7. Perseus #2
He didn’t just want her—he needed her, like his body had already made the decision for him. And it scared the hell out of him how right it felt.
She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him as if daring him to react.
He cleared his throat. “You clean up alright,” he said, voice a little rougher than intended.
A corner of her mouth lifted.
The driver was waiting outside, and the evening air was crisp as they stepped into the dark car. Perseus held the door open for her before climbing in beside her. They settled into the leather seats, the silence between them warm instead of awkward.
The car cut through winding mountain roads, heading toward a neighboring town nestled deeper in the Alps. Lights shimmered in the valley below, the shadows of snow-dusted peaks rising around them like ancient sentinels.
Perseus stole glances at her the entire ride. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, her hand resting lightly on her knee, the mirrored lenses hiding her expression but not her presence. The scent of her perfume—warm, sharp, unmistakably her —lingered in the close space between them.
He told himself it was the mission that had him on edge.
But that was only half the truth.
The club was nestled into the slope of the mountain, its exterior discreet—just a narrow door between two stone buildings and a small sign carved with a geometric maze. But once inside, the space opened up like a hidden cavern.
Low lighting bathed the room in a haze of gold and violet, casting soft shadows that flickered over velvet seating and polished black floors.
The air buzzed with energy—music with a slow, pulsing beat thudded in the background, sensual and rhythmic, a current running just under the skin.
Mirrors and smoked glass caught the light, reflecting glimpses of bodies and movement.
A lounge area sprawled in the center, dotted with private booths curtained off in sheer fabric, while the back half of the space stretched toward a second level, softly glowing red.
They hadn’t even made it fully inside when a tall, silver-haired hostess in a skintight suit greeted them. “Good evening,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “Do you have a reservation?”
“We’re here to meet someone,” Perseus said, adjusting his blazer. “Minotaur.”
“Of course. He’s expecting you. This way.”
She led them through the lounge, past clusters of people dressed in varying degrees of glamour and leather, and guided them to a velvet-lined table near the edge of the main floor. The music was slightly quieter here, tucked into its own little alcove.
“What can I get you to drink?” she asked, already pulling out a small tablet.
Perseus ordered a whiskey, neat. Medusa ordered something smoky with mezcal.
“Minotaur will be out shortly,” the hostess said, and then she vanished with their order.
Medusa leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs. “I guess he’s going to be an actual Minotaur?”
Perseus opened his mouth to respond, but she suddenly sat upright, head tilting like she’d caught a frequency he couldn’t hear. Her hand touched his forearm lightly.
“There,” she said, and nodded across the room.
Perseus followed her gaze in time to see a man moving toward the back of the club.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his aura practically pulsing with power.
Even without magic sight, Perseus could feel it in the air around him—like pressure, like heat.
The man pushed through a set of doors that glowed briefly as they sealed behind him.
“That’s not just a club rat,” Medusa murmured.
Their drinks arrived, and Perseus accepted his glass without looking away from the now-closed doors.
“Well,” Medusa said after a sip, “I guess we’ll be getting into that area.”
Perseus leaned back in the plush booth, one arm draped lazily along the top of the velvet seat as his eyes scanned the room. “I gotta say,” he murmured, “For a place built around dim secrets and skin, they really nailed the lighting.”
Medusa smirked behind her glass. “Mood lighting is essential for depravity,” she said, swirling her drink. “You’d know that if you got out more.”
He chuckled, gaze lingering on her. “I get out plenty. Just usually not to places where I’m the least interesting thing in the room.”
“You’re not the least interesting. Just the least dressed appropriately . Maybe we should fix that.”
He leaned in a little. “Oh? You gonna pick out my outfit next time?”
Her lips twitched. “Maybe. Latex would suit you.”
“Wouldn’t it suit you more?”
She shrugged. “Perseus, I’d look good in just about anything. Or nothing.”
He coughed lightly, feigning composure. “Dangerous confidence.”
“Dangerous is part of the appeal,” she said with a wink—at least, he thought it was a wink behind the glasses.
Before he could volley back, the air shifted, and the subtle thump of heavy footsteps approached.
A moment later, a towering man stopped beside their table.
