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With nightly parades of gorgeous men and women and shows featuring acrobats, gymnasts, and sensual dancers, a night atRaptureis one that my guests pay handsomely for.
As I slip through one of the many doors that lead into a maze of corridors, I pull my simple black masquerade mask from the inside pocket of my jacket, sliding it over my face before entering the second tier,Risqué.
Masks are non-negotiable forallstaff members. Not only for their own privacy, but it adds an element of mystery, which only heightens the experience for my guests.
The dimly lit labyrinth of passageways inRisquéis home to curtained alcoves, purpose-built for secret interludes and rendezvous. Doors into private rooms dot the hallways, where staff known as performers lay in wait to fulfill any kind of fantasy your heart desires.
All assignations are mutual, fully contracted between all parties, and entirely above board. The rooms are equipped with state-of-the-art surveillance with round-the-clock monitoring by my specialized team.
The nanosecond a guest gets inappropriate, or a performer needs to take a time out if things get too heavy, additional security is on hand to assist. It rarely, if ever, happens, but I like to be prepared.
My performers trust me with their safety, and another’s trust is something Idon’ttake lightly, seeing as I don’t give mine freely.
Ignoring the debauchery that’s ongoing in the alcoves on either side of me, I pad closer to my goal,Ravish, where Lucia and God only knows who awaits me.
The third and final tier is the only part of Rogue that I detest.
When I purchased this place—the club that was previously known asValentine’s—I swore I wouldn’t sleep until I’d dismantled the crowning jewel in my deceased sperm donor’s empire.
Valentine Burton, a millionaire aristocrat hailing from London, had continued to deny my existence right up until his death despite the many paternity tests my mother insisted upon. Not to mention the fact that I could have been his fucking doppelganger.
He’d told my mother that he would marry her after I was born.
That he would somehow get out of the arranged marriage that his parents had locked him into.
But it was all a damn lie.
My mother died when a taxi hit her as she walked home from a graveyard shift at the diner she worked in, but it was Valentine Burton who killed her the day she found out the love of her life had married someone else, leaving her penniless and broken-hearted with a small baby.
Placing my hand over the biometric scanner beneath the hot pink sign synonymous with the auction rooms, I take a deep breath as the door swings open into the darkened space.
The catwalk is front and center, lit up in that signature pink, awaiting its first lot.
My stomach dips when I spot the sign at the rear of the space, belatedly realizing that it’s a fetish night, and I curse Lucia for choosing tonight as the night for me to formally show my face.
I usually allow her to deal with everything on theRavishside of the business. She’s been here since Valentine ran the show—used to fuck him, if the rumors are to be believed—and frankly, ifRavishneeds to remain open, then I’m happy for her to do the dirty work.
When I’d bought this place from my half-sister, Verity, I’d intended on closing this part down entirely. However, even from beyond the grave, Valentine continued to run the show.
A great number of high-powered men and women had invested heavily inRavish, using it to woo new clientele or foreign diplomats.
A president here, a prince there.
Virgin auctions always garner a high return, thanks to the twisted souls who come here to prey on women down on their luck and in need of the high fee that thin barrier of innocence can fetch, though fetish auctions—a relatively new addition from Lucia—have gained traction in recent years.
Ravishis simply a means to attain power, which was precisely what Valentine had sought through this place and its sister club situated outside of London.
He’d held court here on every possible occasion, often bidding for lots if the fancy struck. I’ve never bid on a lot, and nor will I ever.
I might be a monster, but I’m notthatkind of monster.
If it weren’t for Lorenzo and what happened to him, I’d have burned the whole place to ash. I don’t get close to people now because to do so means putting them in danger, too.
I keep to myself. Even theveryfew people who’ve managed to burrow beneath my defenses don’t know me beyond what I let them see.
They’d be horrified if I let them find the devil lurking beneath the black suit.
The thoughts that lay beneath my carefully callous face.
