Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
PENELOPE
Velvet’s lighting is soft,and flattering, the kind that turns every shadow into a secret.
I pad across the marble in bare feet, skin prickling as the cool floor kisses my soles.
My corset’s navy blue, satin with boning that presses against my ribs just enough to remind me to breathe shallow.
The matching panties ride high on my hips, lace brushing my skin every time I move.
My necklace sits at my collarbone, the weight familiar.
Two tokens hang from it tonight, white and orange, both facing out.
I have never worn both this openly. A quiet announcement: I can take or I can give, and I haven’t decided which.
No partner booked. No plan. I could keep my room dark and go home untouched. I could let someone with steady hands close the door behind us and tell me to kneel. I could pull a man by his belt and feel him shake when I tell him to ask nicely. I’m two women tonight, and each wants to win.
I walk up to the bar, take a stool and set my palm on the bartop, heartbeat slowing under the club’s steady pulse. “Lunchbox,” I tell Hadley, who runs the bar like a benevolent queen.
She smiles. “Rough day or restless night?”
“A little bit of both.”
She mixes my drink without another word. The amaretto and orange juice smell sweet and strong. I take a slow sip and scan the room.
Tokens everywhere. Green. Blue. Red. White. It’s like watching a language only certain people understand. I like it that way—like being fluent in something private.
There’s a girl kneeling by the stage, head tilted up, waiting. A dom stands behind her, hand on her shoulder. He’s saying something soft, something that makes her smile. I feel that ache in my chest, the good kind, the one that means I’m too far inside my own head again.
If Gideon were here, I wouldn’t be thinking at all. I’d be in his hands, probably bent over something expensive, my hair pulled, my mind blank.
If Silas were here, I’d test him until he let me take control. Just once. Just to see if he’d let me get away with it.
I swirl my drink and try to shake the thought out. I came here to relax, not to spiral.
And then—of course—he walks in.
Talon.
He’s in black again. Always in black. Shirt rolled at the sleeves, necklace glinting at his throat. There’s a blue token hanging against his chest, catching the light. My pulse jumps before my brain catches up.
What the fuck is he doing here again?
Last weekend was supposed to be a one-time mistake. He was new, curious, dumb enough to follow me into my room and let me show him what I do when no one from school is watching.
Now he’s back. With a blue token.
So who’s he here for?
Jealousy burns through me, but I quickly clamp it down. He's my future brother and student. He's nothing but that to me and can't be anything more.
He slides onto the stool next to me like he owns the space. His knuckles are split, skin pink and ragged, a dark smear of dried blood under one nail. Even in Velvet’s low light, it reads like proof he’d been in a scrap — and my stomach flips.
“Hey Baby.”
My jaw tightens. “Talon.”
He grins, eyes flicking down to my necklace. “White and orange tonight? So you’re not sure what you want tonight?”
“Something like that.”
He leans on the bar, close enough that I can smell the soap still clinging to his skin. “You know, you could always ask me nicely.”
I raise a brow. “You wouldn’t survive my nicely.”
He laughs, low and smug, and it hits somewhere I wish it didn’t.
I look at his token again. “Blue suits you,” I say. “Makes sense. You spend your life submitting to Mommy’s every whim, right? Must feel familiar.”
The smile dies. His jaw locks.
“You don’t know shit about me,” he spits. “You don’t know what I’ve done for Abi. Or Minxy.”
I blink, his tone throwing me off for a second.
“I’d cut my fucking dick off if it meant keeping her safe.” His voice cracks just enough to let me know I fucked up.
I open my mouth to apologize. “I’m–”
“Save it,” he snaps. “But I’m not the only one with secrets, am I, Penelope? What would Chaddy Daddy think if he knew his perfect little girl spent her night on her knees being a whore here?”
The hit lands clean, and I flinch.
“Fuck you, Talon.”
He smirks, licking his bottom lip. “Not tonight. I’ve got plans.”
Before I can ask questions, Clara appears. Tight leather tank top, lavender token gleaming in the light. “There you are,” she purrs. “You’re mine tonight, slut. Let’s go.”
She doesn’t wait for him to answer, just grabs his arm and drags him toward one of the playrooms.
I hate that my stomach twists watching them go.
I toss back the rest of my drink, slap a bill on the counter, and follow. Not close enough to be obvious. Just enough to know where they’re headed.
The viewing gallery’s half full. I slip in quietly and press my fingers to the cool glass, staring into the room.
Clara’s already tugging his shirt open, pushing it off his shoulders. She’s talking too fast, the way she always does when she wants attention. Not once does she stop to ask his color. Not once does she check his limits.
And worse, she didn’t even ask if he was okay with being watched.
For all she knows, voyeurism could be a hard no. Hell, she didn’t even ask if he knew they were being watched.
This is exactly why Clara and I don't get along. She’s a pushy, self-absorbed, not-listening bitch who thinks “dominant” means “doesn’t have to care.”
Her nails drag down his chest like she’s signing her name there, and I can tell he’s trying to play along. But his face stays blank, tight, and it gives him away. He’s not into it. He’s standing there because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to walk away.
And maybe that’s the part that pisses me off most.
Because I taught him better than that, even in our one night together. He always knew I’d stop, knew he could say red at any time.
