Bear Shifter's Mistress (Velvet Fang Club #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

Seraphina

Nothing sounds more heartbreaking than a bear's cry.

I know this because I'm standing in the shadows of a monster sex club, watching my ex-submissive Bram desperately trying to be a good boy for another domme while tears roll through the thick fur covering his cheeks.

For several seconds, I simply stare.

My mind refuses to make sense of what my eyes are showing me. Bram is supposed to be gone. He hasn't set foot in Velvet Fang for months, long enough that I had finally convinced myself that the hollow ache beneath my ribs was nothing more than an old wound closing.

Apparently, I lied to myself.

The huge bear shifter is kneeling in the center of one of the club's private play rooms, enormous even on his knees, his broad shoulders bowed beneath the weight of an ogre woman's expectations.

The lighting here is darker than the main club, crimson lamps casting pools of red across black stone and polished wood, while enchanted candles flicker along the walls.

Beyond the partially open doorway, I can hear the muted pulse of music and the low murmur of dozens of monsters enjoying themselves in the decadent underground world of Velvet Fang.

But all I can hear is Bram's breathing.

It comes in uneven little catches.

He is trying so hard not to cry.

That hurts more than if he were screaming.

The ogre stands over him, nearly as tall as I am but twice as broad, her gray-green skin gleaming beneath the low lights.

She wears black leather from throat to boots, with thick metal cuffs around her wrists and a crop hanging loosely from one hand.

Her expression is stern, almost bored, as if Bram's distress is simply another item on a list she intends to complete before the evening ends.

"Look at me," she orders.

Bram lifts his head.

His eyes are wet. "I'm looking."

"I didn't tell you to sound pathetic."

His throat works. "I'm sorry, Mommy."

"Don't call me Mommy! I'm your mistress." She slaps him across the face. The sound, crisp and abhorrent, rattles my nervous system. Anger rises in in me immediately. No matter what he did, I never touched Bram's face. He said he didn't want me to. "And you've said sorry six times."

"I'm trying."

"Trying isn't good enough."

I feel something inside my chest twist violently. I know exactly what Bram looks like when he's frightened of disappointing someone. And I know exactly how much of himself he will surrender to avoid hearing someone say he isn't good enough.

"Stand."

Bram pushes himself upright.

He is enormous. Even hunched and submissive, he towers over almost everyone around him.

His human form carries all the imposing physicality of the bear inside him: thick dark-brown hair, broad shoulders, massive arms, a powerful chest covered in soft brown fur, and hands large enough to engulf my waist. His rounded bear ears are flattened against his head now, and the fur around his face is damp from tears.

Once, I used to love those ears. I used to rub them between my fingers while he lay with his head in my lap. I used to watch them twitch whenever I praised him.

Good boy.

Sweetheart.

My little one.

The words had always made him melt.

They had made me melt, too.

"Hands behind your back," the ogre says.

Bram obeys.

"Shoulders back."

He straightens.

"Chin up."

He raises his face.

"You're a big man, Bram. Stop acting like a helpless cub."

His eyes flicker. I see the pain before he manages to hide it.

Something in me snaps. I take one step forward. Then stop, reminding myslef that I'm not at the club to rescue a submissive, but to enjoy myself.

This is none of my business.

I force my fingers to curl against my palms.

Bram is not mine anymore. I gave up the right to interfere in his relationships the moment I ended ours.

And I ended it for a reason. I cannot forget that.

I cannot let the ache of seeing him again make me forget what happened.

I close my eyes for one heartbeat, and the memory comes rushing back.

Three months ago, Bram had stood in my apartment with a hopeful smile on his beautiful, foolish face.

"Welcome home, Mommy." His grin was hopelessly devoted, and even as fear drowned most of my body, my heartbeat flickered.

He had cleaned everything in my apartment. Every surface gleamed. My kitchen had been reorganized. My books had been straightened. The blankets on my sofa had been folded into neat piles. My favorite tea sat waiting beside the kettle.

He had even bought the expensive dark chocolate I liked.

"I thought you'd be tired after your business trip," he had said, smiling nervously. "So I wanted you to come home to something nice."

I remember staring at him. I remember the sudden cold that had swept through my body.

"What are you doing here?"

His smile had faltered. "I'm being your good little boy. I wanted to surprise you, Mommy. You kept telling me how much your messy apartment stressed you out, so I thought I'd clean it for you."

