Page 4 of The Sniper

The first thing Daniels noticed was the silence. It was unnatural, suffocating, as if the air in the alley behind the upscale BDSM club had been sucked out. The glow of the nearby streetlamp cast a faint light over the scene, enough for him to spot the body sprawled against the brick wall. His gut twisted.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, pulling a pair of gloves from his coat pocket. The squad car’s headlights illuminated the area, making the scene feel even more surreal. The Velvet Glove’s signature red neon sign flickered above, a macabre contrast to the lifeless woman lying in its shadow.

The Domme was young—mid-thirties, he guessed—with a cascade of black hair spilling over her shoulders. She wore a sleek leather corset and thigh-high boots, but it wasn’t her striking appearance that held Daniels’ attention. It was the message scrawled beside her, written in what was unmistakably her own blood:

Cerber

Daniels squatted beside the body, his trained eyes scanning for details. Her fingers were stained red, her nails jagged and broken as if she’d clawed the pavement in her final moments. A knife wound slashed diagonally across her abdomen, brutal but not precise. She’d bled out slowly.

“She was trying to send a message,” he murmured. His voice was steady, but anger simmered beneath the surface. This wasn’t just a murder—it was a statement.

Detective Whitman, a local cop with more years in the field than most, stood a few feet away, his face pale under the harsh glare of the squad lights. “The club manager called it in. Said she was a member. No ID on her, but the staff recognized her. Said she goes by ‘Mistress Veda.’”

Daniels’ jaw tightened. He’d heard the name before. Veda wasn’t a member of Club Southside but was known in the larger Chicago BDSM scene. She’d had a reputation for playing hard and living harder. She was the kind of person who attracted both admiration and enemies. Clearly, one of the latter had caught up with her.

“Anything else?” Daniels asked, his voice clipped.

Harris hesitated. “Just this.” He held up a sealed evidence bag containing a black leather collar. It was pristine and untouched by blood, as if it had been placed deliberately beside her.

Daniels’ stomach sank. The collar wasn’t hers—Veda didn’t wear one. She was a Domme, not a submissive. Whoever had left it was sending a message; one he intended to decipher.

“We’re going to need to gather what evidence we can find and get it to the lab,” Daniels said, rising to his full height. “Prints, DNA, whatever they can find.”

Harris nodded, but his face was etched with worry. “You think this has something to do with Cerberus?”

Daniels didn’t answer immediately. His mind was racing, piecing together fragments of what little he knew.Cerberhad to be unfinished for Cerberus. Cerberus wasn’t just a name—it was a private security organization with ties to the BDSM world. And it was also the name of Reyna Marx’s team. The connection wasn’t just chilling; it was personal.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Daniels said finally. “Whoever did this wanted to send a message. Cerberus is the target, or they want us to think it is.”

Harris rubbed the back of his neck. “You gonna call in your people?”

Daniels nodded grimly. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

Harris grinned. “The Chief and the mayor will be glad to hand this over to the Bureau.”

Later, Daniels’ mind filtered back to the dream he’d had of her the night before—bits and pieces of shibari and suspensions scenes they’d done together over the years.

The soft, amber lighting of the private room in Club Southside played tricks on him, turning the red rope in his hands into something that looked like liquid fire. He stood a few feet from Reyna, taking a moment to observe her as she stood silently in the center of the room. Her sharp tongue and bristling defenses were absent tonight, replaced by something calmer, almost hesitant. She was always a storm, but tonight, she was the eye.

She wore nothing but a simple black thong, her skin luminous under the soft glow of the light. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, but Daniels could see the slight stiffness in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled slightly into herpalms. She was nervous. For Reyna, nervousness looked like resolve.

“You can still say no,” Daniels said, his voice even and calm, though his body was alive with anticipation. “You don’t have to do this.”

She met his gaze, her eyes steady despite the flicker of uncertainty that crossed her features. “I didn’t come here to say no, Daniels.”

“Then say it,” he countered, his tone firm. “I want the words.”

She breathed out a soft, frustrated sound, but she didn’t look away. “I want this. I want to try.”

That was enough. Daniels nodded and stepped closer, the ropes coiled neatly in his hands. He kept his movements deliberate, methodical. He knew, for her, this wasn’t just about suspension—it was about surrendering to something she didn’t quite understand. He had to guide her there, one step at a time.

“Arms out,” he instructed, his tone low but firm. She obeyed, her movements fluid, though the knots in her muscles betrayed her apprehension. He reached for her wrists, his hands steady as he began wrapping the ropes around her skin. Each knot was tied with care, precise and unhurried. He kept his eyes on her as he worked, watching for any sign that she was second-guessing herself.

“You’re holding your breath,” he said softly, brushing his fingers against her forearm. “Breathe, Reyna.”

Her lips parted, and she drew in a slow, steady breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly. It was a start.

As he continued to weave the ropes around her body, crossing them over her chest and around her thighs, Daniels spoke in quiet tones, his voice grounding her. He explained what he was doing, each knot and loop designed for both beauty and function. She didn’t respond much, but he could seeher focus shifting inward, the strain gradually easing from her as she let herself sink into the moment.

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