Chapter 6 Marcus
MARCUS
Saturday night arrives without fuss. Blanket and the unnamed woman never returned, no more primate bones landed on my desk, and I successfully dodged the Hunt brothers’ attempt to roast me for skipping Friday drinks. Work ate all of us alive this week, so no one had energy left to pry.
So here we are now, my domain, my vantage point, the private viewing level of The Velvet Trap.
The Gallows.
A hidden gallery suspended above the main hall, built into the bones of the building long before Theo Lockwood bought it.
It doesn’t exist on any architectural record, not even the blueprints I forged for the city inspectors after the renovations.
Up here, with the dark glass, silent screens, and angles that let you see everything but reveal nothing, it feels like the world’s most elegant command center.
I lean forward and take in the mezzanine below.
The Trap has transformed.
The space gleams, like a high-end auction house meets a forbidden parlor.
Tables encircle a low, glossy stage, and each spot is occupied by men in masks.
Their suits are tailored within an inch of sin.
Masked waiters pass between them with trays of aged scotch and Japanese whisky so rare that it never hits retail shelves.
Oh, and not to mention the mirrors.
They’re not just along the walls. They’re stacked, angled, and layered.
A kaleidoscope built into the architecture.
One mirror catches another, bending reflections, doubling glances, and turning a single masked man into three versions of himself.
The stage seems to tilt toward them, then fold away, depending on where you stand.
Nothing happens by chance. Everything here is by design.
Desire is easier to coax when people forget which angle is real.
At the center of the stage stands a single pole of brushed steel. There’s no dancer tonight. It’s Mariposa’s anchor point, where she’ll be tethered in silk once the bidding begins. It’s her fantasy, her night to command.
“Everything’s in place,” Max says beside me.
Up here, the walls are black glass and screens. Parts of The Trap can be seen with the naked eye, but the rest is fed to us through cameras no guest knows exist. Every corridor, alley, rooftop, and borrowed venue tied to tonight’s event flows through this command center.
I turn my attention to one of the monitors, another piece of the Game unfolding outside these walls.
“The flower is in the garden,” I murmur into the field comm, my eyes fixed on the feed.
On-screen, a woman hastens through Riverside Park in a champagne dress, and her mariposa flower mask shines and fades under the sparse lighting.
She’s elegant and self-assured. Until she strays where she shouldn’t, into a strip of manicured terrain that never makes it into the Conservancy’s files.
That’s the point. The Game feeds on what the world doesn’t know.
And I know because my network makes certain I do, and because the Game gives back more than it ever takes.
Mariposa pivots, her pace quickening, but she’s already too deep. However, she’s clever, so she might slip the net. But before she does, I give the order: “Mongoose. Rattlesnake. Now.”
They strike.
She lashes out with heels, nails, and the edge of a scream as Mongoose’s gloved hand clamps over her mouth. Her arms are yanked behind her, her wrists bound with tape pulled tight enough to bite. A strip of black cloth slides over her eyes, and a gag fills her mouth.
“Your bidders better have stamina. That woman’s a cyclone,” Max mutters, eyeing the fight Mariposa puts up.
“Question is, you got stamina, Doc?” Liam says with that smug tilt. “Is that why you’re sitting out?”
“Please,” I shoot back. “You’re older than me. If anyone should be worried about stamina, it’s you.”
Liam slings an arm across my shoulders. “Relax, brother. You’ll still be drilling like a champ at sixty. You’re a plastic surgeon. Half your job is keeping things upright.”
Max barks out a laugh. “Yeah, Doc’ll be the first man alive with a custom-installed titanium dick. FDA’s gonna name the patent after you.”
I roll my eyes, but the grin is there anyway as I track Mongoose on the monitor.
A minute later, Mariposa is cocooned in the length of a waiting carpet—an old Trap trick—and bundled without elegance or apology. Mongoose and Rattlesnake lift her between them and carry her to the Mercedes idling at the curb. The trunk yawns open.
She disappears inside.
Then, the lid slams shut.
“Bloom collected. Heading to the nest,” Mongoose gives us the update.
The Velvet Game has evolved since the early days when everything was contained within these walls, more escape room than empire.
But empires don’t grow inside cages. The Trap stays the hub, the final stop where the Game concludes and every loose end is cut.
Yet when the Game is in motion, every alley and rooftop in New York is fair ground.
On game night, The Trap belongs to no one but us. Regular patrons don’t get in. Hell, even on normal nights, it’s invite-only. But when the Game runs, every person inside is cast into a role: security, maids, waiters, and tonight…the bidders.
Mongoose’s Mercedes rolls up the driveway. He and Rattlesnake move to the trunk and haul the rolled carpet between them, Mariposa writhing inside. Even through the thick weave, you see the play of her hips and the flex of her spine.
We veer closer to the glass, the three of us silent as the action below hits its stride.
Down on the velvet-lined runway, the carpet snaps open in a single flourish, Mariposa tumbling out. An offering unveiled, Cleopatra presented to Caesar. Seconds later, hands lift her onto the stage.
The kidnapping was a surprise, and it’s paying off.
Look at her, panting, furious, aroused, and unsure which feeling she wants to let win.
Her legs brush the pole she’s tethered to.
Her back arches, catching her own reflection in the mirrors surrounding her and beneath her, multiplying her gasp into a small, sensual army.
The auction begins.
The maids move in, efficient and erotic, stripping her layer by layer as the bidding climbs. Mariposa thrashes. No angle is lost as every mirror catches a different truth—her defiance, her surrender, her fantasy opening like a flower under heat.
