Black Room

Nathan Cross

The bass rattles through the floor of Vortex like a heartbeat that refuses to die. The walls are obsidian. The air? Money and heat. Desire and rot. It’s not a club.

It’s a cathedral. My kingdom. My kill floor.

Politicians, CEOs, celebrities, and the wives they cheat on parade through the doors like royalty. Mink, diamonds, high heels and hollow stares. Their mistresses blend right in—just different shades of plastic.

They all act like they have power.

They don’t.

We do.

Julian, Elliot, and I hold court in the VIP lounge—elevated, detached. Eyes on the stage but never part of the show.

We own this circus.

And I’m bored.

I drain my whiskey and watch the floor below through a haze of indifference. Another night. Another parade of silicone ambition. Women wrapped in glitter and need. Laughing too loud. Smiling too hard. Pretending not to notice the cameras.

I don’t feel anything anymore.

Nothing…

Except her.

Lana Reyes.

She moves like she doesn’t belong here.

And that’s exactly what makes her perfect.

That uniform clings to curves it has no right touching. Her heels cut through the room like a threat. That mouth—sharp. That glare—lethal. She looks at this place like it should be afraid of her.

But it isn’t.

Because I’m here.

She fights.

And I want to be the reason she stops.

Elliot leans in, voice slick. “Prime candidates tonight.” He nods toward the bar.

A blonde with dead eyes licks the rim of a martini glass like she thinks she’s interesting.

“Looking for an afterparty,” I mutter, flat.

Julian chuckles from his seat, lazy and lethal. “You two are always chasing. Let them come to us for once.”

Elliot grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

There is no fun.

They’re all too easy.

They spread their legs for champagne and a shot at being remembered. But they’re forgettable the second I finish.

They want to be used. They just don’t know it.

But Lana?

She sees through it. Through me.

And she still doesn’t flinch.

That’s why I want her on her knees.

Not because she wants to be there.

Because she doesn’t.

She thinks this started in the car.

She has no idea I’ve been watching her since her second night here.

Before she knew my name.

Before she knew how to scream it.

I want her in the Black Room.

The Dominion Society’s crown jewel. Buried five levels beneath Vortex—behind retinal scans, untraceable payments, and the kind of silence money alone can’t buy.

It’s not a room.

It’s a reckoning.

Twelve keys. Twelve men. Each one bought, not given. A numbered token of access. Power.

The rest of them? They place their bets from behind the glass—silent gods wagering on ruin.

Each Feature begins the same: one woman. Masked. Collared. Deprived of sensation and food. Dropped into the dark.

The Keyholders enter one by one. In order. Each with an hour, max.

They take what they want. Push as far as she’ll let them—or until she breaks.

If she endures all twelve keys, she walks out with the grand purse. Untouched. Undefeated. A fantasy.

That almost never happens.

Most never make it past Room six.

The ones who do?

They don’t walk out the same.

Because down there, obedience is the only currency. We don’t fuck for pleasure. We break for sport. We unmake pride. Strip it. Twist it. Reduce it to whimpers and welts.

The last girl lasted four keys. Julian bet she’d go all the way. She didn't have anything to lose, but a hell of a lot to gain.

She didn’t.

And Lana?

She’s different.

She’s smarter. Sharper. And still—so fucking defiant I taste it in my blood.

That’s why I need to destroy her.

Not punish. Not tame.

Ruin.

I want her on her knees the second I enter with Key One—mine.

Before the others get their turn.

Before they even touch her.

I want her already broken.

Marked.

Mine.

Let them place their bets—I’m not playing against them. I’m betting on myself. And I don’t fucking lose.

She’ll be shackled. Naked. Stripped of her name, her defiance, her voice.

Her pride will bleed out through every bruise I leave behind.

I don’t want resistance.

I want surrender.

Complete. Silent. Irrevocable.

And when I’m done—when she’s trembling, used up, and emptied of everything except my name—

She’ll thank me for it.

Because I won’t just take her.

I’ll rewrite her.

And there won’t be anything left for the others to claim.

Because this game?

It isn’t about the money.

It’s about the men who bet on it.

And the one man who always plays to win.

Julian notices the shift in my stare.

“Which one you taking?” Elliot asks, leaning back, smoke curling from his mouth like a serpent. “Blonde at the bar’s got a mouth on her. Bet she cries pretty.”

