Chapter 33

I splash cold water on my face, my gut crawling with dread. The foreboding sensations coil inside me like the ominous wail of a tornado siren.

It's wrong. This scene. Me at Noire. What I'm doing. Everything feels wrong.

Blowing out a deep breath, I glance at the mirror and swipe the droplets off my face with my hands. My eyes look bloodshot, but I guess that makes sense since I haven't been sleeping as much, as my dreams are haunted by a certain brunette with blue eyes. Eyes that beckon, tempt, and see too much. Eyes that make me want to abandon my cage and jump into the fire. Eyes that make me forget I am Ryland Anderson, but instead make me believe I'm just Ryland, the man.

I grab a paper towel, wipe my hands, and look at my outfit for the night—a classic gray Henley paired with dark-wash jeans. My usual scene outfit. Easy to run in and to replace if things get rough.

After a long exhausting day of meetings with the finance team at the company and our bankers, getting our ducks lined up in a row for the IPO, which is still progressing well, and a phone call from Jacob telling me he's spoken to the Board about the honorary doctorate, I should be excited for this, getting back out there, as Maxwell put it.

It's been so long since I've stood here in this grand bathroom of black marble and chrome, befitting of a club named after the color. You haven't been here since you met her.

When we had our first renovation of The Orchid ten years ago, I suggested adding this club to the Rose floors because I needed it. I wanted to chase, to hunt, to overpower a like-minded partner as I slaked my lust with them. I wanted to feel the leather straps around my chest snapping off and be reduced to impulse and intuition, to experience true freedom. Perhaps when I was hunting, I was overpowering all the rules and responsibilities that came from being an Anderson.

But now, standing in the bathroom I helped design, I don't feel an iota of excitement, the emotion I usually feel before I step into the faux outdoors, when I know freedom is at my fingertips.

Instead, I think of her, the woman I can't keep out of my mind. I remember how angry I was when I saw her at Grace's event a few days ago, in the arms of another man.

I have no claim over her, but God, do I want her.

Every cell in my body screams for her.

My mind sifts through the email I received from the Noire team earlier today, detailing the information I needed to know about the mysterious woman who's supposed to be meeting me past the sturdy doors separating the restroom and the actual play area.

The physical characteristics and age are one hundred percent matched. She's on birth control, doesn't require condoms, and the Noire team has also sent me her health check results with her name redacted. She's clear. But there's no fucking way I'll forgo protection with a random woman, so I always carry a few condoms in my pants pocket when I'm in a scene.

I know they did the same for her, sending her my information in advance while keeping my identity anonymous—it's part of the usual regulations for entertainment and companions on the Rose floors, to make sure patrons are safe and protected.

She has no hard limits other than urinating and defecating—no thank you, on my end, so we're aligned there.

Fighting, biting, spanking, tearing clothes off, and all that goes into consensual nonconsensual play are fair game. In fact, there's even a note saying she may fight me and she wants me to fight back, let everything out, and not hold anything back.

The safe word is daffodils or three consecutive pats anywhere on my body if she can't speak.

Daffodils.I think back to the small pot of yellow flowers Millie brought into my office two years ago, the ones that made her cry when they shattered on the floor. The first time I felt my heart twist and wench in pain as I saw the agony in those sapphire eyes, and I knew I had to fix it for her.

I had to protect her.

Fuck. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool surface of the mirror. She haunts my thoughts in every waking minute and invades my mind in the dark nights. This is why I'm here tonight, to get her out of my system by surrogate. Maybe my brothers are right. Perhaps not having sex in so long has turned me into some sick, twisted animal.

The profile is perfect for me, like the candidate has been crafted to serve my darkest, most wicked desires. But somehow, the heaviness in my gut seems to increase with each second, and every inhale feels like another slab of weight has been added onto my chest.

Everything feels wrong.

My cock doesn't twitch as it lays lifeless in my pants.

I shake my head to dispel the insane thoughts, but it's no use. I can't muster an ounce of enthusiasm for the scene tonight.

My body doesn't want anyone other than Millie. My lips don't crave anything other than the sweetness of her taste, chocolate mixed with honey. My mind only thinks about her, enthralled by the passion in her voice, the wisdom far beyond her years in her words.

I'm an addict in the throes of withdrawal, a process which seems endless and hopeless.

Maybe I'll just find the mystery woman tonight and call the night off. The gentleman in me can't stand her up and I don't want to let security be the one to find her and tell her the date is off. It doesn't feel right to use an intercom to call the night off, either.

No. I'll find her myself in person. Then, I'll tip her for her troubles. It's the least I can do.

The decision offers me some relief, but the yearning for Millie is relentless, preventing me from breathing freely.

The insidious heaviness follows me as I push open the thick soundproof door and step into relative pitch darkness. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim space, which is only lit by the realistic pale light of the artificial moon from the LED screens on the high ceilings. I smell the fragrance of pine trees and feel a cool breeze on my skin.

Everything is set up to my usual preferences.

Closing my eyes, I inhale the scent of nature…a very close approximation, one we've spent hours and dollars crafting with high-end perfumeries in Europe.

I feel the heaviness beginning to melt away in my chest as another gentle breeze sweeps through the air from the undetectable air vents we've installed in this room, one which can generate anything from a balmy breeze to a simulation of a violent hurricane. We don't kink shame on the Rose floors.

My nose prickles as a faint note of something…something familiar registers in my mind. The barely there wisp of jasmine laced with vanilla.

Just barely there.

My heart skips several beats, and my breath catches in my throat. Perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me. Imagining the woman of my dreams is here with me.

I frown at the direction of my thoughts as I hear the mysterious hooting of an owl and the rustling of trees. The hunter instincts inside me rear alive as I take another inhale and walk onto the grass toward the thick cluster of trees ahead, my footfalls sure and silent. After all, I know this place like the back of my mind.

There it is again.

The enticing swirl of jasmine and vanilla. Her scent. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Why the fuck am I thinking of her?

I'm going mad.

I need to find this woman and tell her to go home. Then, I'll hit the gym and bury myself in work. The files to review for the IPO. The assignments to grade.

The alluring scent taunts me and my blood heats, my heart beginning a war chant in my rib cage. The smell. The fucking smell.

Millie.

But it can't be, can it?

I begin the chase.