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“He wants you,” I snap.
She glances over my shoulder as if she expects him to be there. As she does, the blanket falls around her waist, and I’m gifted with a perfect image of her round tits beneath a white tank top. All the other details around us fall away when she catches me staring at her protruding nipples. She swallows, and an unwelcome image of me fucking her comes to mind. I consider what it might feel like if I took her at this very moment, unleashing this strange current of pent-up rage inside me. When she slaps her hands over her breasts in an attempt at modesty, it only irks me more.
“You can spend the rest of the night with him,” I tell her. “I have a need to tend to.”
Her brows furrow, the only indication she’s considering what I said. She slowly pulls herself from the bed, turning her face away as though she doesn’t want to look at me.
“Natalia,” I bite out.
She whips her head toward me, her eyes wide at my tone. I’ve always prided myself on remaining calm, no matter the situation, but she tests me in ways I’ve never been tested before.
I glance down at her feet and narrow my gaze. “Next time I come in here, I better not see you with those fucking shoes on the bed.”
I don’t wait for a response, and she doesn’t offer one as I leave. My intentions are clear as I stalk down the hall and out to my car. I need a fucking release, and my hand isn’t going to do tonight. I start the engine with one destination in mind.
There are other ways to get my fix. So long as it’s with anyone else but her.
The IVI compound is located on the downtown Seattle waterfront. In a high-rise tower with mirrored windows, members can see out, but outsiders can’t see in. The building is an impressive amalgamation of steel and glass looming over the street below. From the outside, it’s anyone’s guess what’s inside. There are no signs. There are no entrances for the public. The only way in is through the parking garage, where my permit is my fingerprint on a biometric scanner.
From there, the process is streamlined. A valet takes my keys when I pull to a stop, and a host of guards’ step aside to allow me entry.
“Dominus et Deus,” they greet me in unison.
I nod at them and slip inside, stopping at the coat room where a Society daughter offers me a cloak and mask, which I take. Once I’m satisfied that my identity is hidden, I step out into the main corridor and head for the private elevator reserved for Sovereign Sons. From here, I have choices. Above me, there are floors to meet almost every need a member might have. Rooms for out-of-state visitors or those who wish to stay after they’ve had too much to drink. There are banquet halls and event rooms, meeting rooms, a business center, a gym, a rooftop pool, libraries, and even children’s playrooms. It’s a different sort of playroom I’m after though.
I press the red elevator button without a number, and it whisks me up to what the members call the Cat House. It’s a den meant for pleasure, stocked full of the finest women money can buy. They are beautiful, elegant, eager to please, and they understand exactly what I want.
A simple transaction.
I was still young, clinging to life in an isolated hospital room when I was left to digest the total destruction of a marriage and family. I had just lost everyone I ever loved over my father’s selfish desires. It wasn’t something my ten-year-old brain was fully capable of comprehending at the time, but there was an image playing on repeat in my mind. My mother, kneeling before the man who came to kill us, pleading for our lives. Her tears stopped when he uttered those final words.
Your husband’s mistress sends her regards.
Seconds later, my mother’s brains were splattered across the floor. It wasn’t long before my brother and sister joined her in death. That moment cemented one inherent truth in my mind. Love didn’t really mean anything. It was just a precursor to pain. Men would always be the weaker sex. I had observed it myself many times over the years, in the aftermath of that event. The male species was easily led astray. Regardless of how high the stakes were, their primal instincts drove them to risk their families for a few moments of pleasure. As much as I wish it weren’t true, I was half my father’s DNA. The only guarantee I could make to myself was that I would never be like him. In doing so, I avoided relationships altogether, sentencing myself to a lifetime of celibacy.