My voice was loud but inside, I felt hollow. "You came into my apartment without me."

"I know, but?—"

"Without asking." My voice rose.

His ears had drooped. "I thought you wouldn't mind."

That had been the problem.

My ex had said the same thing. He had gone through my drawers because he "didn't think I'd mind." He had opened my private correspondence because he "didn't think I'd mind." He had taken things from me because he "didn't think I'd mind."

And eventually, I had discovered empty spaces where valuables had once been.

I had spent years learning that my home was the one place nobody could take from me.

Then Bram had stood in the middle of it, surrounded by the evidence of his good intentions, and my fear had swallowed every other emotion.

I had scream at him, told him he had crossed my boundaries, that I didn't ever give him permission to be in my house when I wasn't there. I told him to leave.

He had apologized.

He had cried.

And I had ended us.

I told myself it was because he had violated my boundaries.

That was true.

What I never admitted was that I had been terrified.

Terrified that if I let him stay, if I forgave him, if I let my guard down again, I would eventually discover that he had taken something from me too. I would be a fool who was deceived by my partners twice.

So I pushed him away before he had the opportunity.

I had watched him walk out of my apartment with his shoulders hunched and his head lowered.

And then I had spent the next several weeks pretending I was relieved.

I wasn't.

Gods, I wasn't.

I missed him.

I missed his coffee.

I missed his ridiculous habit of remembering exactly how I liked my drinks.

I missed coming home after twelve hours of corporate warfare and finding him sprawled across my sofa, his huge body taking up far too much space, his bear ears twitching while he watched some ridiculous cooking competition.

I missed the way he celebrated my victories as if they were his own.

Every promotion.

Every successful negotiation.

Every deal I closed.

He had never once looked at my success and wondered what it meant for him.

The men I knew were different. Monsters in my world competed. They competed for promotions, influence, money, prestige, status. They smiled at my accomplishments while quietly calculating whether my success made them look smaller.

Bram had never done that.

When I told him I had won a difficult negotiation, he had kissed my forehead and said, "I knew you could do it."

When I received a promotion, he had brought home a ridiculous little cake decorated with silver sugar flowers.

When I closed a deal that had taken six months of brutal negotiations, he had made my favorite coffee and waited for me to tell him every detail.

He wasn't ambitious, not in the way everyone around me understood ambition.

He didn't want my money. He didn't want my position. He didn't want to be the more successful person in the relationship, the one society considered the 'dominant' one. He wanted to make my mornings easier.

He wanted to know whether I'd eaten. He wanted to hold me when I was tired.

And when I was lying on the sofa with my head resting against his enormous thigh, his fingers moving slowly through my hair, something inside me finally became quiet.

I had been more relaxed with Bram than I had been with anyone in my life.

That was what frightened me.

Because I had needed him.

And I hated needing anyone.

"Again."

The ogre's voice drags me back into the room.

Bram's shoulders shake.

"Please," he whispers.

The ogre's expression hardens.

"What was that?"

"I'm tired."

"You agreed to the scene."

"I know."

"Then finish what you agreed to."

Bram swallows. "Yes, Mistress."

"Good. Now hold the position."

His arms tremble behind his back. I know that tremor.

I know when he's reaching his limit. I know because he used to tell me. Not always with words.

Sometimes his ears flattened. Sometimes his breathing changed. Sometimes his hands curled into fists. Sometimes he simply became too quiet.

The ogre doesn't seem to notice. Or perhaps she does and doesn't care.

"You've been disappointing me all evening," she says.

Bram's eyes close. "I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry."

"I'll do better."

"You'd better."

The crop comes down against his thigh. Bram flinches. A small sound escapes him.

I nearly move. Instead, I grip the edge of the doorway.

The ogre strikes him again, not hard enough to cause serious injury, but hard enough to leave another reddened mark through his fur.

"Hold still."

"I'm trying."

"Then try harder."

His eyes fill again. "Yes, Mistress."

"You're supposed to be a strong bear. Stop whining."

His mouth trembles. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"I'm sorry."

The ogre exhales sharply. "You're hopeless."

That does it.

I turn away.

I cannot watch this. I cannot stand there pretending I don't care while every instinct in me screams to walk into that room, take Bram by the hand and bring him somewhere safe.

But he is not mine. I remind myself of that as I walk away.

He is not mine.

I make it halfway down the corridor before I realize my hands are shaking.