Talon keeps a hand at the small of my back, steering me gently. “This place is a temple to Bastet—Egyptian goddess of pleasure, sex, and safe indulgence. The owner made a pact: anyone entering offers a drop of blood, and in return she grants protection against disease, coercion, and magical corruption. Think of it like divine sanctuary.”
A club. A sacred one. Maybe a safehouse for people like me?
Then the scent hits me.
Thick, heady. Sweat and skin and pheromones.
Sex.
It’s an incense that thickens the air—tangible, cloying, almost sweet. My mouth waters. My pulse kicks up. Beneath it all, a low bass thrums through the warehouse walls, a second heartbeat vibrating my bones. Moans roll, distant thunder tangled with the wet slap of flesh, a breathless gasp that triggers my entire body to shiver with anticipation.
Lust doesn’t just hum under my skin, it scrapes. Sparks. Ignites.
That’s when I see it.
A woman in sheer mesh bent over a velvet bench while a vampire laps at the inside of her thigh. Just beyond them, two men kiss with teeth and tongue, one of them trailing glowingrunes down the other's chest with the glow of a spell-branded fingertip.
Oh.
This isn’t just a club.
This is asexclub.
The realization slams into me with a second wave of hunger—deeper, more dangerous. The hunger snarls to life. Thankfully it directs outward, away from my body for the first time since I made my massive mistake.
The warehouse is a den of sensual excess. Draped silks in oceanic blues and greens billow from the high ceilings, giving the illusion of moving water. A chandelier fashioned from mother-of-pearl shells casts refracted light in fluid patterns.
To the left, a sunken lounge area pulses with low music and lower moans. Lovers sprawl across cushions in various states of undress. Some whisper confessions, others grind slowly, hands and mouths exploring.
A server glides by with a silver tray of jewel-toned cocktails, each one fogging with chill or glinting with enchantment. The waitstaff are all human, dressed in corseted uniforms with subtle scalloped patterns—fish scales woven in satin and silk. Every corset, regardless of gender, is cut to showcase as much skin as possible. Tits out, hips bare, and fishnets held up by garters.
Farther in, alcoves carved into the old brick walls host more private performances—a fae couple locked in a tangle of limbs on silk ropes, a human woman bound and writhing with pleasure as her partner teases her with flickering illusions.
I shudder when I catch sight of a vampire kissing his partner before sinking his teeth into what looks like a willing donor on his lap. The memory of the bouncer’s words about everything protected for consent comes to mind.
Talon leads me down a corridor to a series of rooms. I glance at the rules posted in ornate gold lettering. Door closed means private party. Open door means come join and play.
Talon directs me inside one of the rooms. It reminds me of the high-end hotel suites I’ve seen onHex Island, when the cast got to go on a sexy vacation and suddenly everything was silk robes and spontaneous hookups.
This is that, if the producers had taste.
The space is immaculate, the air thin and over-purified, the sheets stiff with the memory of steam pressed into them between every guest. The lighting is low and soothing, tinted in soft sea-glass hues that ripple over the satin walls. Everything carries the faint bite of citrus peel overlaid with the dry crisp of linen. Fresh, not floral. Even the leather ottoman gleams, the kind of polish that screams clipboard inspections and relentless standards.
A minibar stretches across one wall, gleaming with brushed gold accents and crystal handles. Behind the glass are chilled bottles of wine and champagne, glistening mineral waters, delicate chocolates sheathed in foil, and sea-salt caramels lined up like jewels.
Then there are neatly stacked boxes in matte black and pastel velvet, each one sealed and labeled with delicate symbols. Some are obvious—cuffs, plugs, vibrators. Others look like medical-grade tools wrapped in luxury. I don’t know what half of them are, and somehow, that feels intentional.
The sign makes it easy to figure out how it works. Open a box or crack a bottle, and it simply goes on your tab.
The bed is sleek, minimal, and unapologetically indulgent. The linens are ice-white and buttery soft, layered with silk throws in coral and gold. The pearlescent and intricate headboard is a curved seashell. Above, a ceiling mirror edged in burnished brass reflects every angle, catching the flicker of recessed lights that move like sunlight through shallow water.
"Undress."
The timbre of Talon’s voice causes a shiver to go through me before landing as a pulse in my sex, despite how wretched my body feels.
I try to keep hold of myself, even as I obey him. "I don't know if I can do this." I confess. "I'm too hungry, and last time, I almost killed Merry." I end on a shamed whisper, shutting my eyes tight.
I wrap my arms around myself. I’m running on a fraying edge.
