Page 57 of The Rook’s Obsession

“I’m here.” His voice is clipped. “I don’t like this.”

No shit. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to sit there and drink your drink and let me do what I’m good at.”

The door opens again.

The client is a man in his mid-fifties. Soft around the middle, wearing a suit that costs more than most people’s rent. Salt-and-pepper hair, neatly combed. He has the look of a man who spends his days giving orders and his Thursday nights paying someone to take that away from him. I’ve seen the type before. They’re predictable and manageable, and they usually finish faster than they’d ever admit.

He stops just inside the door, taking me in. The corset and the mask, and the heels. Whatever he sees, he likes it, because he swallows hard and his breathing changes.

I don’t smile. Women like the one I’m playing don’t smile.

“Close the door,” I order. My voice is lower than usual, stripped of everything that makes it mine. This is a performance. I’m very good at performances.

He closes the door.

“You know the rules?” I ask.

He nods, eager. Already, he’s changed from the man he was ten seconds ago.

“Say it out loud,” I command.

“Yes. I know the rules.”

“And you know what to do.” I don’t move or gesture. I simply wait. That’s the art of it, really. The waiting. Most people think dominance is about action or force, but it isn’t. It’s about the space between commands. The anticipation that builds in the silent moments. The pause that makes a grown man forget he runs a company or commands vast fortunes. Right now, in this room, he is nothing unless I decide otherwise.

He lowers himself to his knees. Slowly. I wonder what it does to his suit. Obviously, whatever he gets out of this is worth more than whatever he paid for it.

“Good,” I murmur. “Hands behind your back.”

He obeys without hesitation. “Good boy.”

In my ear, Nick is very, very quiet. I can hear him breathing, though. Short, controlled breaths, the kind that come from a jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Good. Let him listen. Let him sit out there with his borrowed membership and hear every second of this, because this is who I am. This is what I can do. If he’s going to be with me, he’s going to know all of it.

“Eyes on the floor,” I tell the man kneeling in front of me. “You don’t deserve to look at me. Do you?”

“No. I don’t.” His chin drops immediately.

“Good. Do not look at me unless I give you permission. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes.” Stronger this time, but trembling a little.

I circle him once. Slowly. My heels click against the hard floor with each step. I let it build. I let the anticipation do the work. When I come to a stop in front of him, I wait until I see his hands trembling behind his back before I speak. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“I—” His voice catches. “I wish to serve.”

“You wish to serve?” I scoff before clicking my tongue in disappointment. “Do you deserve to?”

A visible shudder goes through him. “No.”

“No. You don’t. You haven’t earned anything yet.” I pick up the riding crop from the table—not to use, just to hold. To let him hear the leather shift in my hand, to let him see it from the corner of his vision as he stares at the floor. “You are going to stay exactly where you are. You will keep your eyes on the floor. And you will tell me every reason you don’t deserve what you came here for tonight. Every single one. And if I think you’re lying or you aren’t trying hard enough to please me, we are finished. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you.”