Page 186 of What We Burn

She puts her back to a patch of exposed brick with a clear view of the stage. She tips the glass, not drinking, just rolling the lip along her bottom teeth, eyes locked on the scene. The domme is sliding a gloved hand between the redhead’s legs, slow and theatrical, coaxing moans that are half performance, half real.

The guy on his knees has his tongue out, desperate for any scrap of attention. I see the moment the domme decides to reward him, palm curling under his jaw, a sharp word snapped into his ear before she offers the redhead’s clit to his tongue.

The crowd tightens, the bar-level noise flattening to focus. Fury’s thighs press together. I’m growing uncomfortably hard just watching her.

A man peels off from the knot of voyeurs, his jawline knife-sharp. He homes in on Fury, his body language already set for a pull—cocky, predatory, not knowing she can out-hunt him any day of the week. He says something, low and assured, but before she even answers, I’m on him. My hand on his upper arm, a squeeze that starts friendly and then travels south.

“Not yours,” I say, my voice sandpaper and rebar.

The guy pauses, glances at my hand, then looks up at me. I’m six-seven and have a hundred pounds on him. He makes the right call, lifting both hands with a wry half-nod.

“Didn’t realize she was spoken for,” he says.

“Her mask is silver, fuckhead.”

He backs off into the crowd.

Fury grins up at me, still leaning against the wall. “Am I spoken for, Knox?”

I clamp my hand around her jaw and bend to her mouth. Hard enough to anchor. Her arms come up and drag me closer.

Teeth. Tongue. Her nails at my neck.

She bites my lip.

I fucking love it.

When we break, she’s breathing fast. The flush on her neck travels to her chest, and her smile is sharp enough to be lethal. She glances past me, toward the corridor Holden vanished down.

“Don’t let me out of your sight,” she says, ducking below my arm.

She’s gone before I can grab her.

Fury wants to be hunted.

Fine.

I cut left, past the stage and through the gap between the sound booth and the back wall. The main floor is too open. She’ll want walls. Corners. Somewhere she can make me work for it.

I check the east corridor first. The alcoves are all occupied—green lights glowing above the curtains. I scan each one as I pass. A man on his knees between a woman’s thighs. Two women kissing on a leather bench, fingers tangled in each other’s hair. An older couple, slow and deliberate, moving together like they’ve been doing this for decades.

No Fury.

I keep moving. My radio crackles—Marco on the back corridor.

“Knox, your brunette just came through here. Heading toward the gallery.”

The gallery. Observation rooms with one-way glass, where members watch without being seen. Private. Dim.

Exactly where she’d go.

I take the back stairs two at a time. The gallery corridor is quieter than the main floor with thick carpet, recessed lighting, sound dampened to a hum. The doors are spaced apart, each one leading to a small room with a window that looks into the suite on the other side. I check the first. Locked. Second. Locked.

Third—ajar.

I push it open.

She’s there. Standing at the one-way glass, her reflection ghosted over the scene on the other side. Her arms are crossed, weight on one hip, watching with an intensity that has nothing casual about it.