Chapter 16
Rhys disliked stagnation. Predators evolved. Adapted. They shifted patterns when pressured. This one had done none of those things, which bothered him far more.
A week at The Underground North, another at Driftwood, now downtown. What did they have to show for it? Nothing. No sightings or approaches. No recognizable patterns beyond women vanishing into the dark spaces between one club and the next.
Either the unsub had gone to ground, or he was watching quietly while they exhausted themselves chasing their tails. Neither possibility sat well with him.
Rhys stood near the edge of the main floor as he surveyed the club. Like the other locations, it wanted desperately to be Devil’s Pointe. He had to admit, The Velvet Room came closest.
Gold drapes concealed most of the building’s industrial bones.
Brass sconces cast warm pools of light on the paneled walls designed to imitate old-world luxury.
The music remained unmistakably BDSM centric, but lower and more refined than the relentless pounding found at the other locations.
Even the staff looked the part, moving through the room in black collared shirts with The Velvet Room embroidered over the breast pocket.
At a glance, it almost worked. Underneath, the flaws showed through for anyone experienced enough to look. Security positioned for appearance instead of coverage. Scene areas without flow. Inexperienced dominants performing with confidence they hadn’t fully earned.
Gilded incompetence. Pretty enough to fool newcomers into lowering their guard.
Rafe had taken up a post by a shadowed column, broad shoulders rigid beneath a black button-down, as his gaze moved steadily through the crowd. Most people would see another dominant watching the floor. Rhys knew better. Rafe missed very little.
Michael worked the front entrance tonight, his size alone discouraging problems before they started, while Boone monitored the secondary hallway leading to the upstairs lounge.
Neither man fit naturally into the role of club security, but Pete had accepted their terms after Leland paid him a personal visit.
He wouldn’t repeat what was said, but they were in.
Rhys suspected the owner still resented it, but no one cared.
Women were disappearing from his clubs, and he bore responsibility to help them stop it.
“Movement near the north bar. Male. Mid-thirties. Gray jacket.”
Leland was in his ear yet again. Actually, he was somewhere outside in the surveillance van, for the third straight week, watching all of it unfold through a bank of monitors.
A month ago, Rhys would have expected him to be clawing through the walls by now.
He surprised him. Not relaxed. Not distracted.
Waiting and hopeful for the smallest hint of a lead.
Rhys glanced casually toward the crowded bar area without moving. He found him immediately. Studying the room but not taking part.
He looked down. “Watching anyone specific?”
Several seconds passed.
“Watching reactions.”
His answer triggered a warning inside Rhys. Predatory behavior often revealed itself in absence rather than action. What fascinated a person mattered almost as much as what they pursued directly.
Tonight, he and Gaby intended to become fascinating. The team had finally agreed it was time to escalate. To take a risk with visibility and exposure.
His gaze shifted to the far side of the room.
Gaby stood near the bar in a shoulder-baring, electric-blue vinyl dress that skimmed her curves.
Her newly styled blonde hair spilled in a smooth, glossy sheet, catching the low light as she moved.
One heel tapped lightly against the floor.
At a glance, it was in rhythm with the music, but he knew better.
It told him how unimpressed she currently was with him.
She disliked the scene he’d selected. Not because of the flogging itself. Because her submission to him had never felt performative before. Tonight, like it or not, they were putting something special on display for strangers to study. That troubled him too, but they’d agreed to do it.
Reminding her of that fact was the reason behind her glare.
He crossed the room, aware of eyes tracking him long before he reached her. A few people might have recognized him from the other Underground locations. More recognized an experienced dominant when they saw him.
Gaby looked up when he stopped beside her.
“That expression usually means trouble,” she said.
“For you, it does,” he clarified.
Her eyes narrowed. “If this goes badly, I’d like it noted for the record that I’m doing this because women are disappearing.”
“Already documented.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Only a little.”
She snorted softly into her drink.
Rhys studied her for a moment longer than he should have. Not because she looked beautiful—though she did. Because no matter how dangerous things became, Gabriella Flores still ran toward the fire when someone needed help.
God help him, he loved that about her. But professionally, that was a complication.
