Page 15 of The Collector
From the moment Raven laid eyes on her, he knew—she was rare. Not just beautiful, not just sharp. He thought the moments they shared would get her out of his mind. But it didn't. For the last two weeks, he watched from the shadows of Cover Girls, the so-called best club in the area. He knew better.
She moved through the smoke and noise of the club like she owned it, even though she didn't. She didn't take orders, not really. There was a stubborn streak in her, defiant and unyielding, the kind that kept her afloat in a place built to drown girls like her. And still, she finessed the room—customers, coworkers, the whole damn system—until it paid her what she was worth. Or close to it.
She deserved better than that rundown circus with its sticky floors and inflated reputation. Raven's club, Blood Lust, was the absolute apex—no neon signs. No walk-ins. Entry required a formal invitation, and even the privilege of requesting one came with a million-dollar price tag. If you couldn't pay, you didn't play.
Despite his frequent visits the last few weeks, he'd never approached her for another dance. Never tipped her on stage. He simply watched.
Her movements were mesmerizing—the slow sway of her hips, the way her fingers skimmed her own skin like she was remembering something no one else could see. That's when the nickname settled in his mind:Butterfly. Fragile. Untouchable. Always just out of reach for him.
She evoked longing in the room like no other. Men leaned forward, breath held, as if proximity alone might earn them something more.
But it was her gaze that betrayed her desire or more. Distant. Disinterested. Like she was already somewhere else.
He'd taken great pains to learn what he could about her. And even if her father hadn't landed on his radar, he would've found a way to seek her out.
Finding talent for Blood Lust had always been his responsibility. He sometimes felt akin to a gourmet chef selecting the finest cuts for his clientele.
He saw the performers for who they were—some reluctant participants, some seeking a chance at a life they might never have otherwise known. They all had their reasons, and he never judged them for it. If anything, he respected them—for the way they carved meaning from lives that might otherwise have been lost to the madness of the world. He wanted to help her and, at the same time, spend more time with her.
Cover Girl's housed a few rare beauties over the years that he'd acquired for Blood Lust. What Blood Lust did for the performers wasn't a bad thing. It just wasn't a legal thing.
Raven did his best to make sure everyone he helped got what they wanted out of life. The process was simple and allowed the performers control over their lives, not the King's.
Some might say they were selling their bodies to survive. But in truth, they were using what they had—their beauty, their resilience—to get ahead.
How could anyone judge them for using the only tools they had—the ones the world had forced into their hands?
Mynx's body was made for sin; it was what dreams were made of. Perfect taut breasts, round, smooth, curved hips, long, luxurious legs that went for miles, the total package. He knew she would attract top-dollar buyers to Blood Lust. If given the chance. She was a little rough around the edges and could use some polishing, but she was jaw-droppingly beautiful without the extra sparkle Blood Lust would adorn her with. Even if members couldn't own her, they would drool over her, obsess about her, and dream about her. He knew this, because-- he already did.
"I have a question," she said. Her voice broke the silence between them.
"I may have answers for you, depending on the questions." He pulled himself from his thoughts and turned to her.
"Will it be possible for me to visit my mother and sister?" Her hands fidgeted with the loose thread on her shirt; it was a subtle display of her inner turmoil. She avoided his gaze, her eyes fixed on the floorboard, waiting for his response with quiet desperation.
The tension in the air was palpable as she leaned forward. Her question hung between them, heavy with longing and uncertainty. Raven straightened in his seat, his gaze locking onto hers, captivated by the raw emotion in her watery eyes. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by the beauty of her presence, a stark contrast to the weight of the situation.
Raven hesitated to answer, knowing it would only deepen the divide between her hopes and the reality of her new life. The silence stretched, amplifying the gravity of the moment.
Fuck she is so damn adorable. What the fuck have I done to myself?
He finally answered the question, sensing that if he didn't, the situation would only get harder for them both. "Not for a while, you'll have a lot to learn, and it will take some adjustment to get used to your new life. You'll have daily activities you'll need to do on top of your shifts at the club."
"Activities, what kind of activities?" Clearly pissed, she looked back out the window, a lone tear falling down her face, she wasted no time wiping it away. Her hands were locked together, fingers digging into her skin as if sheer will would keep her temper in check. Her jaw was clenched tight, a silent war raging behind her eyes. He could see it—the way doubt and anger twisted through her expression, shaping the worst possible thoughts in her mind.
The activities were nothing, it all revolved around waxing and plucking, skincare routines, workouts, consultations with dieticians—those sorts of things. But he wasn't ready to tell her that yet. For now, he enjoyed watching her squirm, the uncertainty of her fate flickering in her eyes.
Just another quirk to his twisted personality.
He found it amusing how quickly she shut down, retreating into herself with a sulking defiance that reminded him of a stubborn child.
"You want me to handle this?" Stoker asked.
Stoker possessed quite a mean streak, worse than his own father's, and had little patience when it came to women. This situation was delicate and required finesse. Stoker was more of a bull in a China shop. He wouldn't help put the girl at ease.
No, I absolutely didn't want him to deal with this.
Top performers were prima donnas—if you wanted them to follow orders, it required either enticing them into submissionor handling their emotions with kid gloves. It was precisely why he'd overseen the talent while Stoker served as the enforcer.
