12. Chapter 12
Maddox
The club is a sea of shimmering white and gold. Under the warm glow of the chandeliers, a hundred masked faces move amongst each other like a swarm of sharks.
It’s an "Angel’s Descent" theme—ironic, considering the depravity that usually exchanges hands in the private suites. Topless servers in floor-length mesh gowns drift through the crowd like smoke, their movements silent as they refill crystal flutes with vintage Krug.
Above us, suspended from the reinforced ceiling beams, aerialists in crimson silk perform slow, tantalizing acts of suspension, their bodies twisting in a display of strength and surrender that keeps the vultures below staring towards the skies.
I’m standing on the mezzanine overlooking the crowd, my own gold mask heavy against my skin.
I scan the floor, looking for the one man who isn't wearing white.
Rylen is easy to spot. He’s a sinister black shadow against the opulence, leaning against a marble pillar near the main bar.
Even with the distance and the crowd, I can see the rigid line of his shoulders.
He’s a live wire, and every time a guest gets too close, he looks like he’s calculating the quickest way to snap their neck.
He looks unwell, like being alive is taxing.
"Mr. Warner is at the bar," Astrid’s voice sounds in my earpiece. "He’s been staring at the staircase for twenty minutes looking like he’s about to have a panic attack."
Reluctantly I redirect my gaze toward the other end of the bar, where Tristan stands looking painfully young in a cream-colored pinstripe suit with a brilliant blue neckerchief, his golden-crested mask is pushed up slightly to reveal sage eyes that are wide with a frantic, desperate hope.
Poor thing looks like a lamb being lead to the slaughter.
"He approached me earlier—he wants a private session with The Blood Woman," I say into the comms. "Even offered triple the standard rate to jump the queue. "
" Triple ?" Astrid’s voice is sharp with interest. "That’s a hell of a lot of liquidity, Maddox."
"I know. And I’m going to take it," I tell her.
When I look back to the spot I last saw Rylen, he’s gone.
I quickly scan the floor but my brooding comrad is no where to be found.
I start to move toward the stairs, but something catches my elbow.
On instinct I spin, my hand going for the knife tucked into my waistband, I stop when I see it’s Colson—one of the newer guards on the floor—who looks like he’s about to vomit.
"Boss," he whispers, his voice shaking. "You know it wasn't me, right? I–I heard Rylen saying you were thinking of docking our pay until we give up the rat. I swear on my life, I don't know who it is."
I feel a cold, sharp anger boil up in my gut. I step into his space, my body shielding him from the view of the guests. I lean in until my mask is inches from his, my voice a low, terrifying hiss that could cut through stone.
"Colson. Look around the room," I hiss. "Look at the people who pay your salary.
They are here for one thing—the illusion of safety.
You are standing in the middle of a multi-million-dollar event, trying to discuss internal security failures and your goddamn paycheck?
" I snarl, gripping his shoulder, my fingers digging into the muscle until he winces.
"If you ever speak to me about this on the floor again, I won't just dock your pay. I’ll make sure you never work in this city again. Now fuck off and get back to your post before you cause a scene so catastrophic you won't survive it," I spit, casting him back as I rip my hand from his shoulder.
Colson pales, his eyes darting toward the mezzanine. He doesn't say a word as he turns and disappears into the white-clad crowd. I take a breath, trying to steady my pulse. Rylen is talking to the guards about docking pay? He’s stirring the hornets nest while the house is already on fire.
I head for the lift, bypassing the party.
The time for giving Rylen space is over, I need to set things straight with him.
The basement air is frigid, a stark contrast to the humid, perfumed heat of the main floor.
I find Rylen in the locker room adjacent to the security hub, standing in front of Nathyn’s open locker.
His head is bowed causing his messy onyx hair to act as horse blinders.
He looks like a man who has reached his breaking point.
"Rylen," I rasp, the name sounding like a prayer and a threat all at once. He abruptly slams the locker shut, the clang of metal on metal echoing through the concrete room.
When he looks at me, my heart stutters. His eyes are bloodshot, the mossy depths clouded with a terror so raw it makes me want to pull him into my arms and never let go.
The silence in the basement is suffocating.
Upstairs, the guests are watching aerialists and drinking champagne, but down here, the world has narrowed down to the space between us.
"Mr. Warner offered triple the rate for The Blood Woman," I say, my voice flat. "I’ve accepted. He’s heading up to her suite now."
Rylen’s jaw ticks. "You’re letting some fucking hot shot client skip the protocols when we still have a traitor in the building? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Not to mention stupid," he huffs, malice dripping from his tone.
"I’m keeping the lights on," I snap, closing the distance between us. "While you’re out there telling the staff I’m docking their pay. You’re turning my own men against me."
"I’m trying to find the rat, Maddox!" he roars, stepping into my space. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. "I’m trying to save you from yourself!"
"Is that what you were doing last night?" I hiss, stepping forward until his face is inches from mine. " Saving me?”
Rylen’s breath hitches, though he doesn't pull away. He stares at me with frantic eyes, his flattened lips absently trembling. "I told you," he whispers, his voice dragging out the sound. “I don't remember."