Julian scans the room, eyes gleaming. “Too easy. I want one that thinks she’s in control. Smug little thing. Give me a runner—I like the chase.”

They laugh.

I don’t.

I’m not looking at the bar.

I’m looking at her.

She doesn’t know she’s in the game yet.

“Come on,” Elliot goads. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft. You’re not even circling tonight.”

I sip my drink. “I don’t circle.”

Julian chuckles. “Still waiting for the right one to bite back?”

“Still waiting for one worth dragging down,” I mutter.

He grins. “We talking defiance or pussy?”

“Both,” Elliot says, already eying his next mistake. “Best ones always come with teeth. Just gotta know when to clamp the muzzle.”

Julian taps his glass against mine. “And when to pull it off.”

Their laughter is crude, slick with rot. A shared language of power and perversion.

I stay quiet.

Because while they’re talking about flesh, I’m watching her soul crack.

While they’re laughing about who to fuck—I’m planning who to ruin.

And when it’s my turn?

It won’t be about chasing.

It’ll be about ending.

Clean.

Final.

Permanent.

So when I finally leave her behind—used, broken, forgotten—there’ll be nothing left of the girl who thought she was untouchable.

Only a story.

One no one will believe.

I sink deeper into the shadows of my booth, the city’s elite groveling beneath us. Champagne sparkles. The bass keeps pulsing.

Another night.

Another sacrifice waiting to be made.

And this time?

It’s her.

Lana slips through the crowd like she’s trying not to be noticed.

Too late.

That uniform still hugs her waist like it’s begging to be torn off. Her mouth’s drawn in a hard line, her tray clutched too tightly. The walk is fast. Defensive. She’s not gliding tonight—she’s surviving.

She stops at my table without meeting my eyes.

“Another whiskey, sir?” she asks, voice clipped, eyes locked on the glass like it might save her.

I let the silence stretch.

Then I smile.

“That’s not how you said my name last night.”

Her jaw tightens.

“I must’ve misheard,” I add, all quiet amusement.

Her eyes flash to mine, sharp and furious. “That was a mistake.”

I lean back, arms loose across the booth. “Was it?”

She swallows hard.

“Because it didn’t feel like one when your legs were shaking.”

Her cheeks flush—rage or shame, it doesn’t matter. It’s all heat.

“I was drunk.”

“No,” I murmur. “You were wet.”

She flinches.

Good.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you came on my fingers,” I say, low and smug. “So what does that make you?”

She sets the whiskey down harder than necessary. It sloshes over the rim. She doesn’t apologize.

“You done?”

“Hardly.”

Her mouth twitches like she wants to slap me—or kiss me just to spite herself.

She tries to collect herself. Straightens her shoulders. “I have a boyfriend.”

I hum. “Do you?”

She glares. “You know I do.”

I sip the drink she just poured me. “If you say so.”

She stiffens. “He’s good to me.”

I don’t respond.

I just watch her.

Let the silence do the work.

Because we both know what happened in that car.

How her thighs parted when she swore they wouldn’t. How her breath hitched when I told her to keep her eyes on mine. How she whispered Nathan like it was a confession.

And she hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

Neither have I.

But only one of us is ashamed.

“You think you know me,” she says suddenly, biting the words out. “You don’t.”

“I know how you taste.”

Her eyes go wide. Furious. Humiliated.

“You think that makes you special?”

“No,” I say, smile slow and cruel. “I think it makes you mine.”

That breaks something. Just for a second. Her shoulders rise. Her chest tightens.

She’s spiraling—and trying not to show it.

“I’m not some toy for you to play with when you’re bored.”

“No,” I murmur. “You’re something I’ll break when I’m focused.”

She steps back. That tray’s shaking now. Her hand grips it like a shield.

“I should get back to work,” she snaps.

I nod. “You should.”

She turns to leave, spine rigid.

But just before she disappears into the crowd, I add, softly—

“Tell him I said hello.”

She stops cold.

Doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t breathe.

Then she keeps walking.

Faster now.

Rattled.

And I watch her go, the same smug smile pulling at my mouth. Because I don’t have to touch her again tonight.

I already did.

And now she can’t stop feeling it.

The hours melt into heat and static—bass, perfume, bodies, whispers. Vortex hums like a living mouth, always open, always hungry.

