Page 7 of The Player

“Aren’t you?” she shot back, her voice trembling slightly, betraying the calm exterior she was trying to project.

Seth’s jaw tightened. “I’m only a threat if you make me one,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “But if you keep flinching every time I get close, it’s going to raise suspicion. Hargrove isn’t stupid. He’ll see through this if we’re not careful.”

Hope glared at him, but he could see the wheels turning in her mind, weighing the risks, calculating the odds. She was always calculating, always trying to stay one step ahead. But this time, he wasn’t going to let her keep him at a distance.

He reached out, his hand gently brushing against her arm. She tensed but didn’t pull away. “This could be good between us, Hope,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t have to be a fight.”

For a moment, she softened, her gaze dropping to where his hand rested on her arm. But then, just as quickly, the walls came back up, her eyes flashing with defiance.

“In private, you don’t touch me,” she said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “When we’re out in the world or at Baker Street, fine. Do what you have to do. But in here, we keep things professional.”

Seth exhaled slowly, frustration tightening his chest. “Why, Hope? Why the hell are you so determined to keep me at arm’s length? What are you so afraid of?”

She pulled away from him then, turning her back and walking toward the window, her arms wrapping around herself as if to hold herself together. He could see her reflection in the glass, the way her shoulders slumped, the way she bit her lip as if trying to keep her emotions in check.

He took a step toward her, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Hope, talk to me. It doesn’t have to be like this. We’ve worked together before. You’ve trusted me before. Why can’t you trust me with this?”

Hope let out a shaky breath, her hands tightening on the windowsill. “It’s not about trust, Seth,” she said, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear her. “It’s about control. I need to be in control, and regardless of what you and Fitzwallace told Dailey, you aren’t about to give that up to me. And where you’re concerned, I can’t afford to lose control—not now, not ever.”

Seth frowned, taking in her words. He had always known Hope was a control freak—hell, it was part of what made her so damn good at her job and part of why she found such peace in submission. But this was different. This was personal.

“Royce wouldn’t care, you know,” he said carefully, testing the waters. “I’ve talked to him. He’s stupidly happy with Camille. Besides, he’s part of the upper management structure and knows what’s at stake. He trusts us to do what’s necessary and bring down the mole.”

She stiffened at the mention of Royce, her former lover and one of the few people who knew the truth about what had happened at Baker Street. Seth watched her, waiting for her reaction, but she remained silent, her gaze fixed on the darkening sky outside.

“He’s moved on, Hope,” Seth continued, his voice gentle. “You don’t have to keep punishing yourself for something that was never your fault.”

Hope turned slowly, her eyes burning with a mix of anger and pain. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped, her voice laced with venom. “You don’t know anything about what happened between me and Royce.”

“I know enough,” Seth replied, holding her gaze. “And I know that you’re using it as an excuse to keep everyone at a distance. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Not with me.”

“Stop,” she hissed, shaking her head as if trying to ward off his words. “Just stop.”

Seth could see the battle raging within her, the war between her need for control and the part of her that wanted to let go, to give in to what they both knew was simmering just beneath the surface. But he also knew she wasn’t ready to face it—not yet.

He took a step back, giving her the space she clearly needed, even though it went against every instinct he had. “Fine,” he said, his voice resigned. “In private, I won’t touch you unless you ask me to. But out there, we have to be convincing. We can’t afford to let this mission fail.”

Hope nodded, her expression hardening once more. “Agreed,” she said, her voice emotionless. “We do what we have to do.”

Seth watched her for a moment longer, his heart heavy with the weight of what they were about to face. This op was dangerous, and not just because of the criminals they were trying to bring down. The real danger lay in the fragile balance between them, in the delicate dance of trust and desire that could either bring them together or tear them apart.

“Let’s start unpacking,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “We have to make this place look like we’re planning to be here for a long time.”

“I don’t suppose you’d agree to separate bedrooms…”

She was getting desperate. “Not a chance. I’m sure there are some, but I don’t know any true married D/s couples that don’t sleep together every night. By the way, Fitz said he’d have a collar, and rings delivered from Boodles.”

“Seth Newcomb wearing a wedding ring. Who’d have thought it.”

“Things have a way of changing. No matter how much we may fight it, things usually work out the way they’re supposed to.”

Hope rolled her eyes, turning away from him and moving toward the stack of boxes. As she began to unpack, Seth couldn’t help but watch her, his mind still reeling from their conversation. He wanted to reach out, to pull her into his arms and tell her that everything would be okay, that they could do this together. But he knew better. Hope wasn’t ready to let him in and pushing her would only make things worse.

So, he kept his distance, focusing on the task at hand, even as the tension between them crackled like a live wire, threatening to ignite at any moment.

The following evening, they made their first appearance at Baker Street, the club that was as infamous as it was exclusive. Owned and operated by Robert Fitzwallace and his wife, JJ, it was a place where power and desire collided, where the elite came to indulge their darkest fantasies. The entrance was discreet; the only signage was the actual address 221-A Baker Street, and beneath that, a small brass plaque that read, ‘Cerberus.’ Once inside, however, the decadence was undeniable.

The Victorian steampunk-inspired club had a massive foyer that, if someone slipped inside, would reveal nothing about what went on there. There was an enormous, curved staircase that led up to a mezzanine level. The walls had rich wood wainscoting about three-quarters of the way up with vintage wallpaper above reaching to the coffered ceilings. There was a discrete reception desk where you would either be directed to the elevator or stairs, taking you to Cerberus, or buzzed through the locked doors to the opulent lifestyle dungeon, changing areas, and lounge that lay beyond.

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