Page 2 of Tower

Such power, and it centered on her. Her breath came easier when he turned back to the woman on the post.

Six crimson welts crossed the woman’s slender back. Her forehead rested on the wooden pole, her muscles tight and waiting for the next lash.

The man circled her, watching her with his dark gaze; his brow furrowed. Azalea bit down on her lip as he stood before the whipped woman and pinched her nipples. A seductive moan crossed the stage and over the audience.

“One more for my girl,” he announced and released her breasts.

Azalea covered her mouth when he retook his position and pulled his hand back. She forced herself not to look away. His muscles rippled with his movement, his eyes stayed focused on his target, and the whip landed with precision. Another red mark bloomed on the creamy flesh, and the woman screamed, throwing her head from side to side.

He hung the whip around his neck and went to her, lightly tracing each mark with his fingers before placing a soft kiss to it. The crowd dispersed, moving back to whatever games they had been playing on their own or heading to the bar for more indulgence. Azalea stayed. She watched, mesmerized by the tender care he gave his tortured prey.

The man who’d whipped her with such power, such precision, brought her down from the pole and wrapped a blanket around her. Azalea caught the tiny wince she gave at having her back touched, but she also noted the sated look on her beautiful face. The man who had wielded the whip escorted her to the side of the stage and handed her off to another man who led the woman behind the curtains.

Something so intense, so barbaric in nature hadn’t been cruel at all. Azalea sighed to herself. If she’d arrived earlier, she could have seen more, but it had been hard enough getting out without being noticed. If she had left any earlier, her mother would have been informed. The guards would have seen her leave and tattled right away.

Once the man with the tattoos disappeared, Azalea headed to the bar. One drink and a small amount of voyeurism, and she’d head back home. If her mother caught her, it would be months before she could revisit the club.

She ran her fingers through her long locks and pulled them forward over her shoulder, covering most of her chest with her golden hair.

“What can I get you?” the bartender, a youngish man with a black skull tattooed across his throat asked.

“A glass of wine? White please?” She wedged her way between two couples and found a stool. The scenes along the wall in the alcoves changed. The trussed-up woman was let out of her bonds, and another couple moved into the area to start a new scene.

“Fantastic, isn’t it?” the bartender asked as he slid her wine to her. “You’ve never been in here before.”

“No.” She shook her head and handed money across the bar.

He shook his head. “No charge.” He smiled and pointed toward the main stage. “But Peter wants a word.”

“Peter?” she asked, looking where he had pointed. The man who had done the whipping stood center stage, glaring at her over the heads of the crowd. “Why?”

“Probably because you’re not allowed in here.” The bartender laughed, tapped the bar with his knuckles, and moved on. “Finish your drink. You’ll need it.”

Azalea tugged up on the neckline of the dress she wore, suddenly aware of the eyes preying on her. She’d only been able to grab something from her closet, and the deep purple dress had been the only one that seemed fitting for the club. And the only dress that fit, even poorly. Although the neckline was deep, all of her was covered. The skirt of the dress went far past her knees. Overall, she wasn’t much to look at. Not in comparison to the beautiful women of the Tower.

She decided not to be afraid. She’d come this far; she wasn’t going to let a little glare from across the room set her spine on fire.

Even if it did.

Sipping her wine, she turned away from the dark figure looming over the crowd. If he wanted to speak to her, he could damn well come down from his spotlight and do so. She wouldn’t be afraid. She had every right to be there.

Unless he knew her mother.

If he knew her mother, her being there in his club could be more dangerous than she’d bargained for when she’d descended the back stairwell of her house.

Familiar anger brewed within her. When would she ever get a say? She was tired of being pulled and yanked in whatever direction her mother wanted. And now it seemed she had men all over the city waiting for her to make a mistake.

Well, enough was enough. She put her empty glass on the counter and spun around with the intent to march through the crowd and tell Peter whatever-his-name-was to go to hell.

Only, when she turned, she smacked right into him. Peter. The bare-chested, glowering man had come through the crowd and right up to her without her so much as sensing him.

“Dammit.” She rubbed her nose that had been smashed in the collision.

“You shouldn’t be in here.” His deep voice vibrated through the noise. “If you want to work my club, you enter through the back entrance and you get assigned a handler.”

Work his club?

“What are you talking about?” She tried to retreat, but the crowd kept her pinned against him. “I’m not—oh my god—you think I’m one of the girls?” She covered her mouth to hide the nervous giggle starting to erupt. Her most annoying flaw, the stupid giggle. “I’m not. I just wanted to see the club. I’m not working—for anyone.”

---