2. Chapter 2 #2
I switch to the security feeds for the fireplay room, pausing to watch a man suspended from the ceiling by black leather straps.
His chest is streaked with crimson lines where the fire domme has pressed her metal branding rod against his skin, not long enough to scar, just long enough to make him scream.
The soundproofing keeps the rest of the club blissfully unaware. I click away but not fast enough, having seen the man's fat cock paint the floor in thick ropes of pleasure.
Another tap flicks the display to the shower room feeds. Steam coils across the lenses in twisting grey ribbons, distorting the images into impressionistic smears of flesh and water.
I adjust the camera filters, sharpening the contrast until the figures become clearer beneath the rainfall showers.
In one stall, four men kneel, cocks straining in their palms as a domme in tall latex heels pours champagne down her naked chest and forces them to lap it from the floor tiles.
I watch closely, ensuring everyone remains upright and steady on their knees.
Their safety is always my responsibility, even when they’re reduced to little more than panting dogs at a dommes feet.
A lot of unusual kinks go on in my club but it’s not my place to judge—as long as I get paid and no one hurts my staff, I don’t care if you want to dress up like a chicken and eat nuggets out of someone’s ass.
It’s why House of Velvet is as popular as it is amongst the elite, our discretion is unmatched and we have something for just about everyone.
Finally, I bring up the private vault hallway on the fourth floor. Silent, just how I like it. I lean back and let my eyes linger on each screen in turn, my fingers steep in front of my mouth, watching the efficiency of the servers. The quiet crackle of the fireplace is the only sound in the room.
This club is mine—every hall, every room, every scream and whispered prayer. All of it exists because I allow it to, because I curated it down to the last flickering candle.
I pour myself a glass of scotch and knock it back in one large gulp. The glass is refilling before I’ve even noticed what I’m doing. I don't want to feel anymore, I just want to disappear. If I can't have Rylen's attention then I'll quiet my raging thoughts the only way I know how.
I wake up sticky. Not the good kind of sticky, either—the gross, hazy, what the fuck kind.
My boxer shorts cling uncomfortably to my skin, and my stomach dips as the realisation hits me.
For a second I’m fifteen again, hiding dirty laundry, heart hammering as if someone’s caught me.
Then my brain catches up, I must’ve had a wet dream.
Figures… I drank too much, crashed too hard, and my body didn’t care if my brain clocked out.
I groan and roll over, only to freeze—this isn’t my room. I'm laying in sheets I don’t recognize, surrounded by furniture I don’t own and a very real Rylen, asleep inches away, face half-buried in his pillow.
My pulse slams in my ears, overtaking the heavy sound of my breathing.
What the fuck am I doing here? I glance down at myself again, panic twisting hard enough to make me nauseous.
No. No way. I didn’t— I–I wouldn’t. It had to have been a dream.
He’d have killed me, right? It’s just a dream.
Has to be… just my subconscious doing what it always does when I drink too much, making me want things I shouldn’t.
I stare at Rylen’s sleeping face, terror threading through my chest. If I crossed a line, if I said too much, I’ll never live it down.
I scrub a hand through my hair, heart pounding, and try to breathe quietly like that’ll undo any damage.
I don’t remember walking in here, climbing under his covers, or even a single thing after my decanter emptied and I switched over to some top shelf liquor from behind the bar.
And now I’m lying next to my best friend with cum in my underwear. This is so fucked up.
I slip the covers back as subtly as possible, trying desperately to crawl out of this nightmare before Rylen wakes up and finds me in his bed.
Jesus, I need to get a handle on my drinking before I end up like my old man.
My racing heart is pounding so loudly that if I opened my mouth you'd surely hear it. I slip one leg out of the covers and tentitively down onto the floor then chance a peak at Ry. He's still curled on his side, arm flung over the pillow, onyx hair falling into his face. His lashes are dark against his cheek, his mouth soft. Sleeping like he doesn’t know I’m here—Good, let's keep it that way.
It makes my heart thud out of time to see him like this, so soft and unguarded. He's always been the stronger out of the two of us, taking the brunt of the punishments, stepping in between me and anyone who meant to cause harm.
Rylen's been my protector since the day we met, I trust him with my life… but apparently not with my heart, because I'll never have the guts to admit how much I crave waking up next to him again.
Gremlin meows from the headboard and the loudness of it startles me, I wave a hand in her direction trying to silence her. Instead the traitorious little shit jumps down, landing right on Rylen's back, glaring at me with those poisonous coloured eyes. I fucking hate that cat.
Rylen's eyes snap open and he springs up in a groggy state, brows furrowed as he glares at me. Shit, he doesn't seem surprised that I'm here, does that mean… no. Unless? Fuck. Shit. "Um, hi," I mumble, avoiding eye contact. Rylen doesn't respond, that's not a good sign.
He rips back the covers, snatches his coffee mug off the bedside table and sleepily shuffles towards the kitchen, the back of his hair sticking up at ridiculous angles.
The silence he leaves behind is louder than shouting, god, I wish he'd shout at me—anything that isn't this silent treatment bullshit.
I flop back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, and tell myself over and over that it was just a wet dream. Nothing happened. Nothing he could’ve seen anyway. That he definitely would have yelled at me for.
I quickly get dressed in last nights clothes, discarded across Rylen's bedroom floor and wander out, trying to act normal, tugging my shirt lower just in case the mess clings to me in some obvious way. Rylen’s at the counter, pouring coffee with his back to me.
“Don't worry,” I say, forcing a grin. “I didn’t drool on your pillow or anything.”
He doesn’t look at me, just continues to stir sugar into his mug like I’m not even in the room. Okay, something definitely happened… I clear my throat before trying again. "I'm uh, sorry. We're good yeah?"
"Why wouldn't we be good, Maddox?" he clips back. Slowly turning to lean against the kitchen counter, eyes fixated on the mug in his hands.
"I don't know man, you seem pissed off. Did I–did… something happen?"
"What would have happened?" he counters, voice devoid of emotion. My nostrils flare with irritation, he needs to stop answering my questions with more fucking questions. Why is he being like this?
"I don’t fucking know, thats why I'm asking." My irritation peaks, voice rising with each syllable. Why won’t he just talk to me? Tell me what I did so we can move past it.
"Do not swear at me," he growls, gaze hardened.
"If you can't remember what you did last night then maybe you shouldn't get so shitfaced, yeah?
" His jaw tightens. He takes his coffee and walks out without waiting for my response, Gremlin padding loyally after him.
I hear his bedroom door slam and it sounds like the final nail in my coffin.
I sink into a barstool at the kitchen counter, elbows on my knees, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.
The silence is an unbearable staticy ringing noise that circles in my head.
I don’t remember what I did, and I'm not sure what's worse—if he tells me, or if he never does.
The ache low in my gut tells me something big happened and it's not going to be easily smoothed over.
I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself not to crumble. I'm going to fix this—whatever this is.