it from here."
She lets out a brittle laugh, one that cuts deeper than she knows. "Right. Because I’m just supposed to disappear while you charge in and fix everything?"
I step closer, not in anger but something closer to desperation, careful to keep my hands at my sides because if I touch her now, I won’t stop. "You don’t know what’s waiting out there, Cherise. This isn’t just about information anymore. It’s about survival. Yours."
Her chin lifts in defiance, and God, she’s beautiful when she fights. "You don’t get to decide that for me."
I take a deep breath, willing her to hear the truth I can't quite say out loud. "I’m not doing this because I don’t believe in you. I’m doing it because I do. Because losing you again would finish me."
The words slip out before I can pull them back. Her eyes widen, just slightly, but I press on before either of us can get swallowed by what hangs between us.
"You’re involved because you were brave enough to stand up. Brave enough to come to me. But it’s my job to keep you breathing. It always has been."
The fire in her gaze falters, just a fraction, but enough that it nearly breaks me.
"I’m not trying to lock you away," I say, voice thick. "I'm trying to give you the chance to live. To be free of all of this."
She holds my stare, her breathing uneven. Her body says she wants to fight me. But her heart—her heart’s breaking right there with mine.
I force myself to turn away first, breaking whatever invisible tether keeps us locked together. Cherise doesn’t argue. She just trails after me in silence, her footsteps light but steady, like she's walking through a door she knows she can't close again.
The drive back is quiet. Heavy. She keeps her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring out the window at the darkened streets, the lights of Monte Carlo blurring past like ghosts. I keep my eyes on the road, jaw locked, muscles aching with the need to say something—anything—but knowing that words won’t fix this. Not now.
She deserves better than the half-truths and the walls I keep shoving between us.
By the time we reach the safe house, dawn is just a ghost on the horizon. She disappears into the guest room without a sound. In the hallway, I stand for a long minute after the door clicks shut, my hand pressed flat against the wood, willing her somehow to hear everything I’m too much of a coward to say.
I should leave her out of this. I know that. But when morning comes and the mission calls, she's there—already dressed, already ready, like she made the choice for both of us.
And maybe I hate myself for how much I need her standing beside me.