Updates once per week. UNEDITED DRAFT. Content notes apply only to this part.
Ten lashes trickle blood down the woman’s back in thin, neat lines, left behind by the careful swing of the whip. Each one had been carefully controlled, left as much as decoration as to cause pain, and I admire my handiwork even as the woman sobs against the St. Andrew’s Cross she’s been bound to.
The eleventh, the last I’d been able to land before Genevieve had stayed my hand, criss-crosses the rest, but it’s messy in comparison because she hadn’t been able to keep still. The woman had ignored my instructions to relax into the lashes, to breathe with the pain, and her whimpering had turned into sobs, then into a scream.
Pathetic.
“She knew what she was signing up for, didn’t she?” I ask Genevieve, crossing to the woman so I can run my fingers along one of the perfect lines I’d left behind. My fingers come away with blood, and I rub them together, transferring blood from one to my thumb.
“Not this,” Genevieve says, and while she likely intends to chide me, she can’t hide the note of amusement in her voice.
“How much extra did this earn her?” I sigh, handing the whip over to one of the discreet attendants.
“Five hundred,” Genevieve replies.
I huff out a laugh. “You’re getting stingy in your old age, Gen.”
“What, are you going to tip her extra?” she asks, arching her perfect brows.
“Of course not. The last lash makes me look like an amateur,” I reply. The annoyance has melted away into restlessness.
That hadn’t been enough to satisfy me.
Eleven lashes.
That had been nothing.
But we have to keep up pretenses, and that means that I can only go so far before Genevieve reins me back in.
I take a step back, admiring the work I’d done up until that last unfortunate strike, and wipe my fingers on her bare ass. She’d been lucky I hadn’t been in the mood for the cane or the paddle.
Or maybe I’d been lucky, because Genevieve would’ve stopped me even before I’d gotten started.
“Maybe get one with pain tolerance next time,” I suggest, turning to her at last.
“I always ask, dear,” she says, her tone dry. “But you know how they are. The allure of money drives them to promise more than they can actually endure.”
I scoff at her. “You shouldn’t have let that one girl quit,” I say.
“That one girl?” Genevieve asks. “You mean Wanda?”
“Yes,” I say. “Her. She took the whip beautifully.”
“She didn’t quit,” Genevieve replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “She overdosed.”
That gives me pause. “I didn’t even know she was an addict.”
Genevieve gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “People surprise you in the worst ways. Disappoint you, too. I thought she had potential.”
So had I.
“I need to wash my hands,” I say, ignoring the attendant who dispassionately begins to care for the wounds on the woman’s back.
Genevieve pats me on the shoulder, and I head to the bathroom. I wonder what actually happened to Wanda, if she’d developed an addiction or if she’d flirted with bad decisions.
Decisions always have consequences, and in a city like New Valence, they can be deadly.
The wooden floor creaks under my feet as I walk from the living room to the hallway, the sounds of idle conversation interspersed with the occasional smack and cry of pain falling away behind me.
I know the way around this mansion well, large as it is; I’ve been coming to Genevieve’s private gatherings for almost a decade now. She’s only five years older than I am, but she has connections even I can barely reach.
Something about the ability to blackmail the wealthiest, most influential men and women in the city does that.
I consider the sheer amount of blackmail material she has on me as I step into the bathroom and dismiss the thought. I have an equal amount on her.
Mutually assured destruction, as it were, and neither of us wishes to be destroyed.
I wash my hands with the peach-scented soap. There hadn’t been enough blood for it to do much more than tinge the water slightly pink. I should’ve dragged my fingers over the wounds, through the wounds, until my hand had been slick with her blood.
But certain appetites can’t even be indulged in private parties such as these, and I’ve yet to find someone I trust enough to bring home with me.
I’m forever doomed to restraint, and some nights, the restlessness beneath my skin makes me want to ignore all the rules and indulge dark thoughts I know could lead to disaster.
Stefan joins me as I step out of the bathroom, looking me over.
“Can’t I even piss in private?” I ask him, but there’s no real vitriol in my voice. He does his job well, and I trust him.
As much as I can trust anyone, at least.
Stefan shakes his head. “Nope. Not after last month.”
Last month, when somebody had attempted to shoot me in a public restroom at a restaurant. If Stefan hadn’t been there, I would have been shot through the door.
As it was, I pissed in peace and stepped out to find Stefan had already subdued the would-be assassin.
That’s why I pay him an exorbitant fee, of course. He doesn’t only look the part of the bodyguard—6’6”, broad shoulders, ugly face, buzz cut. He’s smart, too, able to assess danger before it ever enters my periphery.
We’d escorted the failed assassin straight to the swamp and listened to him scream as his blood attracted the alligators.
They really are much faster than people give them credit for.
