Page 35 of Submitting to Daddy
It feels strange, stepping back into the dressing room of the club after being gone for so long. Long enough that I barely recognize Raven’s reflection when I look in the mirror. The bruises are gone—mostly. The last of the yellowing can be covered easily with makeup, and for the first time since that asshole laid hands on me, I don’t feel like a walking wound. I bend closer to the mirror, dabbing concealer over the faint shadow still clinging to my cheekbone.
The last few days have been filled with negotiations, whispered arguments, and slammed doors—and sweaty, heat-filled nights leaving palm prints across my ass—as we finalized ourcompromise about me returning to the club. But somehow, we came to an agreement.
The rules? Only working when Cillian is at the club. And only when he’s available to watch me, or leaves me under the eye of Enzo or Nikolai. Dancing only happens on the main floor. No VIP. Ever. After the way things went last time, I didn’t actually fight that one. The rest were the very rules I swore I wouldn’t accept, but his arguments were compelling—or at least wore me down. Standing in front of my locker, zipping up my black stilettos and adjusting the straps of my sheer rhinestone dress, I’m about to take the stage under his conditions.
I finish as the opening beats of my chosen song—“Pink Pony Club” by Chappell Roan—pulse through the club. The lights fall over me as I step onto the stage, glittering off my dress like it’s a disco ball. I wrap my fingers around the pole, flipping upside down with ease before twisting into a slow spin. Arching my back, I drag one leg down the cool metal until my back is flush with the stage. My body moves with muscle memory, fluid and confident.Thankfully.Because my thoughts are on anything but the task at hand.
My eyes flick over every shadowed corner, every booth, and each balcony rail until I find him. Cillian is standing near the back of the club, one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a glass. He doesn’t smile or give a wave. He just watches with an intensity that makes my heart hum. It centers me. Grounds me.
It’s strange, how badly I want his eyes on me now. In the beginning, when I first started dancing here, I used to dread his gaze. It made me feel far too seen and exposed. But now? I crave it—both when I’m dancingandwhen I’m not. There’s something in the way he looks at me that makes me know who I belong to. And it terrifies me how much I like it.
Myperformance comes to an end, sweat glistening across my chest as I swing down into a final pose, legs split wide in a slow descent that ends with my body curved along the stage pole. Applause breaks out, but I barely register it. My attention is on Cillian’s heated stare and how he seems seconds from storming across the club and spreading me across one of these tables. A thought I’m not exactly opposed to.
I rise slowly, striding offstage with a sway of my hips, trying to keep my breathing steady. The high of performing still thrums under my skin as I walk in Cillian’s direction. I make it three steps across the main floor when a hand wraps tightly around my wrist. My whole body freezes, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “You’ve been avoiding me, little girl,” a low voice rasps behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
Panic pulses through me as he steers me toward a shadowed booth tucked near the edge of the room. I stumble slightly as he takes his seat—my hand still caught firmly in his grip. Not releasing his firm hold, he pats his thigh. The unspoken request is clear:Dance for me.
My heart hammering with nerves, I tentatively climb onto his lap. Keeping my movements stiff and minimal, my eyes scan the room again, searching for Cillian, Nikolai, and Enzo.
“Good to see you, Special Agent Roark,” Agent Frankford leans close, his breath catching against my ear.. Stunned, I sit motionless on his lap—a tap of his hand on my thigh reminding me to dance.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss through my teeth, keeping my smile wide for appearances.
“You haven’t checked in for weeks. And you’ve been ignoring my messages, too.”
It’s not a lie. I’ve been undercover in here for nearly a month,and I checked in like clockwork every day—until the night I found myself sandwiched between Cillian and a steel door. I’m doing everything I can to maintain my professionalism, especially when everything in me wants to fall deeper into Cillian’s dark world.
“And that’s worth blowing my fucking cover?” I huff, feigning annoyance with him. It’s safer than the truth. I can’t exactly tell my handler what’s really going on. That I’m slipping—falling for the very man I’m supposed to be surveilling.
“Considering we lost the last of our surveillance, yes. We needed to know that you’re still alive and see if you’ve learned anything about the inner workings of their operation.”
I almost laugh.What have I learned?That Cillian King fucks like a god, protects like a monster, and looks at me like I’m his most prized possession. And let’s not forget that I hate myself for how much I crave the warmth of his arms around me when I sleep.
“I haven’t got any new intel,” I lie, neglecting to inform him about Cillian murdering Hudson or bringing in Hawk and Jagger to thoroughly sweep their lives for bugs. “And I’m fine.”
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out three tiny cameras, briefly displaying them in his palm before folding them into a twenty-dollar bill. He tucks the wad into the front of my G-string. “Replace the ones they found. Tonight.”
I freeze, staring at the weighted bill resting just above my pussy, and my stomach coils with dread. Reaching for it, I stop dead when I spot Cillian over Frankford’s right arm. He’s moving fast—his eyes locked on me—storming toward us with rage flickering behind hiseyes.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Frankford sees him too and straightens slightly. Cillian tears me from Frankford’s lap, and he rises quickly to his feet, instinctively looking to protect me. Cillian plants a hand on Frankford’s chest and shoves him back into the booth, quickly pulling me into his chest. His fingers slide beneath my jaw, tenderly tilting my face up to his. “Are you okay?” He brushes my cheek tenderly with his thumb.
My eyes dart between Frankford’s disapproving stare and Cillian’s furious concern. I nod quickly and mutter, “Yeah. I’m okay.” Frankford watches us, silent, his mouth pressing into a tight line as his eyes track every movement.
Seemingly content with my answer, Cillian leans down, and his lips brush against my ear. “Go get changed. We’re leaving.” Cillian kisses my forehead, lingering for a moment, and the knot in my chest loosens a bit as the one in my stomach cinches tight. Behind him, Enzo and Nik arrive, both watching the situation unfolding with narrowed eyes.
I don’t argue. I back away, feeling everyone’s eyes burning into my spine as I follow Cillian’s instruction.
In the dressing room, I head straight to a bathroom stall with my heart pounding. I spin the lock and yank the folded bill from my G-string the moment the door swings shut behind me. Unfolding the twenty-dollar bill, I reveal the cameras—so small and easy to hide.
My hand shakes as I hold them in my palm, staring down at the toilet below. This is it—the moment I’m forced to choose. I close my eyes and take a long, shuddering breath. Everything inside me is coiled so tightly that I might explode. My stomach turning, and my head spinning. But my heart? It knows. I turnmy hand, and the cameras drop into the water with a soft plunk.
I flush, and in an instant, they’re gone. And nothing will ever be the same again.
My eyes don’t stray from Madison—not once—until she disappears behind the curtain at the back of the club. Only then do I let myself look at the man still seated in the booth.
“You aren’t welcome here,” I snarl, stepping closer to Agent Frankford, the smug FBI agent who dared come to our apartment with his loose-as-fuck insinuations about what we did to our fathers. His smug posture doesn’t change, but I catch the flicker in his eyes—he’s scared.And he should be.
