Page 65 of Brox Boar

“You handled the moment,” I say. “You failed the point.”

She frowns and sways slightly, catching herself too late.

“You didn’t take them into the Black Chamber,” Brox ads.

Confusion flashes in her eyes, then anger. “How could I–”

“Things can happen outside of the parameters we set. And you need to know how to turn a threat into a client. Because everyone is willing to pay for their kinks. This would give us time to act.”

Lana stares at him, her breath coming too fast, too shallow. She’s exhausted; the bikers did their work. What’s left of her is function.

But we’re in the Black Chamber, and the air as her companion, and it claimed her the moment we got in.

“If they’re not in the Black Chamber, we can’t record them. So think twice next time.” I say flatly.

She lifts her chin. Then she smirks–small, defiant, almost playful in a way that doesn’t match the tension in the corridor. But it’s the air in here that plays with her. And she’s primed yet again.

She smiles, moves in close, and wraps her arms around Brox without asking. It’s sudden enough that I even pause. Her cheek presses to his shirt for a second. Her voice turns light, sweet.

“Next time I’ll know,” she murmurs.

Brox doesn’t return the embrace. He looks down at her with a calm that makes the corridor feel colder.

“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. There is a punishment for how you acted,” he says.

Her head lifts. “Punishment?”

I glance toward Room Three. “Room Three awaits you.”

Lana’s eyes flicker. Assumption slides into place fast — hope, maybe, or the belief that whatever happens in the Black Chamber rooms must be what she’s used to expecting.

“Can you manage?” Brox asks her.

She pushes away from Brox and takes a step forward. Brox moves first, opening the door and guiding her inside.

Room Three isn’t a performance room. Tonight, it’s a meeting space, clean, controlled. A long table sits in the center, chairs set around it, paperwork spread across the surface. Ten men are already inside, mid-conversation, their attention divided between numbers and territory and whatever problem needs solving tonight.

Their voices dip when we enter, then resume. No one stands. No one smiles.

A few sets of eyes lift, assess Lana in a glance, then return to the table as if she’s brought in without comment.

Lana slows down. Her gaze darts once, quick, as she takes in the room and the men and the tone.

Brox guides her toward the corner where two cushions are lying on the floor–far enough from the table to keep her out of the conversation, close enough that her presence is undeniable.

He positions her with a hand at her shoulder, turning her slightly so she faces the wall at an angle.

“Kneel,” Brox says. “On one of the cushions.”

Lana’s breath catches, and as she kneels, she looks back at him, and me, searching for the version of this that fits what she expected.

We give her nothing.

The men at the table keep talking. Pages shift. A pen taps. Someone’s voice grows more irritated, then steadies again.

Lana swallows. She lowers herself, slowly, onto her knees.

“Rest your cheek on the other cushion.”