I lean back in my booth and watch it all decay. Velvet seats. Golden lights. Plastic smiles stretched across overfilled lips. Women circling the VIP section like they’re auditioning for ownership.

But I’m not looking at them.

I’m looking at her.

Lana.

She moves like she’s trying not to be affected, but her body betrays her. That tray? Gripped too tight. That mouth? Set too firm. She’s wearing the same uniform she always does—black dress, hair pinned—but tonight, it’s personal.

Tonight, she’s angry.

And I know exactly why.

I rise. Adjust my jacket. The ache in my cock hasn’t eased since she walked in, and every step toward her makes it worse. No one dares stop me. They can feel it—the shift in the air, the way power coils tighter when it’s about to strike.

She turns just before I reach her.

Of course she does.

She always senses me first.

Her eyes lock with mine, and I watch the tension hit her spine. Subtle. Controlled. But her fingers dig into the edge of the tray.

She’s bracing.

“Lana.”

Her name leaves my mouth like a promise I’ve already broken.

She swallows it like a curse. “Mr. Cross.”

I let that hang for a beat.

Then step in closer.

“Formality,” I say, voice low, “doesn’t suit you.”

Her throat tightens, but she lifts her chin. “I’m working.”

“So am I.”

That makes her falter—just enough to satisfy.

“What can I get you?” she asks, quick. Too quick. A pivot to safety.

“Two fingers.”

I smirk. Hold up two fingers—index and middle—and curl them slowly, deliberately, like I’m already deep inside her, stroking the spot that makes her legs shake.

She freezes.

Good.

“Neat,” I add, voice dipped in amusement.

She busies herself with the bottle. Pours. Steadies. But the liquid trembles as she sets the glass down. I don’t miss it.

Neither does she.

I reach out, let my fingers brush the rim—slow, deliberate. “You always this shaky with your hands?”

Her jaw ticks. “Maybe I just don’t like the company.”

“But your body remembers it.”

Her breath hitches.

Victory.

“You’re flushed,” I say softly. “Didn’t peg you for shy.”

“I’m not.”

“Then maybe it’s anticipation.”

She stares at me, furious, gorgeous. The kind of woman who would rather bite her own tongue off than admit I’m right.

“I don’t play games,” she snaps.

“You already did,” I say. “And you lost.”

Her chest rises. Sharp. Fast. Her eyes spark—but there’s no comeback. Not tonight. Just rage and guilt and want braided into silence.

“You think this makes you clever?” she spits.

“No. Just patient.”

She glares.

I lean in. Close enough for her to feel the heat of me.

“You’re pretending to be unaffected,” I murmur. “But I know what you look like when you forget to lie.”

That lands.

Hard.

She grips the tray like she might throw it at me. Or herself.

Instead, she says through her teeth, “I have tables.”

“Then you better hurry,” I reply, brushing two fingers over the bar before stepping back. “Before they start to notice the way you’re shaking.”

She doesn’t answer.

She just walks.

But her back is too straight. Her stride too stiff. Every step is punishment.

And I watch her go, fire curling under my skin.

Because she’s already burning.

And she’ll never put it out.

She doesn’t see me watching her.

Not when she slips behind the bar. Not when she pours drinks like she’s punishing them for existing. Not when she pretends she isn’t unraveling with every step she takes away from me.

But I see everything.

The tight grip on the tray. The way her jaw clenches when someone mentions my name. The fact that she hasn’t looked at me all night.

Because she knows if she does?

She’ll feel it again.

That heat.

That shame.

That ache.

She disappears down the hallway toward the staff room. Her posture shifts the second she thinks no one’s watching—shoulders dropping like she’s finally allowed to exhale.

She thinks she’s safe.

She couldn’t be more wrong.

I follow.

Each step driven by the throbbing pulse in my cock—the one she put there. The one she’s done nothing to fix.

She reaches for the staff room door.

“Lana.”

She freezes.

Then turns.

Her eyes widen, and I see it—the panic, the fire, the fury. All of it wrapped up in one perfect look.

“Mr. Cross,” she says, voice stiff. Defensive.

“Try again.”

Her breath catches.

“…Nathan.”

Better.

I close the distance and back her into the wall. My hands plant on either side of her head, caging her in. She doesn’t flinch.

But her body’s vibrating. Rage. Heat. Want.

“I shouldn’t let you do this,” she snaps.

“Then stop me.”

