Page 39 of Stalked
What the research didn't tell me—what I discovered only after submitting my application—was who owned it.
The Blackwood Brothers.
My stomach tightens at the thought of running into Vane there. The club supposedly has two sections. There’s the main floor that operates like any high-end nightclub, and a separate area that is a high-end BDSM club.
Is it worth the risk? Part of me wants to cancel. But another part—the part that's been lying awake at night, fingers working desperately between my thighs with diminishing returns—knows I need this. I need the release that only comes from submitting to someone else's control.
I could find another club in a nearby city. Drive an hour or two for satisfaction. But something about Purgatory pulls at me, despite—or perhaps because of—the danger of crossing paths with Vane again.
I check the time. Two hours until my interview. Just enough time to prepare myself for whatever—or whoever—awaits me there.
I stand under the hot shower spray, letting the water cascade down my body as I contemplate the evening ahead. Steam fills the bathroom as I wash my hair thoroughly, massaging my scalp with expensive shampoo that smells of jasmine.
My razor glides across my legs first, then underarms, and finally the delicate area between my thighs. I've always preferred being completely bare there—a preference that started years ago in New York when I first ventured into The Red Room. Nothing should get in the way of sensation.
After stepping out of the shower, I pat myself dry and apply scented lotion, taking my time to moisturize every inch of skin. My fingers linger over the soft curve of my inner thighs, and I catch myself wondering if someone else's hands will touch me there tonight.
“Focus, Lia,” I mutter to myself, moving to my vanity.
I apply my makeup with careful attention—dramatic cat-eye liner, mascara that makes my lashes impossibly long, and deep red lipstick that makes my mouth look like a sin waiting to happen. My hair is left down, with dark waves falling past my shoulders.
In my closet, I select a dress I haven't worn since I was in New York. Black, form-fitting, with a neckline that plunges just enough to be provocative without looking desperate. The hemline stops mid-thigh, and the back dips low, revealing most of my spine. I step into black stilettos that make my legs look endless and add a simple gold choker around my neck.
No underwear. Another habit from my time at The Red Room.
I check my appearance one last time, grab a small clutch with just the essentials, and open the Uber app on my phone. The car arrives in six minutes.
During the ride, I stare out the window at the passing lights of Ravenwood, my heart beating faster as we approach our destination. The driver pulls up to the club.
“Purgatory,” he announces, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
I thank him, step out of the car, and approach the imposing entrance of Purgatory, my heels clicking against the pavement. The building is nondescript from the outside—no flashy signs, just a sleek black door with a burly doorman standing guard. This is clearly a place you only find if you know what you're looking for.
The doorman's eyes sweep over me slowly, taking in every detail from my stilettos to my carefully styled hair. His expression remains professionally blank, but there's an assessment happening that I recognize from my years in New York. He's determining whether I belong.
“I'm Lia Morgan,” I say with quiet confidence. “I have an interview at nine.”
He nods once, not bothering to check any list. “Follow me, Ms. Morgan.”
Instead of opening the main entrance where I can hear the faint thrum of music, he gestures to a discreet side door I hadn't noticed. He holds it open, and I step inside, finding myself in a dimly lit hallway decorated in rich burgundy tones. The air smells faintly of expensive cologne, with an undercurrent of cigar smoke.
“Office on the left,” the doorman instructs. “They're expecting you.”
I nod my thanks and walk down the hallway, my confidence wavering with each step. The door to the office is heavy, dark wood with no markings. I take a deep breath, smooth down my dress, and turn the handle.
As I step inside, my body freezes. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Vane Blackwood sits behind a large desk, looking perfectly at home in an expensive suit, his fingers steepled in front of him. His green eyes lock with mine, and his lips curve into a smug smile that makes my skin flush hot.
“Hello, wildflower,” he says, his voice deeper than I remember. “I've been looking forward to your interview.”
For a moment, I consider turning and running. My fight-or-flight instinct screams at me to flee, to get as far away from Vane Blackwood as possible. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat. I've spent fifteen years building myself into someone stronger than the girl who ran away.
I step fully into the office, deliberately closing the door behind me. With measured movements, I cross my arms over my chest. “I'd like someone else to conduct my interview,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the riot of emotions coming to life within.
Vane leans back in his chair, his smile widening to reveal perfectly straight white teeth. “Afraid I'll learn all your dirty little secrets, wildflower?”
“Don't call me that,” I snap. “And my concern is your obvious bias. I doubt you can be objective.”
