Page 103 of Princes of Carnage

“Lead the way,” he says to the woman, who nods.

“Follow me,” she tells us. “Stick close.”

She walks quickly, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floor as we weave our way through the crowd. Up on the stage, two men are cuffing a petite woman to the St. Andrew’s Cross, all three of them already naked and the woman adorned with nipple clamps.

Fortunately, the new ‘show’ means that no one pays us very much attention as we go past—not even the three fuckers who dragged me away from Atlas earlier—and I’m grateful for that. The last thing I want is another standoff or altercation while we’re in this club, since I have a feeling the next one would end in death instead of sex.

I just want to talk to Vincent and get the fuck out of here.

Vincent’s representative pushes aside one of the many velvet curtains that line the walls, revealing a door behind it. She presses her hand to a fingerprint reader beside the door, and the lock clicks. With a cursory glance over her shoulder to make sure we’re following, she tugs the door open and steps through, leading us down a long hallway.

It’s lit with the same sconces on the wall as in the main area, which cast a purple-ish light on the concrete floor and dark paneled walls. There are other doors and little open rooms that we don’t get a chance to look into, and at the end of the hall is another door.

The woman knocks on the door three times in quick succession and then opens it, letting us file past her into what must be Vincent’s private lounge.

It has the same aesthetic as the rest of the club, dark and expensive with that archaic, antique air about it. There are low couches made from dark leather, and a long wooden surface along the back wall that seems to serve as his private bar.

The side walls are mirrored, half covered by more of those jewel toned drapes, and in the center of it all, leaning back casually on one of the couches, is Vincent Locke himself.

He looks like he’s in his late thirties or early forties, clean cut and coifed. If I saw him on the street, I wouldn’t look twice at him, assuming he was some sort of businessman, with his dark suit and dark hair.

But there’s something about him in this space that makes it clear it’s all an illusion. He’s one of those people who uses an appearance of wealthy respectability to hide just how dangerous they can be.

Considering the rules of this place and the guards at his command, it’s safe to say that crossing Vincent Locke is a very bad idea.

His assistant, or whoever she is, slips out of the room, leaving us alone with him. Vincent’s eyes are just as dark as his hair, and I fight not to let my gaze drop as he looks us over. I can still feel remnants of the orgasm in my body, the remembered pressure of Atlas’s hands on my skin. The unexpected intensity of the sex we had has me feeling vulnerable in a way I’m usually not, and I work hard to close the lid on those raw emotions and put my game face back on.

A smile stretches over Vincent’s face, warm and open—but I don’t buy it for a second. It’s like a politician’s smile, meant to put you at ease while hiding a million different motives behind it.

“In case you weren’t aware, I know about everything that happens in my club. I watched your performance out there, and I have to say, I was impressed,” he finally says. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a show like that on my stage.”

His voice is rich and smooth, and he speaks with utter confidence. There’s something else in his tone too, a lasciviousness that’s slightly more subtle than the way the crowd out there was groaning with lust as they watched us—but only slightly.

When he looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on my cleavage, it’s obvious what he’s thinking.

“We’re happy to have entertained,” Atlas replies, his voice cool and measured. He moves a bit, and I can feel the possessiveness in the action when his arm snakes around my waist. He pulls me in closer to his side, and I don’t resist.

I can take care of myself, and I was raised to be a fighter, to not need to look to anyone else to protect me. But I was also raised to survive, and that means not being an idiot.

I’m better off with Atlas’s protection in a place like this. I’m safer with his claim on me—no matter how complicated my feelings about being ‘claimed’ by him may be.

There will be time to sort through all that later. For now, we have a job to do.

Vincent takes in the way Atlas touches me, and his lips curl into another smile. If he’s offended by Atlas staking his claim in that subtle way, he doesn’t show it. He just gestures to the couch opposite from where he’s sitting. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

I nod, and Atlas and I move as one, sitting side by side on the couch. Vincent drapes both arms over the back of his own couch, tilting his head to one side.

“I’ve run Eros for a long time, and business has been good,” he tells us. “Hundreds of people have fucked on that stage you were on tonight, as I’m sure you can guess. People love a show—and even more than that, people love being the center of attention. They’ll do depraved things to each other to keep the crowd wanting more. But you two…” His eyes flash over us, landing on me again. “You kept it simple. It was less about the show and more about the two of you together. Just… enjoying each other for our enjoyment. It was beautiful.”

My face flushes with embarrassment at the way he’s going on and on about it. I hate being talked about like that, and a flush rises up my cheeks at the realization of how obviously intimate things got between me and Atlas. Even through whatever camera Vincent was watching from back here, it was clear to him that we were doing a hell of a lot more than just fucking.

“Thank you. We appreciate that,” Atlas says. He looks down at me, resting a hand on my thigh. “Quinn is… easy to enjoy.”

I know he’s just saying it to have some response to Vincent’s compliments, but the note of sincerity in his tone doesn’t do anything to dull the flustered feeling inside me.

“Have you been here before?” Vincent asks.

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