Page 9 of Princes of Carnage

He nods again and then starts up the stairs, closing the door quietly behind him.

Once I’m alone again, I sit back down on the desk, stewing in my own frustration. Everything swirls in my head, a seemingly endless barrage of thoughts, images, and emotions. The attack on our runner, the run-in with the Princes, Nico’s words about how I don’t have anyone to back me up, Atlas’s knee between my legs…

It’s all so much, too much, and I feel on edge and restless.

I was hoping that letting Emmett fuck me would take that edge off, but that was a bad fucking idea. It was reckless and stupid, and it’s a good goddamn thing I came to my senses in time to stop myself from making that mistake. But I didn’t get the release I was craving, and now I’m more keyed up than ever, adding another layer of frustration on top of everything else.

“Dammit,” I grumble under my breath.

My body still hums with arousal, and apart from anything else, I still need to actually come. None of this stress is going to magically disappear thanks to an orgasm, but getting off would definitely help.

Logically, I know it would be smarter to ignore it. I’ve got a lot on my plate, and I need to brainstorm with my gang about what we’re going to do about these attacks. I need to come up with information to pass on to the Princes of Carnage and get the ball rolling to find out who the fuck is behind all this.

But I’ll do all of those things better if I can actually focus, and right now, that feels impossible.

“Fuck it,” I say aloud, exhaling hard.

Allowing the tug of instinct to guide me, I slide off the desk and check my clothes before heading upstairs and back through the tattoo parlor.

“Heading out, boss?” an Enigma member named Gabriella calls, and I nod over my shoulder at her in silent answer before pushing out the door and walking to my car. I’m buckled in and driving toward my house before I can think better of it.

Even now, a year after my dad’s death, pulling into the driveway of the house I used to live in with him and knowing he won’t be there still hurts. The house is one of those big old beasts, one of the last of its kind in the city that haven’t been torn down to squeeze a bunch of cookie cutter shit into the same space, or rented out as some kind of overpriced vacation home.

It’s my home, now that I’ve inherited it, but it still feels so fucking weird to be there and to know my dad is never going to walk through the door or fill the space with his laughter.

I make my way upstairs to my bedroom and shuck off my street clothes, opting for something with a bit more edge for what I have planned tonight.

Something slinky and skimpy, designed to draw the eye. It shows off the tattoos on my arms and shoulders and the one that spreads down my thigh. I give myself a once over in the mirror, meeting my reflection’s gray eyes as I run my fingers through my long teal-colored hair. I decide against pulling it back or braiding it, leaving it to spill over my shoulders in messy waves. It works with the look.

Ten minutes later, I’m back in my car again, this time headed to Le Bal Masque, the kink club I started going to a while ago.

After parking, I fish the masquerade mask that’s part of the dress code here out of my glove compartment and make my way inside.

It’s dark out now, but still early enough that the club isn’t too packed just yet. There are people on the dance floor, grinding seductively against each other to the low, thrumming beat of the song playing over the speakers. The bar isn’t too full, and people in skimpy outfits and various kinds of bondage gear get drinks or water as they please.

The club is broken up into separate and distinct parts. There’s the main area, where a bar, dancing and lounge areas are, for people who come to Le Bal Masque for socializing. And then there are the private rooms in the back—for people who come here for different reasons.

People like me tonight.

I don’t bother with getting a drink or dancing or anything else. I push my way through the club, side stepping people who are in my way, just barely avoiding getting a drink dumped all over me by a clumsy man in a spiked collar.

I can feel eyes on me, hungry gazes running over my body, taking in my hair, my tats, the way the slinky black material of my dress clings to my body. There’s heat in every look, but I don’t really care and barely notice.

Because I’m not here for them.

I’m only here for one person.

My pulse pounds as I scan the club, searching for the familiar build and mask in the crowd, but there doesn’t seem to be any sign of him.

Disappointment curls in my stomach, and I bite down on my lip, holding back a curse. Maybe he isn’t here.

He’s always been here when I came before, always lurking somewhere, ready to pounce on me as soon as I come through the door. He’s clearly one of those people who spends a lot of time at this club, and he’s never made me wait before.

I debate whether I should give it a bit of time, wait a while to see if he shows up, or just go home. I could take a shower, put my vibrator through its paces and then pass out in bed for the night. It wouldn’t be as good, nowhere close, but at least this fucked up day would be over.

Just as I’m considering that, I feel someone step up behind me. Strong hands grab my waist, and I’m yanked roughly backward against a firm, muscular body.

My heart leaps with adrenaline, and before I can turn around or say a word, a dark voice murmurs low in my ear.

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