Chapter 18
REMY
Dominion sits in the Warehouse District like a secret waiting to be discovered. Brick facade, unmarked door, the kind of place you'd walk past without noticing unless you knew what to look for. I park the SUV half a block down, cut the engine, and glance at Isabella.
Anticipation plays across her features. Curiosity mixed with arousal, scientific mind already working through variables she can't predict. Control and surrender, everything we've been building since Prague condensed into whatever happens tonight.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Yes."
We walk the half block in comfortable silence. August heat lingers even as twilight deepens, humid air wrapping around us. Music drifts from nearby bars, laughter from tourists stumbling between venues, the night rhythm of the Quarter—music, spilled beer, jasmine cutting through everything.
The door opens before I can knock. The doorman nods. "Good evening. Welcome to Dominion."
"Luc arranged guest privileges," I say.
"Of course. Mr. Pascal, Dr. Durand, welcome." He steps aside, revealing the entrance hall beyond. Rich wood paneling, soft lighting, the subtle scent of leather and expensive perfume. "Your clothing has been placed in the submissives' salon as requested."
Isabella's throat works, but her voice stays steady. "Thank you."
We move inside. The entrance hall opens into a receiving area where members sign in, check coats, and transition from the outside world into whatever they become here.
Margot stands near the desk speaking with another woman, both dressed in elegant cocktail attire that reads professional rather than playful.
My sister. Here. At Dominion.
Margot runs Beaumont's, manages the restaurant with the same precision Maman applied to everything. What the fuck is she doing at a private club in the Warehouse District on a Saturday night looking like she owns the place?
Margot glances up, registers our presence, and her mouth curves. "Remy. Isabella. I was wondering when you'd make it."
Isabella blinks. "You're here."
"I own the place." Margot's tone is matter-of-fact, like she's discussing menu revisions instead of running the most exclusive BDSM club in New Orleans. "Acquired it years ago through one of Luc's shell companies. He provides security consulting. I handle operations and member relations."
My sister. Running Dominion. The club Luc mentioned handling security for, the one I assumed was just another contract in his portfolio of semi-legal work. Neither of us knew she owned it.
"JJ recommended me to the previous owner," Margot continues, watching my expression with satisfaction. "Thought I'd be good at managing the kind of discretion this world requires. She wasn't wrong."
"Does Luc know?"
"He does now." Margot's smile sharpens. "His face looked a lot like yours when I told him this morning. Brothers never think their sisters understand power dynamics." She turns to Isabella. "The salon is through that door, first left down the hallway. Camille knows you're coming."
Isabella glances at me, questioning without words whether I'm coming with her or if she does this part alone.
"I'll meet you in the main lounge," I tell her. "Take your time."
Combat I understand. This? Watching her walk away knowing what's coming? That's a different kind of discipline.
"You look like someone hit you with a brick," Margot observes.
"You run a BDSM club."
"And a restaurant. I multitask." She straightens papers on the desk. "I've prepared a private room for later. Standard fire play setup since you requested it when Luc called earlier."
"When did you—" I stop. Process. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Years. Built it into the most profitable members-only club in the city.
" Pride edges into her voice. "Turns out managing dominants and submissives isn't that different from managing line cooks and front of the house staff.
Both require understanding power, anticipating needs, and knowing when to let people self-destruct versus when to intervene. "
My sister. The woman I left behind to grieve our parents alone. She built an empire while I was overseas playing spy.
"You could've told me."
"You could've come home." The words cut clean. Then she softens, fractionally. "You're family, Remy. This is what family does. We build things. We protect what's ours. Now go show your woman what control really means."
The doorman appears at my elbow. "The private room will be ready when you’re finished with your scene. Fire wands, safety blanket, water basin as requested."
"Good."
I move toward the main lounge. Dominion's main floor is designed for impact.
High ceilings with exposed beams, leather furniture arranged in conversational groupings, a bar along one wall staffed by bartenders who know how to read a room.
