Page 2 of Savage Desires

I laugh. "You mean for the information I'm paying an exorbitant amount of money for?"

"You get the family discount, handsome. Never forget that," she says before the line goes dead.

A glance at the clock tells me it's just after midnight. I should go home and sleep. Whatever is happening at Mecca can wait until tomorrow night. If they are dealing in shady shit, it'll still be there tomorrow. Unfortunately, I won't be able to sleep until I, at the very least, look around and see what there is to see.

One U-turn later, and I'm heading towards the other side of the city and the shithole that claims to be the best BDSM club in New York. The converted warehouse is painted black with a red neon sign with the club's name hanging over the door. It's tacky as fuck. There is a line wrapped around the side of the building with men and women waiting for their chance to be blessed with entrance.

Idiots.

I skip the line and walk right up to the bouncer. He gives me a once-over and opens the rope, allowing me to enter his house of debauchery. I hear protests and grumbles from the people who have been waiting, but I don't waste my time worrying about them. I drop a hundred-dollar bill on the counter in the anteroom, where a bored-looking woman dressed only in a black leather bra and matching hotpants sits. She grabs the bill without looking up and points at the door.

Friendly lady.

The inside of the club reeks of stale beer and sweat. The club is busy, as expected. It's a hodgepodge of people. Most of them are trying too hard to dress how they perceive someone who belongs to a BDSM club should dress. A lot of them look fucking ridiculous. Especially the small man walking around with a black leather mask on his face with a zipper on the mouth hole.

Some men drive big trucks to compensate for a small dick. Others wear black leather masks and strut around sex clubs.

I walk to the bar and order a whiskey neat. I find an empty table in the corner where I can watch the entire public area of the club. There are private rooms and a VIP area upstairs that will need to be explored eventually, but this will have to do for now.

A loud scream rends through the air, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck. I scan the room, looking for where the scream came from. Another scream rips through the room, and I finally find the scene that sounds like it's going wrong. A large man is wielding a whip. I can't see past him to see who is on the receiving end of his whip. He lets it fly again, and there is another agonizing cry of pain. A crowd gathers around the man, and I lose sight of him. When another scream sounds, and I hear the woman wailing for the man to stop, I can't sit by any longer.

What the fuck is wrong with these people that they just stand by and watch someone torture a woman while she begs for him to stop? It makes me question why she's not using her safe word to end the scene. Or maybe she did, and he's ignoring it. I have no way of knowing if she consented to this level of pain or if he's forcing it on her.

There's only one way to find out, and I intend to do just that.

I push through the crowd just in time to see the man wind up for another crack of the whip. I grab the fall and wrap it around my arm. Catching the man off guard, I pull the whip from his hand. He whirls, looking for the culprit. His eyes land on me, and a spark of rage flickers through them.

Aw. Poor baby doesn't like to share his toys. A little thrill of excitement goes through me. Maybe he'll be up for a little fight. Not that he'll win, but I could use some stress relief.

"What the fuck?" he snarls, jumping off the small stage and stomping over to where I'm standing.

"I believe your friend asked you to stop," I say calmly.

"She's no friend of mine," he spits.

I shrug. "The lady said stop."

"She asked for it. She loves it."

"Maybe so, but I'd rather hear that from her."

I move to walk past him, and he grabs my arm. I raise my brow, looking from him to his hand and back again. He's pissed and is doing a poor job hiding the fact. Anger is an emotion that should be honed like a gun loaded and at the ready. Something to aim and hit the target. This man-child is like a firework ready to explode and fizzle out.

"I have no quarrel with you. I just want to ask the girl if she's okay to continue, and then you may have your little toy back," I say, waving the whip under his nose.

He doesn't immediately release my arm, but something he sees in my eyes has him slowly removing his hand. I know what that something is… His death. A painful, long-suffering death. My purpose in life might be saving women and children from human trafficking rings and other unsavory situations, but what I truly excel at is doling out death.

I want to pat the dipshit on the head and call him a good boy, but I refrain. I need to not draw too much attention to myself in the club if I want to figure out what it is that Hera thinks I need to see, but I'm doing a shit job at that. Stopping a scene with half a dozen onlookers is not how to keep a low profile. Oh well. What's done is done. I can't sit by while a woman is being tortured.

I turn my attention to the woman who is chained to the wall. Instead of the typical leather padded cuffs, her thin wrists are encircled with thick metal. Her arms are above her head, her knees bent as if her legs cannot hold her weight. Her head is hanging forward, and she's entirely still. The closer I get, the more details I can see. Her back is covered in whip marks. Some are barely kissed pink, and others are red and livid… then there are the ones that have blood seeping from them. I'm guessing those are what resulted in her screams.

I quicken my steps and kneel down beside her. She doesn't acknowledge my presence.

"Are you okay?"

When she doesn't respond, I brush her blonde hair off her face and see that she's unconscious. Ice-cold rage fills my veins. It takes every ounce of my control to not turn that rage on the asshole that did this to her. It'll have to wait, though, because taking care of her is more important right now.

There will be time for justice later, and I never forget a face.

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