Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
ARCHER
A rcher had spent the past ten years hunting the worst kind of men. The kind who saw people as commodities, who whispered in dark corners about shipments rather than human lives. He’d spent those years tracking them, dismantling their operations, and ensuring they never saw daylight again.
That kind of work left scars. Some were visible, most were not.
Which was why he was here—Club Southside. It wasn’t just a place for him to play; it was a place where he could observe. Watch without being watched. Unwind without truly relaxing.
Archer sat in his usual spot, a dimly lit booth near the back, nursing a bourbon he didn’t plan on finishing. The club pulsed with low music, a steady beat that hummed through the floor. Subtle sounds filled the air—gasps of pleasure, quiet commands from Doms, the occasional murmur of conversation.
He barely registered any of it.
Because his focus kept straying to her.
Lanie Cross.
She moved behind the bar with careful efficiency, stacking plates, wiping down the counter, trying too damn hard to make herself invisible. But he saw her.
He always saw her.
She differed from the other women who worked at Club Southside. The subs here moved with purpose, with confidence. Even when they weren’t playing, they carried themselves with a quiet assurance, secure in who they were, and that they were safe.
But Lanie? She was all contradiction.
Timid, but not weak. Shy, but with an undercurrent of something deeper—fire, maybe. It was in the way her hands never quite stopped moving, in the way she hesitated when someone got too close, yet never truly backed down.
When he’d first gotten into the lifestyle, he’d never been the kind of man to be drawn to fragile things. Lanie wasn’t fragile, but often he needed to break down submissives like her before rebuilding them. The trick was to do so without damaging the person within.
The more he understood it, the more he realized he had spent his whole life in service of one kind or another. A Dom who served his sub was just one more step along that road, and recognizing he was actually a Daddy Dom—a Dom who takes on a nurturing, protective, and authoritative role in the dynamic with his or her partner—had been the next step along his path. Unlike a traditional Dom, a Daddy Dom often emphasized care, guidance, and emotional support while maintaining control and enforcing discipline.
There was something broken about Lanie… something that called to him to help her rebuild whatever she had lost. He had to give it to her. It seemed she was trying. And that intrigued him more than it should have.
“Didn’t know you were into the quiet ones,” a voice drawled beside him. “I thought you were the resident brat tamer.”
Archer didn’t need to look to know who had slid into the booth across from him. Mason Carter, one of his informants—and a Cerberus asset who had more connections to the underground than Archer was comfortable with.
“I’m not,” Archer said, keeping his voice neutral.
Mason chuckled. “Sure. That’s why you’ve been staring at her for the past hour.”
Archer didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood for games.
Mason leaned back, stretching out like an alley cat who’d just snagged a bowl of cream. “Relax, Vaughn. Just came to share some intel.”
Archer shifted his gaze from Lanie and focused fully on Mason. “Talk.”
The affable grin on Mason’s face faded just a fraction. “Heard a name I thought you’d be interested in.” He took a slow sip of his drink before continuing. “Vinnie Molina.”
Every muscle in Archer’s body went tight.
Mason had his attention now. Archer nodded, “Go on.”
“Rumor has it he’s trying to reconnect with the major players. He kept a low profile for a while—guess he had some personal issues to deal with.”
Molina had been a low-level recruiter for one of the most vile trafficking networks Archer had ever encountered. Molina was the kind of scum who groomed. He didn’t snatch girls off the street. No, he earned their trust, conditioned them, and then delivered them straight into hell.
Archer’s fingers curled around his glass. “Who’s he working with?”
Mason shrugged. “Unclear. But the name keeps floating around, and when I hear a snake slithering back into the pit, I figure it’s worth mentioning.” He tilted his head. “You got a history with this one?”
Archer didn’t answer.
Because his eyes had drifted back to Lanie.
And suddenly, a very dangerous thought slithered into his mind.
Personal issues.
His gut twisted. He didn’t believe in coincidences. And the unease Lanie carried, the way she flinched at unexpected touches, the way she seemed to always be on guard…
It wasn’t just his interest in her making connections now, it was instinct.
He turned back to Mason. “Where’s he operating?”
Mason exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Like I said, not sure. But I can dig.” His gaze flickered toward Lanie, interest sparking. “That one of yours?”
A low warning settled into Archer’s tone. “No.”
Mason lifted an eyebrow, but his grin widened. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Archer ignored the jab. “Find out where Molina’s been. I want every detail.”
Mason saluted lazily. “You got it, boss.”
Archer leaned back, forcing himself to think. He wondered at her reaction from hearing Molina’s name. Could she have overheard something, or was she connected to Molina in some other way. If she was, she wasn’t safe.
And if that were so, he had a problem.
