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“Doing what?” My tone is demanding. I skate a look around the room, similar to the entrance, pretentious and stinking of money.
“Being reminded of the rules,” he grunts, taking himself to his desk and sitting down. I frown at him. He looks enormous sitting behind it. He twists his chair, so he is facing away, then a screen is flickering on, and he points to the moving image. It’s the club from earlier. “Tell me, what do you see?” he questions seriously. I scoff at him and take myself back towards the door, not wishing to look at the vulgarity on the screen. “Walk out of that door, and I’ll drag you back in here and lay you over my knee,” he seethes. I stop dead and turn around, looking at him with an open mouth and in complete shock. Did he actually just threaten to tan my arse!
“You're nuts!” I laugh shortly, my mouth flattening when he shrugs nonchalantly.
“You’re in my fucking club, aprivateclub,” he accentuates. “You’d be wise to put that little arse in that chair.” He points with the TV control to a chair opposite his own. “And start paying attention.” His jaw is clenched, and I know he is done messing about.
I’m almost ninety-nine percent sure I’m going to walk out of here, but when the heavy thud of his gun hits the desk, I pale and walk unwillingly to the chair, closer to him and the gun.
“Good girl.” His nostrils flare, and relaxing back in his seat, he nods to the screen. “So tell me, Zara, what do you see?” At first, my eyes stay on him, taking in his square darkened jaw and unflinching cruel eyes. Full lips set in a straight line and hair cut in a military crop, his brow lifts, and reluctantly, I look at the screen and away from the chunk of life-threatening metal left carelessly on the desk. “Do you see any women freely walking around my club?” It hadn't occurred to me before, but no, I don't see any on the floor—they are everywhere, but the club floor remains very much a male space. What relevance does this have to me?
“No,” I mutter, debating why that is, but not really caring.
“No women through the door, no women on the floor.” His cold tone reaches out and twists my guts up into a ball of nauseating nerves. I’m shaking, my hands knotted beneath the desk.
“Great slogan, you should get that on a plaque above the entrance,” I tell him in a rush of nerves. I can't stop talking. His hand clenches, the remote control groans in protest, and I swallow loudly. “I’d like to leave,” I say calmly.
He stands and walks to the screen, places his hands in his pockets and from this position, I can see the ridge of muscles all over his body and the faint outline of tattoos below his white shirt.
“I’d like a lot of things,” he comments dryly. “You see, Zara, I have rules, and you just broke them. Oscar, too,” he mutters, scratching his prickly jaw. My eyes fall back to the screen, and I now notice that some of the women are blindfolded. I shudder at the reality of what is happening beneath my feet, what those women might be subjected to by cruel, powerful men like this one. How did they come to be here? Did they choose this?
“Not intentionally,” I reply on a short huff. “I had no idea what this place was. It’s just an unfortunate mistake this happened.” I stare at him through the curtain of my hair. Our eyes clash, and I feel the black orbs of his like a dagger to my throat. He has his death stare down to a fine art. He’s killed before. I can feel it, and a sickly sweep of innate fear blows over my skin, seeping into my pores until it wraps around my bones.
“Mistake isn’t a word I like to hear.” I’m sure ‘go to hell’ and ‘go fuck yourself’ aren’t either, but I want to use those too. I’d love nothing more than to tell this bear of a man to go fuck himself.
“I was curious,” I admit. Thatandconcern for Oscar had dragged me into this mess.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he says flippantly back. “Bad choices come with bad consequences,” he tells me with a shrug.
“Well then, I feel it’s appropriate to tell you having to suffer your company these past ten minutes has been a consequence I don't wish to repeat.” The words come out in a jumble of horror, my eyes widening as each syllable leaves my damn stupid mouth.
He throws his head back and laughs deeply, loudly. After a few moments, he slowly composes himself, and when he does, he is the picture of self-control: serious and grave. A shiver runs through me.
“Women aren’t welcome here,” he states harshly.
My confused eyes go back to the screen, where I see plenty of women.
“So the breasts filling the room downstairs are what, really advanced sex dolls?” I drawl, realising my error and biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself from talking further. He scoffs out another laugh, then his eyes drop to the gun on his desk, as do mine. I refuse to swallow the ball of fear now lodged in my throat, and I keep my stare on his. I refuse to baulk fully—my pride won't allow for it.
“They work for me, but they don't work the floor. I have rules, expectations.” With another click, I’m seeing the club from a different angle. It’s an aerial view from above. I give him a tight smile. Then the image changes again, and we’re looking at one of the glass walls made up of a dozen or so glass cells, each holding a woman dancing provocatively. I frown in distaste.
“Look harder,” he encourages.
I look, really look.
“The women are all out of reach. No women are on the floor,” I repeat his words. The only women close enough to touch are swinging themselves around poles on the podiums, but security separates them from the men leering in their suits. I don't care how seemingly protected these women are, I feel sick to my stomach. I’ve had the misfortune of meeting men like him.
“No women on the floor,” he repeats. “The only rule I have, and you broke it,” he growls quietly,and my eyes go back to the glass wall of women.
I swallow loudly.
“Well, glass coffins aren’t really my style, but you’ve made your point regardless,” I squeak. When he moves towards me, his chest expands with a large exhale, and bright eyes flash with anger.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a smart mouth?” he bites out, leaning over me, so I push back in my seat.
“No. You’re the first. Gold star for you.” I fake press a little star to his wide flank, inwardly flinching when I realise how solid it is. My face sags in fear as he takes my bony wrist and yanks me to him, lifting me to my feet as his teeth kiss out his constant irritation with me.
“Well, you do, and it’s fucking annoying,” he growls into my face.