“Do we have any ideas who might be behind the attempt yet?” I ask him, only to lift my hand to stay his answer. “Never mind. Not here.”
I don’t know who’s around. Someone could be listening, even though I can’t see anyone and the floorboards should give everyone away if they try to get close.
“If I don’t see someone interesting in the next five minutes, I’m leaving.” I sigh. “It’s like these women don’t even try.”
Maybe I need to see if Genevieve will find me a discreet man. They have to be equally as desperate as women.
That’s even more of a risk, though; desperation can make people surprise you, as Genevieve had said of Wanda.
Stefan grunts in acknowledgement and checks his watch. “Sounds good, Boss.”
Sometimes, he’ll insist I stay longer or leave earlier, just so we aren’t on a routine schedule. The less routine I have, the less opportunity there is for anyone to anticipate my moves.
Nobody except Stefan, and the party-goers, even know I’m here tonight.
They’re all bound by ironclad NDAs, and they’re savvy enough to know that breaching those contracts would lead to more trouble than they’re willing to have at their doorsteps.
I return to the living room, where the dark-haired woman has been taken down from the Cross. She’s probably in a bedroom somewhere being babied, as though this is Club Neon or one of the strict BDSM clubs in the city.
None of the women brought here for entertainment will meet my eyes, and I purse my lips.
An early night, then.
Except my eyes catch on someone unfamiliar, someone who’s bold enough to lift her chin in my direction.
I can’t see her eyes, because they’re covered by a black veil. The skin on her jaw is stark white in comparison, and her lips a shimmering pink. Long, bleached hair trails past her shoulders.
I follow the line of her bare neck down to her shoulders. The frilly blouse is unusual for this party, where most women are in a state of undress. The sleeves poof out, and the bottom of the blouse has uneven layers of ruffles.
She’s wearing tight black pants rather than a skirt, which is also unexpected. Her feet are bare.
Her build is different from the soft, weak women I’ve been seeing all night. Taller, a straighter stance, not cowering.
She has the potential to be interesting.
I should stop by Genevieve to get more information about her, but Genevieve is caught up in a conversation with one of the business associates I prefer to pretend doesn’t exist. Lucky her.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Stefan, then stride in the woman’s direction. I don’t have eyes for anyone else, not anymore, and I won’t until I unravel the mystery of this veiled, unfamiliar creature who’s put herself directly in my path. “Good evening,” I say as I stop in front of her.
Her lips curl into a smile. “Good evening,” she responds.
The voice is deeper than I expected, and I take in her form again. The blouse is loose, but pulled tight enough that I can see there’s no significant swell to the chest. Hips are narrow.
The person laughs. “Confused? I’m a man. Don’t worry, I get that a lot. I won’t be offended if you decide to leave.”
I should walk away.
Zane Spade cannot be seen flirting with another man.
Then again, who is going to realize I’m doing anything but socializing? The only person who might clock it is Genevieve, and she already knows most of my predilections, for better or for worse.
“That depends. Are you a guest or entertainment?” I ask, considering him.
“Are those mutually exclusive?” Amusement makes his voice light. “I must admit, I wasn’t aware New Valence had such interesting parties.”
“What were you expecting?” I ask, quirking a brow. Most people who come here as guests know what they’re getting themselves into.
The entertainment…
Not so much.
“I’ve always found the rules at most venues to be a bit,” he pauses, as if searching for a word. “Stifling.” He licks his lips, and I wish the veil weren’t in the way.
I want to see his eyes.
“Mm,” I murmur noncommittally.
There are reasons I’m here and not at one of those other clubs, after all.
“Have you been enjoying the show?” I ask, wondering if he had seen me take the whip to that woman’s back.
He nods. “It was a shame you had to stop. But you know, it’s a myth that women have a stronger pain tolerance.”
“Is that so?” I itch to push the veil back, but I keep my hands to myself.
He reaches up and draws one slender hand from my shoulder down to my bicep with a light, feathery touch.
“Mm. It probably depends on the person.” He takes a small step closer to me. “But I like to think I can take more than eleven lashes.”
“You think so?” I ask, tilting my head. “Is that an offer?”
He laughs and taps my chin. “That was a challenge.”
What would everyone here think if they saw me take my whip to a man? It’s one thing to do it to a woman, especially knowing that my body will inevitably react to the sight of the blood; it’s another entirely to do it to a man.
It’s not as though I’m openly bisexual, and my encounters with men are few and far between because of it.
I can’t have people talking, after all.
I consider him for a moment, taking in the delicate features I can see beyond the confines of the veil. “Would you get on that cross and take what I have to give you, then? Let everyone see you take a whip far, far more beautifully than she did?” If the words come out as a taunt, so be it.
I don’t expect him to agree, after all, challenge or otherwise.
He glances at the cross, currently empty, and the movement draws my attention to the long line of his pale neck.
