24. Chapter 24
Rylen
The coffee is lukewarm, bitter, and tastes like it’s been brewing in that pot since the club opened three years ago. I swallow a mouthful of the sludge, my nose wrinkling in disgust as I set the cup down on the desk with a heavy thunk.
I lean back in my chair, my eyes returning to the monitor wall—a massive, glowing grid of gray-scale debauchery. From the security office, I can see everything from the VIP suites, to the dark corners of the dungeons, to the trash piling up in the back alley.
Mads looks good in a suit— really fucking good—I make a mental note to drag him upstairs for a drink later, once the heavy lifting is done.
We’ve barely had a moment alone since returning to work and I’m beginning to miss the way his body arches into mine when we’re close.
My cock kicks up in my pants at the memory of it.
From this distance, he looks untouchable, but I can see the way his shoulders are set. He’s wound tight. My hand drops to the pocket of my tactical vest, fingers grazing that piece of paper with his name on it, still circled in red.
The hit list and that burner phone have settled like lead weights in my gut.
Every time I see Nathyn’s face on a screen, my blood simmers. I want to leave this desk, find that prick, and see how long his arrogant smirk lasts once I’ve got him pinned to a concrete wall.
I want to know who’s on the other end of that phone and exactly how much they paid him to put a target on Maddox.
But Mads told me to wait. ‘Observe and wait for a slip-up,’ he’d said, his voice that cool, professional ice that usually keeps me grounded. ‘Let him lead us to the source.’
It’s the smart play. The logical play. I know that, but it’s making my skin itch; waiting feels like watching a forest fire start and being told not to put it out.
Naturally, the moment I think about snapping, the door to my office flies open.
I spin the chair around, my hand dropping instinctively to the Glock on my hip, the snarl already forming on my lips. “Learn to knock, or I’ll—” The words die in my throat.
Standing in the doorway is Felicia.
Usually, she glides through this club like she owns the goddamn lease, her nose so high in the air it’s a wonder she doesn’t trip. Right now, she looks like she’s just crawled out of a car wreck.
She’s clutching the doorframe so hard her knuckles are white, her chest heaving against the latex of her corset in short, wet gasps. Her skin, usually that perfect, composed pale, is flushed a blotchy, panicked red .
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I frown, my annoyance shifting into a wary, sharp-edged confusion. She stumbles inside, kicking the door shut behind her with her heel. She doesn’t look at me with that usual sneer, instead looking through me, her eyes wide and hollow.
“Rylen,” she chokes out, though it’s barely a name and more like a plea for oxygen.
I stay seated, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m not jumping up to comfort her. I don’t like her; never have—She’s too close to Maddox, too entitled, too much drama wrapped in a shiny package.
“This is a restricted area, Flea. If you’re having a panic attack, go do it in the break room.”
“Please,” she wheezes, stumbling toward my desk. She grips the edge of the desk, her leather gloves sliding on the polished surface. She’s practically vibrating.
I narrow my eyes. I’ve seen submissive’s lose their nerve and clients overdose, but I’ve never seen her look this broken. The ice queen’s mask is completely gone.
“I need… I need your help,” she stammers, her gaze darting to the monitors behind me as if she’s waiting for a ghost to appear on the screens.
I let out a dry, harsh laugh.
“My help? The other week you told me I was a ‘glorified doorman’ because I asked to check your bag. Go find Maddox. He’s your usual crying shoulder.”
I force myself to inhale deeply through my nose. Maddox told me he hasn’t touched her in weeks, that their thing is done, but the mess of it still grates on me .
“No!” she shrieks, the sound echoing off the soundproofed walls. She doubles over, dry heaving, one hand clutching her stomach. “Cannot tell Maddox—Please, Rylen!”
That gets my attention. I sit up straighter, the chair creaking under my weight. Anything that explicitly excludes Maddox is definitely my business. If she’s hiding something from him, she’s a liability—and I’ve already got enough of those to deal with tonight.
“Sit down,” I command, pointing to the shitty folding chair across from me, “before you pass out and I have to drag your ass out of here.”
She collapses into the seat, putting her head between her knees, dragging in ragged breaths. I give her a moment to find her bearings, then I lean forward, looming over her.
“You have exactly thirty seconds to tell me why you’re hyperventilating in my office instead of working the floor,” I say, my voice low and dangerous, “and if I don’t like the answer, I’m calling Maddox.”