She opens her mouth—closes it. Her breath is shallow, her cheeks flushed.

I lean in, voice a low growl. “You’re already thinking about it.”

She snarls. “Fuck you.”

I grin. “You already tried, sweetheart.”

She hits my chest—not hard, not enough.

I grab her hand and gently place it on my hard-on.

“I shouldn’t want this,” she says, biting every word like it offends her. “But goddamn you, I do.”

I can feel her hand gently move and then squeeze.

That’s all I need.

I crash my mouth against hers.

Hard. Dirty. All tongue and teeth and heat. She moans into it—furious, desperate, helpless. Her hands claw at my jacket like she wants to tear it open or shove me away.

She doesn’t.

She pulls me in.

My thigh wedges between hers, grinding up against the heat soaking through her panties. She gasps.

I drag my hand down her side, anchor it at her hip, and slide up her dress.

“You’re soaked.”

“Shut up.”

My palm finds her panties, slick, soaked.

“Say it.”

She growls against my mouth. “You’re such a bastard.”

“And you love it.”

“I hate it.”

“You’re trembling.”

“Because I’m angry—”

“No,” I murmur, my mouth brushing hers, “because you’re aching.”

She slams her head back against the wall and exhales like she’s about to combust.

“I want to slap you.”

“You can,” I whisper. “After you come.”

Her hips buck. Just once.

And I feel it—everything in her cracking open.

“I’m not yours,” she says.

“Yet.”

I kiss her again, deeper. My fingers press exactly where she needs them through lace. She’s grinding now, shameless, breath ragged.

“You want me to stop?” I ask, lips at her throat.

She doesn’t answer.

I bite her collarbone. Not hard. Just enough.

“You want me to stop?”

She chokes out, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

God, she’s gorgeous like this—unraveled, unfiltered, filthy.

My hand slips beneath her panties. Two fingers slide into her, and her body clenches like she’s starving for it.

“You came on these last time,” I say, pushing in slow. “You will again.”

She bites her lip so hard I think she might bleed.

“Say it,” I growl.

Her head lolls back, eyes glazed.

“Say you want it.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Say it.”

“I want it.”

I curl my fingers.

She breaks.

Comes on my hand with a sound I want burned into my memory. Quiet. Guttural. Furious.

I hold her there. Pressed against the wall, panting, thighs shaking, sweat dotting her lip.

When I finally pull my hand free, I pull my fingers to my mouth to taste her.

Fucking exquisite.

She doesn’t move.

Still pinned against the wall, breath shallow, eyes wild. Her dress is wrinkled, her thighs are still trembling, her lips slick with the aftershocks of everything I just did to her.

I lean in and kiss her one last time—slow, deliberate, tasting the last of her pride.

Then I step back.

“I’ll see you out there.”

For a second, she just stares at me—cheeks flushed, chest rising, pupils blown wide.

And then she hauls off and slaps me.

Hard.

The sound cracks through the hallway like a gunshot. My head whips to the side, cheek stinging, mouth split into a grin before I can stop it.

The room levels.

I taste blood.

Not from her slap. From the smile I can’t keep off my face.

And for the first time in years,

I want something I can’t buy.

I want her to do it again.

Because fuck—

She slapped me.

She slapped me.

And it turns me on so fast it nearly brings me to my knees.

I turn back to her slowly, cheek still tingling where her skin met mine. My smile is all teeth now—wicked, dark, stunned by just how much she’s becoming.

Her eyes are shining with fury. Her mouth quivers with restraint. She looks like she wants to scream. Or cry. Or tear the fucking building down around us.

But instead?

She smooths her dress.

Tucks her hair back.

And walks away.

Just like that.

Like I didn’t just have her pinned to the wall, two fingers buried deep, her orgasm pulsing against my wrist.

She walks away like she’s the one in control.

Like I’m the one left shaking.

And for the first time in a long fucking time—

I am.

My cock is rock hard, my breath uneven, my cheek still burning from the slap I didn’t see coming.

And all I can think is:

She’s going to ruin me.

And I’m going to let her.

I find Elliot in the lounge, exactly where he always is—two girls deep in his lap, high on attention and low on substance.

He’s laughing at something stupid when he sees me approaching.

Then he stops.

I slide into the booth beside him without invitation. Without preamble.

“Lana Reyes,” I say.

He blinks. “Jesus, no warm-up?”

“I’m not here to flirt.”

