Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Cassandra
Ican’t breathe with him so close, what the fuck was Lola thinking leaving me alone with her very sexy brother, fuck, what was I thinking?
Well, I was thinking I want to climb this man like a fucking tree…
not, no, no, don’t think about that now, I automatically trap my bottom lip between my teeth and I don’t even know I’m doing it until I hear him growl.
Low.
Rough.
A sound that doesn’t belong in public.
My stomach twists like I’ve been spun around by a force I don’t understand, and when I dare to look up—he’s not even pretending anymore.
His eyes are on my mouth like he’s already claimed it, like he’s picturing what it’d look like with his fingers between my lips.
I swallow.
Mistake.
His gaze drops to my throat.
“You keep doing that,” he says, voice deep and low, “and I’ll stop playing nice.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
My brain’s a dead zone, my whole body’s flushed, pulsing.
“You okay, butterfly?” he murmurs, one corner of his mouth twitching—just enough to promise sin without showing any of it.
No. I’m not okay.
I’m standing in a club called Seventh Sin while the hottest man I’ve ever seen stares at me like I’m on the menu and he’s starving.
I nod anyway.
Because I’m an idiot.
“Lola…” I start. “She said you were just back from—”
“Don’t talk about my sister,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “Not right now.”
Something about the way he says it—low and final and coated in steel—makes my stomach drop and my thighs press together on instinct.
He leans in, just enough that his mouth brushes the shell of my ear, and holy fuck, I have never wanted anything more than I want to hear what comes out of it next.
“This place,” he murmurs, voice scraping down my spine, “isn’t what you think.”
“Then tell me,” I whisper.
A beat.
Then another.
He leans back, eyes scanning me like he’s weighing something.
Then—he offers his hand.
Not a word. Just the gesture.
A silent choice.
My chest rises. Falls.
And I take it.
His fingers close around mine—bigger, warmer, rougher than I expected, like heat and power and consequence wrapped in one perfect touch.
He doesn’t pull. Doesn’t rush. Just turns and starts walking through the club, and I follow.
The floor thumps underfoot—bass and sex and secrets vibrating in my bones.
He leads me past the bar, past the velvet ropes, past the couples pressed into corners and shadows and bodies.
Deeper.
Until we reach a black archway I hadn’t seen before. No sign. No light. Just a heavy curtain and the promise of things I’m not sure I’m ready for.
He pauses. Looks back at me.
“This is your out, butterfly.”
I blink up at him.
“Out?”
“If you come in here with me,” he says, “you don’t get to pretend you didn’t know better.”
My heart stutters.
And still—
“I’m not pretending.”
His lips twitch. Then the curtain parts.
And just like that—he pulls me into the dark.
The curtain closes behind us.
Swallowing the light.
Swallowing the noise.
Swallowing me.
The air changes—thicker, still charged with bass but quieter, like the music is deeper now, buried under layers of secrets. Everything smells like velvet and danger, the kind of scent that sticks to your skin and stains it.
His hand doesn’t leave mine.
He walks like he owns this place. Like it’s nothing new. Like he’s walked this hallway a thousand times and knows exactly how many breaths it’ll take before I’m not the same girl who walked in behind him.
The corridor narrows.
Dark walls. Golden sconces. Thick carpet muffling our steps.
He stops in front of a black door with no handle.
Just a keypad.
He lets go of my hand. I instantly miss the heat of it.
He types in a code. Fast. Familiar. Like muscle memory.
I stare at the back of his neck while he does it—the curve of it, the way his dark hair fades into clean skin. I want to bite it. I want to breathe him in until I can’t remember what my own name is.
Click.
The lock disengages.
The door opens.
And I step into a world I didn’t know existed.
It’s not a room.
It’s not even a lounge.
It’s a den. A playground. A throne room for sinners.
Candles flicker from metal cages suspended in the corners. The walls are lined in crushed black velvet, and there’s a low hum of something beneath the silence—like a heartbeat. Or a promise.
There’s a chaise lounge in the centre of the room. Deep red. Clawed legs. Looks like something from a Victorian séance, if the spirits being summoned were lust and violence.
A bar lines the back wall—crystal bottles and glass tumblers, a tray of clean-cut cigars and black napkins, like even decadence has a dress code here.
And then there’s the mirror.
A full wall of it.
Unforgiving.
Unavoidable.
I can already see myself in it. Wide eyes. Bare shoulders. Every thought I didn’t say out loud scrawled across my face.
Dax steps in behind me.
Doesn’t touch.
But I feel him.
Everywhere.