He’d look better with a ring of red around that skin.
“I could,” he says after a small pause. He looks back to me. “But I don’t think you want me to.”
He’s not wrong.
But I do want to see him bleed for me.
There are private rooms, but Stefan would have strong words to say if I disappeared into one of them with someone I’m not familiar with. Hell, he’d have strong words even if I was familiar with them.
He nods, a small smile gracing his lips. “Right. It was nice talking to you, anyway. I’m going to find somebody who’s willing to make me bleed.”
He takes one step toward the crowded seating area, where the other guests are bragging to each other about their conquests.
White hot anger rages through me at the idea of someone else touching him, and I grab his wrist. “I don’t think so,” I say. “Go down the hall, second door on the right, and wait for me there.”
There’s no room for argument in my voice.
I will get what I want.
He licks his lips again and lowers his head submissively. “Of course… Sir.”
The honorific goes straight to my cock, and my fingers tighten around his slender wrist. “Good boy.” My voice is rough, and it’s all I can do to release him so he can obey my command.
He enters the designated room with his head held tall and his shoulders straight.
I step aside and confer with one of the attendants, directing him to bring the whip to the room I’d sent the mystery man to.
I’ll give it a few minutes before I follow, even though I want to stalk after him right the fuck now.
Instead, I get a drink, sipping at the expensive liquor as I survey the room. No one is paying attention to me — except Stefan, whose eyes never stray far from me. I gesture to the hallway, and he wordlessly follows me.
“Wait outside,” I tell him.
I don’t wait for a response before giving a cursory knock on the door and stepping inside to see my prize for the evening. I shut the door behind me and lock it.
The only light is from a lamp next to the ornate four-poster bed. One wall has bolts set into it at various heights, perfect for chaining a person to.
The man sits in the center of this drafty room on a wooden chair. The blouse is unbuttoned, one sleeve half down his arm to expose beautiful, unmarked skin.
The whip I’d ordered is on his lap. His hands contrast starkly with the black leather.
I lick my lips, drinking in the tableau before me.
I stalk toward him, circling the chair he’s sitting in to inspect him from every angle. “Lose the blouse,” I order when I finally pause in front of him to stare down at him. “And the veil. I want to see everything.”
He nods and shrugs the blouse the rest of the way off. It lands at his bare feet.
I inhale sharply when I see his newly revealed chest.
Each nipple has a small golden ring through it.
My fingers itch to tug at them, to twist them and hear him cry out. In pleasure, or in pain, I can’t say I’d particularly care so long as it elicits some sort of reaction from him.
“Good boy,” I say, stepping in closer so I can run a finger down his chest. “Now the veil.”
“Yes, Sir,” he says obediently. He reaches up with one arm to tug on the veil.
I could have done it myself, but the thrill of having him obey me without question makes my cock harden.
Ms. eleven-strokes hadn’t gotten me this excited, not even with her blood spilling from her back.
Even with the veil removed, he keeps his gaze lowered, denying me his eyes.
I don’t enjoy being denied what’s mine.
I grab him by the chin to force his head up so I can lock eyes with him.
They’re the purest silver I’ve ever seen. Not gray-blue, not light green. Completely silver.
I study them, study him, and the desire to make him bleed comes roaring back to the surface.
“Good. Go to the bed and lean over it,” I say, reaching for the whip.
He pulls the whip away and darts out of the chair. “I have one request before we start.” His bare feet are silent on the hard wooden floor as he pads over to the bed.
“What’s that?” I ask, watching his perfect ass as he walks away from me. I follow him, unwilling to let him stray too far.
He gets onto the bed and kneels at the edge, facing me. The tight leather pants frame everything perfectly, the outline of his cock visible. No wonder he wore a long blouse.
“I want a kiss, Sir.” He gives me a mocking smile.
He expects me to refuse.
I don’t back away from challenges that easily.
I close the rest of the distance between us and grab him by his long hair, twisting it in my grasp until he lets out a soft sound. I lean in and kiss him hard on the mouth, ruthless and demanding.
If he wants a kiss, he’ll get one.
He gasps, and I use that opportunity to drive my tongue into his mouth, exploring every inch of him like he belongs to me. He moans, and I bite down on his lip, the delicate skin splitting. I drink those drops of blood and let him taste himself on my tongue.
By the time I pull away, my cock is straining against my pants, desperate to be freed.
I didn’t come here to fuck him, though. Or at least, I didn’t come here solely to fuck him, though that’s far from off the table.
I want more first.
I want to see his back dripping crimson.
“Happy now?” I rumble, releasing his hair.
He licks the cut on his lip. “Yes,” he answers. “Thank you, Zane.”
My eyes widen.
He knows my name.
“How the fuck—”
Before I can finish my question, he wraps the whip around my neck and pulls tight.
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