Page 110 of Stalked
43
VANE
The leather-padded walls of Purgatory's BDSM section absorb the sounds of pleasure—whimpers, gasps, the rhythmic crack of floggers against willing flesh. Bodies writhe in artful suspension, bound in intricate rope patterns that would've held my attention any other night.
Tonight, I can't summon even a flicker of interest.
I lean against the VIP railing overlooking the scene, nursing whiskey that's gone warm in my glass. Below, a blonde submissive kneels for her Dom, accepting the crop with practiced grace. Beautiful. Skilled. Completely irrelevant.
“You're killing the mood.” Knox drops into the seat beside me, Bianca curled against his side. She's flushed from whatever they've been doing in one of the private rooms, her hair mussed and her eyes bright. “The great Vane Blackwood, sulking like a kicked puppy while the best show in Ravenwood unfolds beneath him.”
“Fuck off.”
“Eloquent as always.” He signals for drinks, his hand never leaving Bianca's thigh. “How long are you planning to mope? Two weeks is bordering on pathetic, even for you.”
Two weeks since Lia moved into the Ravenwood Inn. One week since Jakub Orlov cornered her at the gallery.
“I'm not moping.”
“You're doing an excellent impression of it.” Xavier joins us, Mira tucked close to his side. Unlike Bianca's post-scene flush, Mira looks composed, though there's a satisfied curve to her lips that suggests they've been occupied. “The event coordinator asked if you're dissatisfied with the programming.”
I take a drink instead of answering. Below, the scene shifts—a new pairing takes center stage for fire play. The flames dance across the submissive's skin, each pass drawing soft moans from her lips.
Lia would appreciate the technique. The control required to inflict sensation without harm.
“She's here.”
Xavier's gaze sharpens, following mine to the main floor. “So she is.”
Lia moves through the crowd like water finding its path—unhurried, graceful, certain. The gold mask covers the upper half of her face, but I'd know her anywhere. The way her fingers trail along the velvet rope separating the viewing area from the play space. How her head tilts when she examines the intricate knotwork of a suspension scene. The subtle roll of her shoulders when she's processing something complex.
Every cell in my body screams to go to her.
“You're not moving,” Knox observes.
“Neither am I dying.”
“Could've fooled me. You look like you're being tortured.”
He's not wrong. My fingers tighten around the glass, the cut crystal edges biting into my palm. Lia pauses near the bondage section, her attention caught by a demonstration of shibari techniques. The Dom is skilled—precise, methodical, building a harness that's both beautiful and functional.
She watches with the focused intensity I remember from chemistry class. From The Hunt. From every moment, she's given me her full attention.
Two weeks of restraint. Of respecting the space she demanded. Of letting her come to me instead of hunting her down like every instinct demands.
“If you break that glass, Mira will make you clean it up.” Xavier's tone carries amusement.
I set the whiskey down before I do exactly that.
Lia shifts, her gaze sweeping the crowd. There's purpose in the movement—she's searching. For me? Or considering her options in a club full of skilled Doms who haven't spent the last two weeks watching her hotel room window like a fucking stalker?
The thought sends acid through my veins.
“You could go to her,” Bianca suggests quietly. “She came here. That means something.”
It means everything.
But for fifteen years, I chased. I orchestrated. I manipulated circumstances to bring her back to me. And the moment she saw the truth of who I am—what I'm capable of—she ran.
