Page 184 of What We Burn

“Good. Because I think I’m in love with this crime scene. I’m going to enter it in the state fair. Maybe win a blue ribbon for Most Likely to Ruin a Forensics Team’s Day.”

Holden moves toward the door, shaking his head while Milo moves on to humming “Killer Queen” by Queen, and I can’t tell if that’s deliberate or just how his brain works.

“I’ll be back later,” Holden tells him. “Do what you can with the walls while I’m gone.”

“You got it, boss.” Milo catches my eye and winks. “Have fun at the club, kitten. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves a lot of options.”

“Exactly.”

Holden’s hand finds the small of my back and steers me out the door, across the parking lot, into his car. The drive is twenty minutes, and he spends most of it on the phone—short, clipped calls to people I don’t know, using words I half-understand. Biohazard. Soft disposal. Room nine. Crew on-site by four.

I’m only half listening, anyway. This is the first time I’ll walk into the club during operating hours.

If I’d known that all I had to do to get through those brass-knockered doors at night was massacre some guy—I would have done it weeks ago.

The parking lot is packed—a sea of black SUVs and electric sedans glinting under streetlights, each one a subtle fuck you in capital letters to anyone hoping for anonymity on the coast.

Unholy Desires is a fortress with no sign out front, just a discreet entryway. There are no lines. Only appointments.

Holden folds me out of the car and across the pavement like I’m a trained bird of prey and he’s the handler. The black dress leaves nothing to the imagination. The heels make my legs look a mile long. I still have blood under my nails, but I don’t think anyone can see unless they’re looking for it, and even then—what do you say to a girl with blood on her hands at a place like this? You tip better, maybe.

Holden swipes into the front door. There’s a bouncer inside who hands us silver masks and lets us through the second set of doors.

The sound hits first. Low bass, dark and slow. Ambient and heavy. Then the light—dim, warm, amber and red, coming from fixtures I can’t see. The air smells like expensive perfume and leather and pure, raw heat.

It’s everything I imagined and nothing like I expected.

There’s a couple on the stage, naked, side by side. She’s red-haired and tall, her wrists in elegant cuffs chained to a steel post. He’s lean and dark, kneeling with his head bowed. A second woman circles them both in six-inch stilettos and a latex catsuit, her crop tapping against her palm as she considers them.

The crowd doesn’t cheer. They don’t leer. They watch with the same kind of awe people have watching ballet—intent, hungry, completely absorbed.

The domme stalks behind the man, says something I can’t hear, then cracks the leather crop across his ass. He doesn’t cry out, just shudders—so hard and beautiful it makes my throat clench.

Holden’s hand tightens at the curve of my waist, like even in here I still need a leash.

“Stay close,” he murmurs, as if there’s a chance in hell I’d run.

I want to run, but not away—I want to run my hands over this room until every rough edge and shining surface is mapped into my skin.

We move through the main floor, past the bar where Micah hovers. He’s flushed, hair perfectly tousled, dress shirt open a button too far for most restaurants but probably standard here. I catch his eye behind his black mask, and he gives me a curious grin. Like he doesn’t understand why I’m here. But Holden is in command mode and steers me toward the VIP corridor where Knox is on guard.

His arms are crossed, and he’s watching the room with that steady, dark-eyed scan. Knox is sexy all of the time. But he’s sexy as fuck when he’s in security mode. The man is in all black, sleeves rolled, looking like a wet dream or a man you’d cross the street to avoid—depending on your risk tolerance.

Holden plants me in front of Knox like he’s delivering a package.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” he says. Then he turns and disappears down the corridor toward a door labeled “No Entry.”

Knox looks at me. From behind his mask, his eyes narrow, tracking the details—the damp hair, the new dress, my bare throat where the choker should be, the particular energy I’m giving off that has nothing to do with a normal night at the club. His frown deepens.

“Fury,” he says. “What did you do?”

FORTY-SEVEN

KNOX

Fury grins and crooks a finger, so I lean down enough for her mouth to ghost over my ear. “I killed him,” she whispers.