He closes the door. The click is soft. Final.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod.
Lie.
He doesn’t call me out on it.
Instead, he moves past me—slow, calm, controlled—and pours a drink like he’s done it a hundred times in this exact room. Whiskey. Two fingers. No ice.
He sets it down on the low table beside the lounge. Then turns to face me.
That’s when I realise I haven’t moved.
I’m still standing in the middle of the room like a stray girl who wandered into the wolf’s den and forgot she had legs.
“You ever been in a room like this, butterfly?” he asks.
I shake my head.
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not really. More like the shadow of one. Like the idea of one died before it made it to the surface.
“Do you know what this room is for?”
“No.”
He steps closer.
I forget how to blink.
“It’s not a bedroom,” he says, slow and deliberate. “It’s not a bar. It’s not a lounge.”
He stops in front of me.
His voice drops.
“It’s a permission slip.”
I don’t breathe.
I don’t move.
He tilts his head, eyes dragging over every inch of me like he’s trying to decide what I’ll do when he breaks me open.
“What do you want, Cassandra?”
My name in his mouth is a sin.
A weapon.
A confession I didn’t give him permission to say.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
It’s not an accusation.
It’s an observation.
“Try again,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “What do you want right now?”
I try to speak. I really do. But my throat’s tight, my mouth dry, all the words I could say dissolve the moment he reaches up and runs the back of his knuckle across my jaw.
Slow.
Barely a touch.
Enough to set my skin on fire.
“That’s what I thought,” he whispers.
I should run.
I should say no.
I should turn around and find Lola and pretend like this never happened.
But instead—I whisper the one word I shouldn’t.
“Show me.”
His eyes flare.
A flicker.
A flash of something that feels like triumph.
He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes my lips.
“You don’t get to change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Say it.”
I swallow. “I won’t.”
And then—just like that—he steps back.
But not far.
Just enough to drag a chair out from the wall, spin it, and sit in it backwards, arms draped over the top, legs spread like a fucking throne.
Watching me.
Waiting.
Like I’m the show now.
Like this is my decision.
My test.
My moment.
“Go on,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Take a look at yourself, butterfly.”
I glance toward the mirror.
Then back at him.
He nods once. Calm. Commanding.
And somehow that’s worse than if he’d demanded it.
So I walk. Slowly. Towards the chaise.
I sit.
Face flushed. Pulse erratic.
And then—I look up.
Into the mirror.
At him behind me.
At me in front of him.
And the girl in the reflection?
She doesn’t look scared.
She looks… curious.
Dax tilts his head.
Smirks.
And says the words that make my stomach drop straight through the floor.
“Good girl.”
My thighs press together like that’ll help.
It doesn’t.
The air’s too thick. The mirror too honest. And Dax—Dax—he’s just sitting there like he’s got all the time in the world to watch me fall apart.
“I can’t…” I start, but the words don’t come easy.
“You can,” he says simply. “You already are.”
I shake my head. “This isn’t me.”
He raises a brow. Just one. God, even that is hot.
“No?” he murmurs. “Then why do you look like that in the mirror?”
I glance again—mistake.
Because the girl staring back?
She looks flushed. Lit from within. Eyes darker. Mouth slightly open like she’s waiting to be kissed or destroyed—maybe both.
She looks like she wants this.
Even if I still don’t know what this is.
Dax doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.
His voice does all the damage.
“You want to know what happens in a room like this?”
I nod.
“You sure?”
Another nod. Smaller this time. Like if I make it small enough, I can pretend it won’t have consequences.
He stands.
Fuck.
Every inch of him is power. Measured. Controlled. But underneath it—there’s something rough. Unhinged. Like he could snap and never look back.
I should be scared.
I’m not.
I’m shaking, though.
He walks toward me—slow, deliberate—and when he gets close, he crouches in front of me like a wolf studying its prey.
His eyes drag up my legs.
Over my hips.
Up my chest.
Until he’s staring right into mine.
“You want to feel what it’s like to be seen, don’t you?” he says, barely louder than the hum of the room.
“I—”
He lifts a hand.
Brushes my knee.
Just the edge of his knuckles. No pressure.
But it still feels like a warning.
Or a promise.
“I see everything, butterfly. Even the things you lie to yourself about.”
My breath catches.
His hand moves a little higher.
Still not touching, not really—just hovering. Like his self-control is the only thing keeping him from setting me on fire.
“I see the way you watch people.”
My heartbeat stutters.
“I see the way you shrink to fit rooms too small for your mouth, your fire, your chaos.”
My throat tightens.