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CHAPTER 1
Fuck no.
Benson shoved the sheaf of papers back into the envelope. “I’ll leave the club.”
He was speaking to no one in particular, since all around him Doms, Masters, and Owners were picking up their own assignments, and paying no attention to him and his reaction.
Each assignment envelope bore a single letter, while the papers inside contained the name and checklist of the submissive they were assigned. The overseers apparently thought that all the members of Las Palmas—L.A.’s most exclusive BDSM club—had become lazy and complacent. To combat that, they decided to be Machiavellian with their new checklist “game.”
Benson would have played their little game, if they hadn’t also been utter sadists, and not in the fun way.
Benson waited until Mistress Faith—one of the three overseers—finished her conversation. He walked up, envelope outstretched.
“Take it. I’ll relinquish my membership.”
Mistress Faith folded her arms.
She was calm. Confident. The epitome of a Domme. “I expected better from you.”
“Then consider me a disappointment.” He tried to hand her the envelope, but again she wouldn’t take it. Benson considered chucking it across the room, or at the large rolling board they’d pinned the alphabet to.
“Have you looked at the items for your letter? There’s a reason, a method to our choices.”
“Oh, I looked.” Paper crinkled as his fingers clenched. “It doesn’t matter. She won’t scene with me.”
Mistress Faith raised one brow. “She won’t scene with you? What an interesting way to phrase it. I assumed it was the other way around. You wouldn’t be willing to scene with her.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.”
“Fine. Then that’s what I meant.”
“Benson.” Faith put a hand on his shoulder. “Look at the list for your letter. Consider the opportunities this presents.”
He should just drop the envelope and walk away. He was going to. Any second now.
Benson tucked the papers under his arm. “I’m not dealing with it this weekend.”
“Understandable. I’ll let her know not to expect to hear from her partner immediately.” Mistress Faith casually crossed her arms. “Meaning she’s free to scene with others this weekend, or, given that everyone else should be paired off, she’s available to assist others with their letters.”
That shouldn’t matter to him. Yet Benson’s teeth ached from clenching his jaw. With a single nod, he turned and walked out of the Conclave. The club, a sprawling estate in the Malibu hills, looked quiet at the moment, but there was an underlying buzz. The meeting that turned out to be the game announcement was mandatory for every member.
The subs, who’d been dismissed before the overseers started handing out assignments, must all be in the Subs’ Garden, probably waiting to be summoned by their partners. His fellow Doms, Masters, and Owners were probably holed up trying to figure out what to do.
Was Malvia even here tonight? From his vantage point— propping up one wall in the Conclave—he hadn’t been able to see every sub, pet, or slave in attendance.
The papers tucked under his arm burned, as if her photo were radioactive, singeing him through the layers of paper and cloth.
Maybe she was here tonight, with the others in the Subs’ Garden—the private dressing room and lounge area off limits to him and all tops. Maybe she was traveling for work, one of only a handful who weren’t here in person tonight.
It didn’t matter, because game or no game, he wouldn’t be scening with her. Some things were emotional suicide, and thinking about Mal made him want to break shit.
If he’d said that out loud, he would have shocked his fellow kink and power-exchange enthusiasts.
He never lost his temper, never lashed out. He was calm and precise. Always.
On those occasions when he let his thoughts slip to memories of Malvia, the mix of emotions that bubbled up was toxic.