“Ask his color,” I mutter, but she doesn’t.
She pushes him down into a chair and kneels between his legs. Her lips brush his thigh, slow, and teasing. Still nothing. No spark, no reaction. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, and not for the reason anyone probably thinks.
Talon looks nervous, and he’s also sweating, not to mention his cock is as soft as my grandma’s banana bread.
The Dungeon Monitor steps forward.
“Color?”
“Green,” Clara says with a sigh, as if it’s obvious.
The DM looks at Talon. “You?”
He looks up—not at her, at the glass. Straight at me.
“Is that a mirror? Are people on the other side watching?”
“Yes. We’re fine,” Clara huffs.
“Red,” Talon says quietly, but it hits me like a slap.
“Pause,” the DM says firmly. “Reset.”
Clara huffs but stands. Talon leans forward, hands trembling slightly as he grabs the paper cup of water. His lips are pale. I can tell he’s embarrassed. I can also tell Clara doesn’t get it.
I’ve seen enough.
I step back from the glass and make my way to the bar again, ignoring the ache in my chest that I have no right to feel.
Hadley’s cleaning a spill when I sit down. She looks up. “You good?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You look like you want to murder someone.”
I smile weakly. “Just thirsty.”
She pours me a water without asking. I drink half before I realize I’m shaking. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. It’s just—he shouldn’t have come here. He doesn’t understand the rules. And watching someone mishandle him makes me… itchy.
I spin my glass slowly. “Did Gideon or Silas come in tonight?”
Hadley shakes her head. “Nope. You’re flying solo.”
“Figures.”
I push off the stool, heading toward the side hallway that leads to the rooms. Maybe I’ll find someone to play with. Maybe I’ll just lie on the bed and breathe until my head stops spinning.
I turn a corner and nearly crash right into Talon.
His shirt’s buttoned wrong, his hair a mess, his token gone. There’s a faint red mark on his jaw where Clara probably got carried away.
He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You came to watch.”
“I came to make sure you didn’t forget your words.”
“Jealous?” he teases.
“Annoyed,” I say. “She didn’t ask about your limits. Didn’t ask your color. She’s lucky the DM stepped in.”
He shifts, like he’s about to apologize, then doesn’t. “You’re the only one who gets under my skin like this. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”
I cross my arms. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It was supposed to be.” He leans in a little. “You know, I thought about you the whole time. I couldn’t even—”
“Don’t.”
He stops, searching my face. “You’re shaking.”
“I know.”
“I could—”
“No.” My voice breaks a little. “You could make it worse.”
He lets out a breath and nods slowly. “Then I’ll see you Monday,” he says finally.
I blink. “For class.”
“For whatever you’ll let me have,” he says.
I step aside and let him pass. He doesn’t look back, and somehow that makes it worse.
For a moment, I stand there staring at the hallway that leads to the private rooms. That had been the plan—let someone distract me, let someone touch me until my brain shut off. But now? The thought of going to a room makes my stomach twist.
So I turn back toward the bar instead, just to see if anyone interesting is around.
Maybe I can flirt. Maybe I can pretend for five minutes that my stomach isn’t doing acrobatics.
But the second I step through the threshold, the atmosphere feels louder.
The music thuds too deep in my bones. I’m tired.
I tell Hadley I’m done for the night, and she just nods, the kind of understanding that doesn’t need words.
I head for the back hall, where the VIP locker rooms sit behind the club’s library on kinks.
It’s quiet here. I slip inside one of the small changing stalls and peel out of the corset, sliding into my jeans and hoodie.
The fabric feels too normal after satin and skin, like wrapping yourself in reality again.
I pull my hair into a messy bun and wipe off the smudged liner under my eyes.
When I step back into the hallway, I feel… covered. Not fixed, not calm—just less exposed. My sneakers squeak faintly against the tile as I walk, each step taking me further from the heat of the club.
Outside, the air hits cold, causing my breath to fog. The parking lot’s slick with mist, neon reflections bleeding into puddles. I walk to my car, shoes on, jacket zipped tight. It’s grounding. Real. I need that.
The drive home’s short. Quiet. I keep the windows cracked just enough to let the night air blow through. By the time I pull into my spot, the adrenaline’s faded to something softer—tired, messy peace.
The lights are low. I shut the door, lock it out of habit, and lean against it for a second, breathing. My skin still feels too tight. I unclasp my necklace, letting the tokens fall into my palm.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Gideon: You at Velvet tonight?
Another message right after.
Gideon: Be good.
Gideon: Or be bad and tell me about it later.
I type and delete twice before I settle on,
Me: Kept to myself tonight. Call you tomorrow.
The dots appear, vanish, then come back.
Gideon: Hold you to that, Little Menace.
I set the phone face down. My reflection catches again in the mirror: messy hair, lips bitten pink, eyeliner smudged. I grab a wipe and clear the makeup away, watching the day melt off in streaks. My skin feels raw, cleaner, real. I should feel powerful. Instead, I just feel... off.
I crawl into bed, pull the blanket up, and close my eyes. The silence here should feel safe, but it doesn’t. It feels like he followed me home, breathing somewhere just out of sight.
And I hate that part of me wishes he had.