Play spaces occupy alcoves and raised platforms, some curtained for privacy, others open for exhibition.
Members occupy various spaces. A woman kneels at her dominant's feet near the fireplace, head bowed, hands folded. On one platform, a bound submissive gasps as her partner works her over. In a corner alcove, three people negotiate terms for a scene that will probably draw a crowd once it starts.
This world has rules. Consent, communication, safety protocols so ingrained they become second nature.
I order whiskey at the bar, lean against the polished wood, and wait.
When Isabella appears in the main lounge entrance, every thought in my head goes silent.
Camille dressed her in black. A corset that cinches her waist and lifts her breasts, creating curves that make my mouth water.
Boy shorts that hug her hips and show the elegant length of her legs.
Heels that add inches and change how she moves, deliberate and aware of the space her body occupies.
Her hair is down, chestnut waves falling past her shoulders.
But it's the way she carries herself that stops my breath. Confident. Powerful. She owns her choice to be here, to explore this with me.
She crosses the lounge with every eye tracking her movement. When she reaches me, she stops just outside my immediate space. She's waiting.
I set my whiskey on the bar, step into her space, and cup her face with both hands. "You're breathtaking."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Good girl." I brush my thumb across her lower lip. "Are you ready to show them what you are?"
"Yes."
"Then kneel."
She hesitates for half a second. Books and observation meeting reality.
I see the moment she chooses faith over uncertainty, remembers whatever she's read, whatever preparation she's done for this moment.
She drops to her knees with careful grace, spine straight, hands folded in her lap. Her gaze lowers.
Perfect submission offered freely, power given to someone who values what it costs.
Conversation in the lounge doesn't stop, but attention shifts. Members recognize good form when they see it.
I thread my fingers through her hair and tilt her face up to meet my gaze. "Have you done this before? In a club?"
"Once. Opus Noir in Monaco. I had a drink at the bar. Watched. Never participated."
"But you've read about it."
"I've read about it. Watched it once. Never done it."
"Reading gets you started. Trust gets you through the rest. Do you trust me?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then we're going to give them a show." I release her hair and step back. "Stand."
She rises smoothly. I guide her toward one of the open platforms, the one near the fireplace where flames dance in the hearth. Summer heat doesn't require fire for warmth, but Dominion keeps it burning because atmosphere matters in a place like this.
The fire play equipment waits where it should. Fire wands, a safety blanket, a water basin. Everything needed for what comes next.
Isabella's breathing changes when she sees the setup. Anticipation and arousal, her scientific mind recognizing what's coming but unable to predict how it will feel.
"Safe word?" I ask, voice low enough that only she hears.
"Benzene."
"Good. Yellow if you need me to slow down, green if you want more." I step closer and invade her space deliberately. "And Isabella? I'm going to push you tonight. Test your limits. Find out how much you're willing to give me."
"I know." She's steady, despite the nerves. "That's why I'm here."
I step behind her and work the corset lacing loose with deliberate slowness.
The garment falls away, revealing skin I've mapped with hands and mouth but never in public like this.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of the boy shorts and slide them down her legs.
She steps out of them. She stands before me naked except for heels, vulnerable and powerful in equal measure.
"On the bench. Face down."
She positions herself as instructed, spine arched, ass presented, legs spread enough to show me everything. Members who were engaged in their own scenes pause to watch, recognizing something worth their attention.
I pour accelerant into my palm and work it across her shoulders and down her spine. Cool liquid against warm skin, the smell sharp and chemical. When I light the first fire wand, flames dance blue and gold in my hand.
"Breathe," I tell her. "Trust me to know your limits better than you do."
The first pass of flame across her skin makes her gasp. Not pain, but sensation so intense it rewrites neural pathways. Heat without burning, danger without damage, certainty made physical in the space between fire and flesh.
I work systematically. Shoulders to spine, following the curve of her back, letting flame dance across skin still wet with accelerant. Each pass creates a rush of sensation that makes her moan, soft sounds that go straight to my cock.
"Color?" I ask.
"Green."