Page 203 of Fractured Loyalties
Mara’s face keeps flickering in the margins—braided hair, eyes watching me like she wants to see something I won’t give. And that Civic, probably still parked, still waiting.
I press my fingers against my temple, force myself to read a clause again. It swims. The numbers slide. My pen scratches across the paper, a signature where none was needed. Sloppy. I rip the page and crush it in my fist.
Work has always been where I dissolve need. But nothing holds right now.
By evening, the city outside my window has turned to steel and glass glowing against the dark. My reflection stares back at me from the pane. For the first time in years, I don’t look composed. I look—fractured.
That’s when I know.
Dom’s place.
The drive is muscle memory. Black streets, neon slicing through puddles, the low growl of the engine pushing me forward. The club sits in its usual skin: a steel door with no sign, no mark, nothing to suggest life inside. Just another shadow in arow of forgotten buildings. To most, it’s dead space. To me, it’s a threshold.
The keypad glows faint green beside the frame, waiting. My print unlocks it. The lock thuds open with a sound I’ve always liked—final, mechanical, absolute.
The descent is familiar: stone stairs, faint bass trembling up through the concrete, air warming with each step. The air warms, carrying the faint scent of polished leather and something metallic that never fades from stone.
The main chamber opens wide beneath chandeliers caged in black iron. Discreet attendants in dark suits move along the edges, silent, purposeful. Doors line the far corridor—each one a world sealed tight, soundproof, impenetrable. Privacy here isn’t optional; it’s law.
A few members linger in the open lounge, immaculate in tailored clothing, their conversations low, their eyes sharp. This isn't a spectacle. It’s the theater before the curtain.
And Dom, of course, waiting before I’ve fully crossed the floor.
“Elias,” he says, and it’s not a greeting. It’s an appraisal. His eyes sweep me in a way that feels invasive, the way only another predator can manage. “I thought you were done with these walls.”
“Not tonight.”
He studies me like he can smell the fracture beneath my skin. “You don’t wear distraction well.”
“I’m not distracted.”
“You are,” he says simply, stepping closer. “And you know what happens when men bring distraction here. Emotion ruins control.”
I hold his gaze until the tension sharpens between us. I should walk away. I don’t.
“Show me a room,” I say.
Dom smiles, satisfied, and gestures toward the darker hall where the private chambers wait.
And I follow.
The corridor is dim, the walls paneled in black stone, doors flush with the surface so they look like shadows waiting to open. Dom walks ahead, the weight of the place settling heavier with each step. My shoes sound sharp against the floor, the only sound in a hall built for silence.
He stops at the third door. “This one.”
I push past him. Inside, the room is stripped bare of distraction. Black walls, a low bench, a single steel ring bolted into the floor. Leather straps hang on the wall, orderly, gleaming in the soft overhead light. It smells faintly of wax and restraint.
Dom doesn’t follow me in, but his voice carries just before the door clicks shut. “Keep your head clear, Elias. This place isn’t for ghosts.”
The latch clicks into place, sealing me in solitude—until the door on the far side swings open with a deliberate creak.
She steps in, a vision of calculated perfection. Mid-thirties, perhaps, her body a sculpted masterpiece of taut muscle and deliberate curves, every inch honed for this world of shadows and surrender. Black leather clings to her like a second skin, the high collar biting into her neck, the waist cinched so tight it forces her breathing to be shallow and controlled.
Her dark hair is woven into a severe braid, unyielding as she moves with predatory grace. No perfume clings to her;no hint of softness dares intrude. Everything about her is engineered for one purpose: obedience without question.
Her face is a mask of schooled neutrality, eyes cast downward in ritual submission, yet sharp enough to track every shift in the air. She's no novice—Dom wouldn't send me anything less. She's a seasoned instrument, versed in the rituals of pain and pleasure, her body a canvas for dominance, her mind wired to crave the lash of control.
This is function, not fantasy. Exactly what I crave—or so I tell myself.
