Chapter 20 Emma
Chapter twenty
Emma
The neighborhood changed—sleek high-rises giving way to squat brick warehouses, graffiti crawling up concrete walls, streetlights fewer and farther between. I sat up straighter, peering through the windshield at the shadowed buildings.
"Damien." I kept my voice casual, but my hand had found the door handle. "Is there... crime here?"
He laughed—actually laughed—easy and unbothered.
"No, love. There's security at every entrance.
Parking attendants. Cameras. The whole nine yards.
" He pulled down a narrow side street, headlights sweeping over a surprisingly full lot of luxury vehicles.
"You think I'd bring my car here if it could get stolen?
Do you have any idea how much this thing cost? "
I rolled my eyes. "Your priorities are inspiring."
"I'm a man of refined tastes. That includes both my car and my woman. Neither of which I intend to lose tonight."
Before I could respond, he pulled to a stop beneath a black awning. The building looked unremarkable—weathered brick, no signage, nothing to indicate what waited inside. Just a single door flanked by two men in tailored suits.
One of them stepped forward as Damien rolled down his window.
"Mr. Holt." A grin split the man's face. "Long time no see."
"Marcus." Damien leaned out, clasping his hand. "Been a while."
"Too long." Marcus's gaze slid to me. "And who's this?"
Damien rested his hand on my thigh, squeezing once. "This is—" he paused, hand stiffening. "This is—E. She's with me."
Understanding shifted in Marcus's expression. Or approval.
"Welcome to Veil, E." He stepped back, gesturing to the door. "I'll take care of the car. You two enjoy your evening."
Damien handed the keys to Marcus and rounded the car to open my door.
"E?" I asked, stepping from the car.
His hand came to rest at the small of my back as we walked toward the entrance, guiding me along.
"Some people prefer to use codenames, I didn't want to make that decision for you."
The door swung open before we reached it, revealing a small reception room. Dim lighting. Black walls. The faint thrum of music bleeding through from somewhere deeper inside.
And behind the desk—
I stopped short.
A woman sat there, deep skin and tiny locs, smiling warm and welcoming.
Professional.
Poised.
The chunky leather collar around her throat was the only tell that we weren't in a dentist's office, otherwise she looked like any other receptionist.
"Good evening." Her voice was honeyed, completely at ease. "Nice to see you again."
"You as well, Mira." Damien was already reaching into his pocket, pulling out his wallet like this was a hotel check-in. Like the woman in front of us wasn't wearing a rubber tire around her throat.
He slid his ID across the desk. I fumbled for my own, fingers clumsy as I extracted it from my purse.
Mira examined Damien's briefly, then handed it back with a smile. When she looked at mine, she typed something into her computer, nails clicking against the keys.
"I have your waiver on file, Mr. Holt." She slid a tablet across the desk toward me. "But I'll need you to sign one before entry."
I stared at the screen. The clauses stacked—liability, consent, confidentiality—
"What is this?" My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Damien's hand pressed firmly against my back. "Just legalities, love. They need to protect themselves. Same as any business."
"It's standard," Mira added, her smile never wavering. "Nothing you agree to in writing obligates you to participate in anything. It simply acknowledges that you're entering of your own free will and won't hold the club responsible for anything you witness or engage in consensually."
I pulled the tablet closer, swiping through the document. My CEO brain took over—scanning for red flags, hidden clauses, anything that could come back to bite me.
Indemnification clause. Standard.
Confidentiality agreement. Expected.
Acknowledgment of adult content. Obviously.
No photography or recording. Smart.
Release of liability for consensual activities. Reasonable.
It was, in fact, exactly what they said it was. A basic liability waiver dressed up in legalese.
I picked up the stylus and signed.
"One more thing," Mira said, fingers poised over her keyboard. "What name would you like to go by this evening? Some members prefer pseudonyms."
I glanced at Damien.
"I just use mine," he said with a slight shrug. "But it's entirely up to you."
I hesitated, turning the question over. A fake name—an alias to hide behind. Also a lie. And I was so tired of lies.
"Simple is best, right?"
Damien's mouth quirked. "Mutually assured destruction, remember?"
"Emma," I told Mira. "Just Emma."
She typed it in with a warm smile. "Perfect. Welcome to Veil, Emma." She gestured toward a heavy velvet curtain to our left. "Enjoy your evening."
