Page 40 of Stalked
He stands, and I'm struck by how much more imposing he is now. Vane has filled out—his broad shoulders stretching the tailored dress shirt, his strong, inked forearms revealed as he rolls up his sleeves.
“You think I can't be professional?” His voice drops lower. “Or are you scared to tell me exactly what you like?” He walks around the desk. “Worried I'll discover you're still not over me?”
“You're delusional,” I retort. “I've had fifteen years of experiences you know nothing about.”
“Then prove it.” He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his woodsy cologne. “Tell me exactly what you're looking for at Purgatory.”
His proximity is overwhelming. Where he once had one solitary tattoo, it’s clear he’s covered in ink now, designs peeking from beneath his collar, crawling up his neck, andeven decorating the backs of his hands. One word in particular catches my eye—Envyinked across his knuckles.
“You're in my space,” I say, but don't step back.
He doesn't move. “Answer the question. What do you want from this club?”
His tone shifts, becoming commanding in a way that makes a swarm of butterflies take flight in my stomach. He's not asking anymore—he's demanding. And god help me, it's working.
“I was a submissive at The Red Room in New York,” I say, lifting my chin. “For five years, I surrendered control to skilled Dominants who knew exactly what they were doing.”
Vane's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but I catch it.
“I had several regulars—Charles, who specialized in rope work, and Everett, whose specialty was sensory play. I went a few times a week, sometimes more when work stress demanded it.” I allow a small smile to play on my lips. “It became quite the education.”
Something dangerous flashes in Vane's eyes—jealousy, raw and unfiltered. His nostrils flare as he processes the information that others have touched me, controlled me.
In one fluid movement, he closes the distance between us, his hand sliding around my waist to pull me against him. The sudden contact sends electricity through my body, an unwelcome reminder of the chemistry that's always simmered between us.
“So that's why you ran away to New York?” His voice is low, almost a growl. “To find a Dom when you had one right here that you ran from?”
The audacity of his statement startles a laugh out of me. I place my palms against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his expensive shirt.
“You?” I shake my head. “You're not a Dom, Vane. You're just a boy who likes control.”
The muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth. The hand at my waist tightens, fingers digging into the fabric of my dress. His piercing green eyes, which have haunted me, narrow dangerously.
“You have no idea what I am now,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that makes my skin prickle.
The anger radiating from him is palpable, a living thing between us. I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against my palms.
“Let's get back to your interview, shall we?” Vane releases me suddenly, stepping back. His eyes never leave mine as he gestures to a leather chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit.”
I consider walking out, but curiosity keeps me rooted. I take the seat, crossing my legs, aware of his gaze following the movement.
He returns to his chair, pulling a tablet toward him. “What are your preferences, Lia? What do you need that brings you to Purgatory?”
The question hangs between us. I've answered this for other Doms in clinical interviews, where I listed my limits and desires. But with Vane, everything feels more personal.
“I enjoy pain,” I say, watching his pupils dilate. “Not extreme, but enough to feel it. Enough to carry the marks afterward.”
His fingers tighten on the edge of the desk. “And?”
“Rope work. Being restrained, positioned, displayed.” My voice drops lower. “I like being rendered helpless while still being the center of attention.”
Vane's breathing has changed. “Safe words?”
“Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for continue.”
He nods, setting the tablet aside. “Hard limits?”
“Permanent branding.”