He waves off the girls with a flick of his hand. They scatter, well-trained.

Elliot leans in. “What about her?”

“I want her as the next feature.”

That pulls a sound from his throat—half-laugh, half-shock. “You’re nominating her?”

“No,” I say flatly. “I’m claiming her.”

He’s quiet now, eyes locked on mine. “You’re going for the Black Room.”

“Yes.”

“And which key?”

I let the silence hang a second. Then:

“Key One.”

He goes still. Like the room just dropped five degrees.

“Jesus Christ, Nathan,” he mutters, leaning back. “That’s a fucking moonshot.”

“I’m not gambling.”

“Every man in the Society who’s tried to win with Key One has lost—and that was with girls who were trained, ready, already halfway broken.” He studies me. “You’re talking about Lana Reyes. NYU law. Works doubles to pay her tuition. Keeps a fucking notebook in her apron. You want to put her in the room and take the first key?”

I swirl the scotch in my glass. “She won’t make it past me.”

The Society doesn’t pick p**n stars or professionals. They pick women with potential. Fire. Resistance.

Because the goal isn’t to play with them.

It’s to break them.

The men bet on which key will be the last.

But no one bets on One.

Because no one ever wins with One.

They call it the Widow-maker.

Because every man who’s tried to win with Key One ends up obsessed, bankrupt, or dead.

Until now.

Elliot shakes his head. “Why?”

“Because she slapped me.”

He blinks. “That’s your criteria?”

“She came for me. Then hit me. Then walked away like it meant nothing.” I stare straight ahead. “She thinks she still has power.”

“And you want to take it.”

“I want to annihilate it.”

“She works here.”

“She won’t after this.”

Elliot leans back. “Okay. Say the committee approves her. Say she accepts the feature contract. Say we prepare the NDA, get the cheque ready. You still have to convince her to say yes. And that? That’s the real problem.”

“No. That’s your problem.”

His brow lifts.

“I want the feature for my birthday,” I say coolly. “And I want you to convince her.”

He stares at me. “Me?”

“You’re the soft one. The charming one. She doesn’t know who you are. Use that.” I sip my drink. “Appeal to her desperation. Her debt. Her pride.”

“You want me to lure her?”

“I want you to sell salvation.”

He laughs—dry and nervous. “Nathan, this is different. This girl isn’t like the others.”

“Exactly.”

“And you really think she’ll agree?”

“She has a sick mother. She’s behind on tuition. Working doubles to keep a roof over her head.” I meet his eyes. “She’s already bleeding. All we have to do is show her where the bandage is.”

“And when she signs?”

“Then she’s mine.” I stand, straightening my jacket. “Key One. No co-play. Full discretion. Door sealed.”

Elliot watches me go. “If she makes it through the hour—”

“She won’t.”

“And if she does?”

I glance back over my shoulder, smirk curling.

“I’ll drag her back in and start over.”

I still watching her, studying her.

She moves like nothing happened.

Like I didn’t have her pinned to the wall an hour ago, her dress rucked up, my fingers buried deep while her breath caught like it didn’t know whether to moan or scream.

Now she glides through the club with her tray balanced, posture perfect, lips pressed in that familiar hard line.

Like she’s in control.

It’s cute.

From the booth, I watch her scan drink orders, correct a bartender, collect glasses. She smiles once—fake and forced—for a pair of finance assholes who wouldn’t know what to do with her if she came gift-wrapped in fuck-me heels and a signed NDA.

Her hands don’t shake.

But her eyes keep drifting to where I sit.

And snapping away too fast.

Like looking at me burns.

Like she’s afraid she’ll give herself away.

She already has.

I chose Elliot for a reason.

He’s not subtle. He never has been. He’ll push too fast, talk too loud, circle too close. He’ll offer her everything—money, attention, power—and she’ll feel the trap. She’ll smell it.

She’ll run.

But not far.

Because by the time Elliot starts blundering through his pitch, making her skin crawl, she’ll already be looking for an exit.

And I’ll be standing there, arms open, voice low.

The safer monster.

The one who listens. Who waits.

The one who already knows how she tastes when she breaks.

Let Elliot play the wolf at the door.

I’m the one who laid the foundation, who took the hinges off without her ever noticing.

She’s not falling for him.

She’s falling into me.

And when she does?

I’m not sure I’ll let her crawl back out.