The house is quiet, but my skin is screaming.
My mind won't shut up.
Corvin's words, that look in his eyes—the way he slammed the glass down like he was ready to break, or break me.
It's like some twisted invitation burned into my brain, and now I'm pacing my room like a caged animal.
I close the door, lock it, but it doesn't help. The air feels too thick.
Too alive. My hands tremble, fingers itching to touch, to feel, to chase down the heat boiling inside me.
I drop to my bed, and my breath hitching, I pull my shirt up over my head, skin raw and desperate under the rough fabric.
My fingers find their way to the waistband of my pants, slow at first, just tracing, teasing myself awake with a shameful, reckless hunger.
The memory of Corvin's hand on my throat—so close, so cold but still warm with something that should've scared me—haunts my fingers.
I close my eyes and imagine the way his voice sounded when he said, "You want me to lose control?" Like a challenge, like a dare.God, I want to push him, break him.
Or maybe break myself trying.My fingers move faster now, slick with sweat, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.
My thoughts jumble—shame, want, fear, power—all tangled together in a messy knot I can't untie.I bite my lip, trying to drown out the noise in my head with the softest, most wicked sounds I can force out.
My fingers slick inside my pants, slick and hot, trembling, chasing the edge of something too wild to name.
I'm gasping, my body arching, desperate for release but afraid to fall over the edge.
Every touch is a promise, every thought a secret sin.
And then—A sudden knock at the door.My head snaps up. Heart threatens to explode.
I scramble for my shirt, but the door creaks open before I can hide anything.
Corvin stands there, eyes dark, burning with something I can't read.
No words.
Just that look.
The air between us crackling, sharp and electric.He steps in, closes the door behind him, and for a second,
I think he's going to yell, scold, or worse—send me away.Instead, his voice is low, slow, like a warning and a temptation all at once."Get dressed," he says.My fingers freeze."Or come with me."
Before I can think, he's already pulling me up, his grip firm but not cruel.
We don't say another word as he leads me through the dark halls to a car waiting outside, engine purring like a beast.
The city night is alive with neon and danger, and I realize we're not heading home.
He's taking me somewhere I've never been before—some place whispered about in the shadows, where rules don't exist or are rewritten in the heat of bodies and broken wills.
A BDSM club.
And I'm about to learn what happens when control isn't just a game, but a battlefield.---
_____
The car ride was quiet.
Silas shifted in the leather seat, sneaking a glance at Corvin's profile. Stone-faced. Hands tight on the wheel. Eyes forward like he was driving into a warzone instead of—whatever this was.
"You still haven't told me where we're going."
Corvin didn't blink.
"You'll see."
"That's not creepy at all."
Nothing. Not even a twitch. Typical.
The city lights bled into darkness as they crossed into a part of town Silas didn't recognize—low, industrial buildings, alleys whispering secrets, neon signs flickering like tired hearts.
Then they pulled up.
A black door. No sign. No name. Just a tall, silent bouncer dressed in red silk gloves who stepped aside the moment he saw Corvin.
"Evening, Mr. Vance," the bouncer said. "You're late."
"Fashionably," Corvin replied.
He opened the door for Silas.
"After you."
The hallway beyond was narrow and low-lit, pulsing with deep bass like a heartbeat. At the end, another set of doors opened into a space Silas had only seen in fever dreams—dim red lights, velvet drapes, gold cages, men in tailored suits and leather harnesses. Some danced. Some didn't. Some were being watched. Others—
Silas swallowed.
"Holy shit."
"This is Club Adagio," Corvin said simply. "Private. Discreet. Rules enforced."
"What kind of rules?"
"You'll learn."
A man in a navy suit with silver rings on every finger waved them over to a curtained booth. Corvin hesitated, then nudged Silas forward with a hand on his lower back.
"Corvin, finally," the man in the booth drawled. "And who's your little shadow?"
Corvin slid into the booth beside a striking blond with wolfish eyes — Ezra. Silas followed, tense.
"Ezra, this is Silas."
Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Silas, huh? Cute name. Cute face." He looked between them. "You like 'em young now?"
"He's not yours to comment on," Corvin snapped.
Ezra didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head and looked at Silas again—longer, more thoughtful this time.
"You know…" he said slowly, voice softening, "he looks just like her."
Silas blinked. "Like who?"
Corvin tensed.
Ezra leaned back, lips curling into something bittersweet.
"Maria. Your ex. The dancer. You remember, don't you?"
Corvin's fingers curled into fists on the table.
"That's enough."
"You were wrecked when she died," Ezra said, ignoring the warning. "Didn't leave your apartment for a week. Cried like a fucking priest at a whorehouse."
Silas stiffened.
Ezra looked at him again, squinting.
"He's got her eyes. Her mouth, too. Hell, you got a type, Corvin."
"Drop it."
"I mean, what are the odds? Her gone five years and this one shows up with the same fucking smile?"
Corvin stood. Fast.
"We're done here."
"Oh come on—"
"I said—"
Ezra stood too, reaching across the table and brushing his fingers down Silas's arm.
"If you get bored of the cryptkeeper, sweetheart, I can show you how we used to dance here."
The sound of shattering glass cracked across the booth.
Corvin had grabbed a bottle from the table and smashed it clean across Ezra's skull.
Gasps. A scream. Chairs scraping.
Ezra staggered, hands flying to his head, blood seeping between his fingers.
"FUCK—Corvin, what the hell—?!"
Corvin was already dragging Silas from the booth, one hand clenched around his wrist, eyes murderous. A bouncer ran toward them, hand on his earpiece.
"Do we need security?"
"Handled," Corvin growled.
They stormed through the club. People stared. Whispered. Someone snapped a photo.
Back in the car, Silas panted, adrenaline still hammering.
"You—you just—"
"Don't speak."
"He was bleeding, Corvin."
"He touched you."
"You didn't have to bash his fucking head in!"
Corvin slammed the door and the engine roared to life.
Silas stared at him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
Corvin didn't answer.
He just drove.
But his knuckles were white, and his jaw trembled like something was coming undone.
And Silas—Silas sat there, still hearing Ezra's voice echo in his ears.
He looks just like her.
Maria.
The woman who died five years ago.
The woman Silas called Mom.