She shoots up, her eyes wet, mascara starting to run. She reaches across the desk and grabs my wrist—a violation I’d normally break a finger for.
“It’s Nathyn,” she whispers, her voice trembling so hard the name is barely audible. “He… he has something on me, Rylen. He has me cornered.”
Nathyn. The name hangs in the air between us, smelling worse than the stale coffee. My pulse spikes, a cold, hard rage settling in the back of my throat.
“What do you mean ‘he has something on you’?” I ask, “spit it out, Flea. I don’t have time for fucking riddles.”
She swallows hard, her hands twisting in her lap. “He… he saw me. With someone. In the hallway.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Okay, and? You work in a sex club. We see you with people every night.”
“Not like this,” she whispers, staring at the floor, “It was… my boyfriend.”
I let out a sharp, incredulous breath.
“Fucks sake, you are agonisingly stupid! You know the rules about dragging your personal bullshit into the club. And you know how Maddox is… What the fuck were you thinking?” I snarl, clenching my fists.
“I know!” she wails, her voice cracking. “But Nathyn saw us. He knows it’s real.” She looks up at me, and the desperation in her eyes is raw.
“He said if I don’t meet him in the break room in…” she checks her phone, her hands shaking so bad she almost drops it, “…three minutes… he’s going to tell Maddox that I’m compromised. That I’m a security risk.”
“And what’s his price for silence?” I ask sarcastically, though the answer is already curdling in my gut.
Felicia shrinks away, wrapping her arms around herself. “He wants a session. A full service. For free. Or he burns me.”
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under the shift of my weight. Great, it’s even worse than I thought—Nathyn isn’t just selling Maddox to the highest bidder; he’s using the job to extort sexual favours from the staff. If he’s doing this to her, who else is he squeezing?
I feel a cold, lethal rage settle in my chest. It has nothing to do with sympathy for Felicia and everything to do with the audacity of that prick thinking he can operate a side-hustle of coercion inside my domain.
This isn’t just a rat; it’s a parasite. If my ex-2IC is going rogue like this, it makes me look like I can’t control my men. And as much as I can’t stand Felicia, my loyalty to Maddox, and the club—which she’s apart of—comes first.
I look at the monitors. Camera 8 shows the break room, it’s empty except for Nathyn sitting atop one of the tables, swinging his legs like he’s got the world on a string. I can almost see the smugness radiating off him through the pixels.
“You’re not going to service that fuckhead,” I say flatly. She lets out a sob of relief.
“So you’ll help me? You won’t tell Maddox?”
I stand up, adjusting my tactical vest, checking the weight of the Glock on my hip.
“I’m not doing this for you, Felicia. You’re reckless and you’re a liability. But Nathyn?” I walk away from the desk, towards the wall of gear by the door.
“He thinks he has leverage? He thinks he’s the one in charge here? Not a fucking chance. He’s just a bad dog whose owner is about to put him down. I don’t care what Maddox said about waiting. This ends now.”
I grab my radio, switching it to the private channel and look down at her.
“Wipe your face,” I order. “And fix your makeup. You look like a victim, and Velvet doesn’t employ victims.”
It seems to do the trick because I can see some of the fire return to her eyes as she hastily wipes them, trying to summon the imperious mask of The Blood Woman back into place.
“You’re going to go to that break room. You’re going to walk in there exactly on time, and insist on going somewhere more private.” I tell her, my voice dropping to a predator’s growl.
“You’re going to let him think he’s won. Because I’ll be waiting right behind the door, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to break his fucking jaw all night.”
I’m leaning against the wall outside storage room three down the opposite end of the basement, my back pressed against the cold concrete.
I’ve shed the tactical gear; the vest and radio are gone, leaving me in just my black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. My black leather jacket slumped on the floor by my feet.
Inside, the heavy wooden chair creaks under Nathyn’s weight and his nasally voice floats under the door.
“What the fuck is this? Undo these. Now!” Nathyn demands.
“I don’t think so,” Felicia replies. Her voice is flat and cold.
I hear him thrashing as he calls Felicia a stupid bitch, the chair scrapes against the concrete while he likely tests the heavy-duty zip ties I gave her to loop around his wrists mid lap-dance.
“You think this is funny? I’m going to tell Maddox everything. I’m going to ruin you. I’m going to—”
I don’t wait for the rest before throwing my weight into the door, it slams against the wall with a crack that rings through the small room.
When I step inside, and the air shifts instantly, Nathyn’s face drains of every drop of colour.