"Liar," I breathe, my thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "You remember every second. You remember the way it tasted, the way you begged." I reach up, my fingers grazing the shallow cut along his jawline.
For a heartbeat, he stays still, but the second I hook my hand into his collar to drag him into my space until our lips are a hair's breadth away from touching; the fuse hits the powder and everything implodes. Rylen’s hands are a blur of instinct, fisting into my shirt and shoving me with a violence that sends me falling backwards.
My spine hits the heavy metal wall of lockers with a sickening crack that echoes in my skull and rattles my ribs.
“Don’t you ever try to pull that kind of shit on me again.
Got it?” he snarls, encroaching upon me, his face inches from mine.
I can feel the erratic heat radiating off him, smell the sweat and the sheer, jagged panic.
His grip on my wrists is punishing, the kind of pressure that leaves marks, still I don't pull away. I watch his pulse jump in his throat—it’s a betrayal of the lie he’s trying so hard to sell.
I let a slow, dark smirk pull at the corner of my mouth. I’ve always preferred him when he’s like this—dangerous and honest.
“I’m starting to think you just like pinning me up against things, love," I smirk.
The words affect him like a physical blow, loosening his grip on me. I watch his eyes drop, our gazes snagging on the sudden budge in his tactical slacks. His cock straining against the zipper, his body screaming for the very thing his mouth is denying.
My idle-hand moves of its own volition as I slide it down, cupping the front of his pants, my palm flat against his growing desire. Rylen lets out a feral groan that he chokes back behind gritted teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he gasps, his voice cracking under the weight of it. I roll my hips forward, forcing him to feel the matching weight of my own cock through the expensive wool of my slacks.
“Giving your body what it knows it wants,” I taunt. He looks at me like I’m a stranger. Like I’m something he needs to worship, to survive and to kill, all at once. I’ve seen that look on his face all day—him hovering in the shadows of the club, watching me over the rim of his coffee cup.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he croaks, with a crooked smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
“Are we really going to do this, Ry?” I ask, my voice dipping into that low, exasperated tone that usually makes him snap. His bitten nails dig into my wrists, re-pinning me harder against the lockers.
“You don’t know what I want,” he whispers. He won't meet my eyes anymore. He’s focused on my chest, his lungs heaving as if he’s just run a mile long track.
I don’t answer. I just smile, leaning into the pressure. I grind against him again, this time agonizingly slow. A thrill shoots through my spine as I watch his eyes blow wide, and his knees trembling as the friction hits him.
“No?” I coo. “Then why are you rock solid, baby?”
A murderous growl rips from his throat—the sound of a man who’s lost the argument. He releases my wrists, only to slam his palms onto the lockers on either side of my head, trapping me. Rylen's body is shaking, his whole frame vibrating with rage, or the effort of not collapsing into me.
“Call me that again and you’ll have my blade shoved somewhere very uncomfortable," he grits out.
I lean forward until our lips are a whisper apart and I can feel the frantic warmth of his breath on my skin.
“Do you promise, baby ?” I purr, chuckling at the fury in his stare.
I tilt my head, observing the way his pupils swallow the colour of his irises.
He’s magnetized to me, drawn in by a gravity he can’t fight.
I let my expression soften, the CEO mask slipping away to reveal the raw, aching lust underneath.
“Come on, Ry. A couple of kisses won’t ruin a friendship.” I lean in, my voice dropping to a sinful, velvet rasp against his ear. “It’s when I finally get inside you... that's when you won't ever be able to look at me as a friend again.”
He’s dazed now, any resolve he was clinging on to dissolving into the cold basement air.
I can feel the weight of his cock rolling against my groin, a sensation so perfect it makes my head swim.
I know I’m pushing him too far, and if he wants to be mad at me for it, fine, but I know he wants this, and I’m never fucking letting him go now that I’ve had a taste of him. He’ll have to kill me first.
My lips trail down the length of his throat, closing them over the sensitive skin just above his collar. I feel the soft, involuntary hum that vibrates through his frame—a sound of pure, unrefined surrender to the feeling of me marking what's mine.
“Maddox, please, ” he whimpers, my name falling out of his lips like a confession.
I don't give him a chance to take it back.
I kiss him fiercly, like my heart might give out at any moment and I would die a happy man with the feeling of his tongue pressing against mine.
My hands reach for his belt, the metallic clatter of the buckle sharp in the quiet room as I rip it open.
Then his earpiece chirps, the high-pitched static shattering the moment. The spell breaks.
"Rylen? We’ve got a situation in the foyer, they're asking for you by name.
" It’s Philzy. Could that fucking fat fuck have any worse timing?
I swear to God he's going to be the first one I fire come tomorrow.
Rylen tears himself away from me, his face hardening back into that professional, unreadable mask.
"Duty calls, Mr. CEO," he snarks, his voice dripping with venom. He stalks out, leaving me standing in front of Nathyn’s locker. I look at the locker door, noticing that it didn't latch fully. I reach out, my fingers tentative as I pull it open.
Inside, poking out from under a pile of rubbish, I see a burner phone and a handwritten list of names. And the first name on that list is… mine?