Not quite a monster, not quite a myth—he wasn’t a Minotaur in form, but everything about him felt…
oversized. Shoulders broad enough to eclipse the light, dark hair shaved close to his scalp, a gold ring in one ear, and tattoos crawling up his neck like creeping vines.
He dropped into the seat beside Medusa with an easy confidence and gave them both a nod.
“Eros didn’t say much,” he said in a gravelly voice, “just that you were owed access. Said not to ask too many questions.” His eyes flicked to Medusa, and he lingered there.
“But now I’m wondering why. He always had good taste. ”
Medusa arched a brow. “You flirt with all of Eros’s guests?”
“Only the ones who bite,” Minotaur said, grinning. “You look like you might.”
Perseus cleared his throat, his jaw ticking as Minotaur’s gaze drifted a little too long over Medusa. He shifted closer to her, casually resting his hand on the back of her seat. “We’d like access to the back rooms,” he said, voice low and firm, like a warning wrapped in a request.
Minotaur didn’t take his eyes off Medusa. “Ah. You mean that area.” He chuckled. “You can go in. But tonight’s a theme night. Women have to match the aesthetic.”
He glanced down at Medusa’s sleek outfit. “You look great. But it’s more…You understand.”
Perseus felt a spark of protectiveness surge in his chest. “And if we do go in?”
“If you step through those doors, it means you’re here to fuck,” Minotaur said bluntly. “With your partner, someone else, or both. It’s consent culture in there, but the intent is non-negotiable.”
Before Perseus could respond, Medusa reached out and laced her fingers through his, her grip firm and sure. “Oh, we’re here to play,” she said, her voice silken.
Minotaur laughed, deep and rough. “Well, damn. Maybe I’ll find you later, sweetheart.” He stood, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket. “Enjoy yourselves.”
Perseus took a long sip of his whiskey, letting the burn distract him from how tightly his jaw had clenched. Medusa leaned back into the booth, legs crossed just so, her glass dangling from her fingers like it weighed nothing at all.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she said, tilting her head toward him. Her mouth curled into a hint of a smile. “Jealous?”
He gave her a look over the rim of his glass. “Depends. Am I supposed to be?”
Her grin widened, playful. “Only if you want to be.”
“You’re enjoying this,” he chuckled under his breath and leaned a little closer.
She didn’t deny it. “It’s a good club. Vibes are right. Good drinks. Hot people.” She smiled at him. “Present company included.”
“Are you sure about this?”
She was already finishing her drink. “It’s fine,” she said, then glanced sideways at him. “Unless you’re nervous.”
He leaned in, voice low and serious. “I’m not nervous. I just don’t like the idea of you being on display for?—”
She squeezed his hand. “Perseus. I’m not just anyone . I know what I’m doing. And besides…I don’t think I’ll be the only one getting attention.”
That earned a small, reluctant smile from him.
A staff member approached, and they followed him through a curved hallway lit by soft amber sconces. The air shifted as they stepped through the door, revealing the more exclusive inner sanctum of the club.
Inside, the atmosphere was quieter but somehow more charged.
Men lounged in elegant suits, some open-collared and casual, others sharp and predatory.
The women wore silk robes in every color imaginable, some already half-open, others clinging artfully to their forms. There were arched doorways along the walls, some open, others curtained, and several rooms with glass windows through which others observed the performances inside.
Laughter, moans, whispers—every sound hummed low and steady, like the pulse of the place itself.
A female staff member came over and guided Medusa away to change.
Perseus stayed in the lounge, ordering something strong and dark.
He cradled the glass, staring into it like it held some kind of answer.
The drink burned in a way that helped, but not nearly enough.
He leaned against the seat and scanned the room—no sign of the man they’d seen earlier.
Just a sea of velvet shadows and bodies in motion.
He took another drink, slower this time, and told himself to stay focused.
He didn’t have to wait long. Soft footsteps padded near, and he turned just as Medusa appeared beside him. She wore a black silk robe that shimmered with every movement, tied loosely at the waist. It clung in ways that sent a ripple of heat through him.
She slid into the booth beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her skin. “We’re professionals, right?” she said lightly.
“Yeah.”
“Well, we have to do our jobs,” she murmured, shifting closer until her thigh pressed against his. “Right?”
“Is this part of it?” he managed, his gaze dropping to where the robe parted slightly, revealing the smooth line of her leg.