Chapter 28
The car pulled to a stop, and for a moment, Riven thought there must have been some mistake.
The glowing pink sign above the entrance read Pleasure Vault in swooping neon script, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Below it, in smaller letters, a second sign declared: Where every man’s worth is measured in glitter and grind.
Two shirtless men in tight leather pants flanked the door, both built like they’d been carved out of marble and sprayed with body oil.
One gave a lazy wink as Thane stepped out of the car like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” Riven muttered, staring at the sign.
Thane didn’t answer. He just slammed the car door and started toward the entrance.
Riven followed, reluctantly, his eyes darting around.
The air outside was thick with bass from the club’s speakers and the scent of sweat, alcohol, and something vaguely floral.
Inside, it was worse. The club exploded with sound and light, a kaleidoscope of strobing purples and blues.
The stage was the focal point, raised and rimmed in LED lights, where a naked elf with glowing tattoos spiraled down a chrome pole with hypnotic ease.
The music was pure synth-pop filth, the kind that vibrated in your chest, and the crowd—mostly elves in expensive suits or sheer tops—cheered like it was a bloodsport.
The dancer hit the floor in a controlled split, gyrating his hips while making aggressive eye contact with someone at the front of the stage.
Riven gawked. “This is neutral ground?”
Thane, already several steps ahead, barely glanced back. “Lord Sorrell likes the dramatic.”
A server in a rhinestone harness and nothing else directed them toward a velvet-roped stairwell at the side of the room.
They climbed the narrow stairs, the thrum of the bass fading slightly, and emerged into a glass-walled VIP booth perched above the main floor.
Privacy spells shimmered along the edges, filtering sound and dulling the garish colors of the club below.
Inside, Sorrell of House Glint lounged on a curved black leather settee, a drink in hand.
His hair was the rich, vicious red of freshly spilled blood, tied back in a messy ribbon that matched the trim of his tailored suit—half velvet, half something that shimmered like oil.
A single diamond hung from one pointed ear. He didn’t rise.
“Knife of Virellien,” he purred. “I was beginning to think you’d lost your taste for spectacle.”
Only one man stood beside him—a bodyguard, silent and watchful, dressed in black with a Glint insignia at his collarbone. Clearly a mage, though which kind was impossible to say.
Thane said nothing at first, but Riven noticed the stiffness in his spine, the subtle tension behind his eyes.
Riven stayed quiet, remembering the warning from earlier.
Sorrell’s gaze slid to him. “And you’ve brought a gift. How thoughtful.”
“Not a gift,” Thane said sharply. “He’s mine.”
“Mm. Of course he is.”
Riven held himself back a step, letting the moment settle like dust. The shift in air up here was immediate—cooler, more expensive. The filtered silence was somehow louder than the music below, as if the throb of the club was waiting to be acknowledged.
Sorrell reclined like he owned the godsdamned world.
Everything about him was curated excess—the tight cinch of his wine-red waistcoat, the too-deep neckline of his sheer shirt that revealed a gleaming sliver of chest, and a cascade of rings that glittered with subtle magic.
His black slacks clung scandalously to long legs crossed at the knee, a showman’s posture if Riven had ever seen one.
Even sitting still, Sorrell looked like he could spring into movement without disturbing a single thread of his finery.
And Riven could see it now, in the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the predatory poise beneath the aesthetic.
This wasn’t just a foppish aristocrat with a flair for theatrics.
This was a predator who dressed like a peacock so people would forget he had claws.
Lord Sorrell watched him with the lazy interest of someone browsing a dessert tray, lips just barely curved.
His eyes—iridescent like soap bubbles, shifting in the light—seemed to see through Riven.
Riven shifted his weight and fought the urge to fold his arms across his chest.
Below them, the club raged on. Men danced in cages.
Magic shimmered off drink trays. A bouncer shoved some drunk out a back door with no ceremony.
It felt like another world entirely, and here he was, standing in its glass-bubble eye, about to witness a meeting that could determine whether or not two Great Houses went to war.
Riven didn’t know why Thane had brought him here, but the weight of being present sank into his skin. He wasn’t ready.
He had no idea how to play this game.
But something told him Lord Sorrell did.
The plush leather seats swallowed Riven as Thane settled beside him, eyes narrowed on Lord Sorrell but polite in his stance. Sorrell grinned, flashing sharp teeth, and clasped Thane’s hand with a theatrical flourish.
“Well, well. The infamous Knife of Virellien, finally gracing my humble den. Then this must be the new pet,” Sorrell said, eyes flicking over Riven with amused appraisal.
Thane’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Only when necessary. You’re far from humble, Lord Sorrell.”
Sorrell’s laugh was genuine, or as close as Riven could tell. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Thane. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Just as the tension seemed to ease, the booth’s discreet side door slid open with a soft hiss.
A man stepped in, a living sculpture of muscle and sheen.
His skin glistened, bronzed and smooth, every curve and ridge catching the dim light with a wet gleam.
The only thing covering him was a sheer mesh thong, translucent enough to betray the sheer size and length of his cock pressing boldly beneath the fabric.
He moved with feline grace, every step measured and deliberate, hips swaying with practiced seduction.
Sorrell’s smile deepened as he nodded at the dancer. “Entertainment, ordered specially for the occasion.”
Thane’s eyes narrowed sharply, a shadow crossing his features. “You brought a stripper?”
“Not just any dancer,” Sorrell said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s been carefully enchanted.” His gaze flicked to Riven as if daring him to question. “Deaf as a stone. Can’t hear a word we say.”
Riven caught the faint shimmer of magic—the delicate silver-blue wards traced subtly along the dancer’s temples, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. It was a cage of silence woven by magic.
The dancer’s lips moved silently, mouthing something impossible to hear, eyes fixed on a distant point beyond them all.
Thane’s lips pressed into a hard line. “At least he won’t be a distraction.”
Sorrell’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.”