“How did you know she likes mirrors?” Max asks.
“It’s not her,” I say. “It’s the scenario. Mirrors make the room honest.”
Max snaps on his snow-fox mask. “I’m heading down. You coming?”
I give a noncommittal shrug.
On the floor, the bidding climbs fast, the suits and masks trading numbers.
Liam elbows me. “Come on. It’s not too late. You’re the architect. You can rig your own fairytale if you want it.”
My silence stretches, prompting him to try a new angle.
“Backstage?” he asks.
This time, I nod.
We slip into one of the hidden passages carved through The Trap, drop into the dark, and emerge behind the curtain. I pull the wolf mask on while Liam adjusts his red fox mask beside me. Through the narrow gap in the velvet, I get an unfiltered view of Mariposa.
Liam leans in. “Go on. Bid. I know you want to.”
Down to a G-string now, Mariposa grinds against the pole, her breasts bouncing, her hips rolling slowly then percussively, the glow from above painting her in molten strokes.
Goddamn, she’s fucking beautiful. And I know the power beneath it. She built her aviation business from tarmac trash shifts and boardrooms full of men who saw her as decoration. They never made that mistake twice.
Still, my attention loosens, straying back to the woman who barged into my clinic that day. She wasn’t made for a stage like this. But she didn’t need it. There was something finer at work. And it makes me want her more than I should, and in places I shouldn’t let my mind go.
I quickly shut it down. I’m here to observe the Game, to deliver the best ending for my client.
Then I notice it. Every time Arbiter places a bid, Mariposa turns her head a fraction, just enough to show the line of her neck, and parts her lips.
I nod toward Arbiter. “That’s her man tonight.”
“You call it,” Liam says, and he relays the signal to Mongoose.
The next round hits, and of course, Arbiter wins.
He strides forward and lifts Mariposa clean off her feet.
That’s how the night was engineered. She left the outcome to The Trap.
Surprise me, she said. She has no idea. Arbiter is an alpha, and she’s not the type to roll over for anyone.
They’re going to earn every breath out of each other tonight, and tomorrow, everything will go back to how it is.
Short-term pleasure is mutually respected here.
Arbiter carries Mariposa toward the chamber. For a heartbeat, I remember what it feels like when your hands meet a body that dares you to forget sense. Oh, the voltage in the first touch…
Liam vanishes somewhere into The Trap’s arteries, leaving me in the quiet behind the curtain.
And then I catch it.
A lone man in a wolf mask, surrounded by the murmurs of a world he built.
I step back from the reflection before it says something I’m not ready to hear.
I head back to The Gallows.
Max is already smirking, his boots kicked up. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want to hold the winning paddle.”
For a second, I wonder if letting Mariposa go was a mistake. Power in a woman is easy to admire, but it’s not the same as wanting her. Whatever I’m wired for tonight isn’t here.
It hasn’t been here for a long damn time.
My silence is gasoline, and the Hunts strike the match.
“All right, cut the feed before Doc pops a boner,” Max says, flicking his hand in a crude gesture as his brother shuts off the monitors.
Liam taps a finger against his temple. “Nah, this one’s got somebody in mind already.”
Max sits forward. “Oh? Who?”
I don’t answer; I just push back from the console. The brothers are on closing duty, and I’m thinking of a shower, my bed, and blessed silence.
But Liam doesn’t let go. “Iris Vaughn,” he answers. “Gorgeous with a sharp tongue, the kind who’d fight you all the way down the hallway. And she’s got a soft spot for strays.”
Max blinks, offended. “Who the hell is Iris Vaughn?”
Liam chuckles.
“No, seriously,” Max insists. “Who the fuck is Iris Vaughn?”
Liam claps me on the back. “Doc here sent a mangy mutt and a knockout brunette to my clinic. In his Bentley.”
Max explodes into laughter. “You couldn’t take her yourself? What happened, Doc? Last tetanus booster expired?”
So…her name is Iris Vaughn.
A clean name. The kind that sticks. And I have no goddamn clue what I’m supposed to do with it.
Liam’s eyes spark. “Since I’m a generous friend, I dug a little. She’s a former jewelry designer at Macy’s.”
“Former?” Max asks.
“Made redundant a few weeks back. She’s basically a free agent.”
“Gentlemen,” I cut in, “your night isn’t over. Make sure Mariposa and Arbiter return to the real world in one piece. No loose ends.”
“Says the chief who’s already halfway out the door,” Max mocks.
“The lost wolf,” Liam adds.
“No,” I murmur, reaching for my coat. “I’m about to become a sheep.”
“You’ll be the ugliest sheep in Trap history.”
I ignore them, but I throw one last question at Liam. “So…Blanket. What did you do to him?”
Max groans. “Who’s Blanket now?”
“The dog,” Liam says. He leans back. “Compound fracture of the tibia. Kept him for a couple of days, cleaned it, and stabilized the bone. He’s walking again.” He grins. “Thought about you the whole time. Tibias and all.”
Only the Hunt brothers can make that jab land and not piss me off.
“So the mutt’s fine? You dealt with the mange?” I ask.
“Yeah. I put him on meds. But whether he keeps improving? Depends on Iris sticking with the treatment.”
“I owe you,” I say.
Max is already scrolling on his phone. “Iris Vaughn,” he mutters. “She barely posts anything. Just a couple of jewelry shots and generic happy this-and-that crap.” He thrusts the phone at me.
It’s bland. Nothing like the woman who stormed into my clinic the other day.