Damien guided me through the velvet curtain and into a long hallway. The music was louder here—a low, pulsing beat that vibrated through the floor—but still muted enough for conversation.
To our right, a glass-walled room housed rows of chairs facing a projector screen. A whiteboard stood in the corner, half-erased notes still visible.
"Classes," Damien said, following my gaze. "Workshops, guest speakers, support groups. They hold beginner sessions every other Saturday." He smiled. "Rope bondage, negotiation techniques, aftercare best practices. That sort of thing."
I frowned slightly. "There are classes?"
"How do you think people learn to do this safely?" He squeezed my hand. "It's not all sex dungeons and riding crops, love."
Before I could respond, movement caught my attention to the left.
Another glass room—this one warmer, more inviting.
A long table stretched along the back wall, covered in food.
Bowls of chips. Platters of cheese and crackers.
A tupperware container with a handwritten label that read "Lisa's Famous Brownies.
" And in the center, a sheet cake with bright blue frosting that proclaimed "Happy Birthday Derek! " in looping script.
A small cluster of people milled around the table, chatting and laughing. One woman in a corset poured herself a cup of something steaming from a large dispenser. A man in leather pants selected a cookie with the careful deliberation of someone choosing a fine wine.
"The food is free," Damien explained, steering me past the doorway. "Open to everyone. Lemonade, tea, coffee, sparkling water." He paused, letting the next part land. "No alcohol permitted on the premises."
I turned to him. "None?"
"None." His expression was serious now. "Everyone who walks through those doors is expected to have a completely clear mind. No exceptions." He held my gaze. "There's no room for blurred consent here. Not ever."
"That's..." I searched for the word. "Reassuring, actually."
"It should be." He lifted my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "This isn't some back-alley kink den, Emma. It's a community. And communities have rules."
We passed through another velvet curtain—the fabric brushing against my bare arms—and stepped into a space that made me stop in my tracks.
The lounge was enormous. Soft lighting cast everything in warm amber tones, shadows pooling in corners like spilled ink.
Oversized armchairs dotted the room, ones you could sink into and never want to leave.
Couches lined the walls. And against the far corner, several beds—actual beds, with pillows and throws—where couples lay tangled together, murmuring to each other.
But it was the corner to my left that caught my attention.
An entire section had been decorated in pink.
Bright, unapologetic pink. Plush toys covered every surface—stuffed unicorns, oversized teddy bears, fuzzy pillows shaped like hearts.
Two young women sat cross-legged on the floor, giggling as they played with what looked like a collection of squishy stress toys.
I stared.
"Non-judgmental zone," Damien said softly, leaning close to my ear. "People dress however they want. Act however they want. As long as it's consensual and doesn't disturb others, there are no rules about how you present yourself."
I dragged my gaze across the room, finally registering what I'd been too overwhelmed to process.
Some people were fully clothed—jeans and t-shirts, yoga pants and tank tops. Others wore elaborate leather harnesses over bare skin. One woman strolled past in nothing but heels and a thong, her breasts completely exposed, chatting casually with a man in a three-piece suit.
Heat crept up my neck.
"Do people..." I lowered my voice, nodding toward the beds. "Does sex happen here?"
Damien shook his head. "This isn't a sex club, Emma. That's a completely different thing." He guided me toward an empty loveseat, his hand steady on my back. "Male genitalia isn't allowed to be out. Ever. That's a hard rule."
"But women can be...?" I gestured vaguely at the topless woman now settling into an armchair across the room.
"Females are always welcome to be naked, yes." Damien's face went rigid, attention fixed firmly ahead—pointedly not following the woman as she crossed her legs. "Different anatomy, different rules."
A laugh bubbled out of me before I could stop it. "You're not even looking."
"I'm being respectful."
"You're being obvious." I nudged his shoulder. "It's okay to have peripheral vision, Damien."
"I have a beautiful woman on my arm." He finally met my gaze, warmth lighting there. "Why would I look anywhere else?"
I grinned at him. The line was smooth—too smooth.
I sank into the loveseat, trying to process everything at once. The pink corner with its stuffed animals. The beds where people cuddled like it was the most natural thing in the world. The casual nudity that no one seemed to notice or care about.
"This is..." I shook my head. "A lot."
"I know." Damien settled beside me, his thigh pressing against mine. "Take your time. We can sit here as long as you need."