Rhys moved closer and dipped his head so only she would hear. “We keep it simple,” he said quietly. “Enough visibility to draw attention. Nothing excessive.”
“You say that now.”
“I always say that.”
“And then you get bossy.”
A faint smile threatened. Dangerous territory.
“Careful, love,” he murmured. “You’re flirting during an active investigation.”
“That’s because I know I’m safe in your hands.”
The honesty in it caught him slightly off guard.
“We should get this done. Ready?” he asked.
“What if I say no?”
“We leave.”
Her expression softened briefly before she masked it again. Rhys wished, not for the first time tonight, that this operation required literally anyone else.
“I’m not sure why this is so hard. It’s not like we haven’t played in public before.”
“This isn’t our club, and these aren’t people you trust.” He offered his hand. “Do we go, or do we walk to that cross? The choice is yours, but the time is now to decide before someone claims our place in line.”
After half a second, she took it.
The St. Andrew’s cross stood against the far wall, slightly elevated to make it easily visible to the rest of the floor. Onlookers quieted as Rhys positioned Gaby carefully before securing the first cuff around her wrist. Loose enough for comfort. Tight enough for realism.
Even though this performance was directed at an audience of one, he remained focused on his charge, unlike too many dominants in this room. He had Rafe, Michael, and Boone behind him, steady and watchful, covering everything he couldn’t see.
His fingers brushed along the inside of her wrist before moving to the next restraint. Tiny contact. Tiny reaction. He noticed both.
By the time he finished and stepped away, Gaby’s breathing had already changed.
He recognized her anticipation. She enjoyed a light flogging, and being bound, even more so, relinquishing control to him.
She had told him how freeing it felt. Such vulnerability required a level of trust that humbled him.
In a new place, in front of so many strangers, and possibly a killer, it felt like a betrayal of what they’d built.
He breathed deep then stepped into the role they’d decided upon for this performance: part possessive controller, part arrogant asshole.
Rhys picked up the flogger he’d preselected. He trailed the tails lightly along her shoulders.
“For my canvas tonight,” he said, voice carrying to her but more so the spectators. “I prefer skin to vinyl.” He undid the zipper on the side of her dress and watched the material, warm and pliable from her body heat, pool around her hips.
He swept her straightened blonde hair—still not used to that—forward over one shoulder, revealing the smooth golden skin of her back. Unable to resist touching her, he stepped closer and ran his hand, fingers splayed, slowly down her spine.
“Are you with me?” he asked softly.
“Yes, sir.”
The title slid through him warm and arousing, also dangerous considering what they were about.
He cleared his throat subtly and announced with cringeworthy arrogance, “You’re a hot little thing. No need to warm you up more, I shouldn’t think.”
The first strike landed lightly across her shoulders. Measured. Controlled. More introduction than impact.
He watched her reaction, shoulders settling, breath releasing. Permission.
The next fell lower, a shade heavier. The muscles along her spine acknowledged it. Not flinching. Receiving. He gave her a few seconds before the next, varying the rhythm deliberately.
That was the work. Not the strikes themselves but the space between them.
He moved to her left side, changed the angle, and let the falls wrap lightly around her ribs, catching the underside of her breast. A small sound escaped her. Almost nothing, but he caught it.
Moving lower still, he delivered a series of quick, glancing strokes over the curves of her ass.
The sound of leather on vinyl echoed sharply through the room.
No below-the-waist nudity allowed on the public circuit.
Pity for the viewers. Her ass was spectacular.
Good for him, though, and the possessive streak he didn’t know he had until Gaby.
Another stroke. Quicker and harder. Once across her upper thighs.
She inhaled sharply and held it.
Conversation, music, the slow movement of bodies around them—all of it had dissolved. There was only the next signal her body offered him. Muscle tension. The quality of her stillness. The particular way she exhaled when sensation moved from discomfort into something more.
He saw the shiver start at the base of her spine. Involuntary. Unmistakable.
Rhys set the flogger down and stepped close. Twisting a hand in her hair, he tugged, angling her face upward until she met his gaze. The move was deliberate. Playing his part to the hilt. But his eyes on her were intimate, his voice quiet enough that the words belonged only to her.
“Your arousal is showing, love.”