Lanie moved through the lounge like she was trying to disappear, shoulders drawn in, hands gripping an empty tray so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. The club’s usual atmosphere—the low thrum of music, the steady murmur of conversation, the occasional crack of a whip or soft moan from one of the private rooms—had no effect on her. She wasn’t absorbing the energy of the place the way the other submissives did.
She was enduring it, and she was struggling.
Archer had been watching her all night, not by choice, but because his instincts wouldn’t allow otherwise.
Lanie had that kind of fragile strength that made men like him take notice. The kind that showed she had been broken before but was still standing. They weren’t all in one piece, but they were picking up the pieces, trying to figure out how to make them whole again. The kind that made men like Vinnie Molina salivate at the idea of exploiting them.
A low growl vibrated in his chest at the thought, but he pushed it down. He was here to unwind, not to fix things that weren’t his business.
But when Lanie tried to weave through the crowd and a club patron grabbed her wrist, her body jerking in alarm, Archer was moving before he even thought about it. This was the second time a patron had put hands on her. Perhaps King should go over the rules again. Club Southside did not tolerate that kind of behavior.
He reached her in three strides, his hand closing over the man’s arm before she could yank free.
“Hands off,” Archer ordered, voice quiet but lethal.
The man startled, looking up with a hazy, half-drunken expression. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he muttered, releasing Lanie immediately.
Archer didn’t let go. His grip remained firm, his gaze steady. “She works here. She’s not here for you.”
The message was plain to see. Not available. Not an option. Not yours.
The man nodded quickly, stepping back and disappearing into the crowd.
His attention shifting to Lanie—she stood frozen, her breath coming faster than it should, her wide doe eyes locked onto him. He expected her to pull away, to mutter a quick “I’m fine” and disappear into the kitchen.
She didn’t.
Instead, she took a breath. A deep one. Like she was forcing herself to remember where she was, who she was.
That fire was still in her, even under the fear—another thing Archer liked more than he should.
“Come with me,” he said, voice softer now. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
Lanie hesitated, just for a second, then nodded.
He guided her out of the crowd, keeping his body angled between her and anyone who might try to test his warning. She was too on edge, too shaken, and it irritated him. She shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of thing.
They reached a quiet hallway near the club’s back entrance, dimly lit and lined with sleek black walls. The noise from the lounge faded, replaced by the low hum of the ventilation system.
Lanie let out a breath and finally looked at him. “I had it handled.”
Archer crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “Did you?”
Her jaw tensed. “I could’ve walked away.”
He nodded slowly. “You could have. But you didn’t.”
She didn’t have a response to that.
Instead, she folded her arms, mirroring his stance, though the effect was very different. Despite her small size compared to his, he knew she would fight fiercely if she had to.
And that’s what got to him. He’d seen plenty of survivors in his life. Women who had been through hell and come out on the other side. Some had hardened, some had broken. Lanie seemed to still be trying to figure it out.
And for the first time in years, something inside Archer shifted—an instinct deeper than duty, something undeniably possessive.
He protected people. Submissives. Those who needed it. It was what he did.
But this? This was different. This felt personal. And that was dangerous.
His jaw tightened. “You don’t like crowds.”
Lanie blinked, startled by the change in topic. “What?”
“You don’t like people touching you. You don’t enjoy being the center of attention.” He kept his voice even. “So, why are you here?”
She hesitated. He saw the flicker of uncertainty, the instinct to retreat behind a quick excuse. But then she surprised him.
“I’m not a member of the club, but I wanted to see if there might be something here for me,” she admitted. “To see if I could be… normal again.”
Archer exhaled through his nose, studying her. “And?”
She gave a half-laugh. “Jury’s still out.”
He didn’t smile, but something shifted inside him.
“You don’t have to force yourself,” he said. “You get to decide what normal looks like for you.”
Lanie looked at him like she didn’t quite believe that. Like no one had ever told her that before.
Before he could say anything else, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Work.
He pulled it out, glancing at the message.
Cerberus Op: URGENT. Molina linked to expanding BDSM trafficking ring in Chicago. New players in town. Details incoming.
A slow burn started in Archer’s chest.
Molina.
That was twice in one night his name had come up. And if Cerberus was already flagging an expansion into BDSM spaces, it meant shit was about to get dangerous.
Archer kept his expression unreadable as he tucked his phone away. This wasn’t a coincidence. Molina wasn’t just back—he was moving in on this territory.
And if that was the case, then Lanie might be in more danger than she realized.
His gaze flicked back to her, still standing there, still watching him like she was trying to figure him out.
Archer had spent years building a wall between his work and his personal life.
But for the first time in a long time, that wall cracked.
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Lanie.”
She swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Do you trust me?”
Her lips parted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. Then, finally, she whispered, “I think so.”
That was good enough... for now.