Excess

Nathan Cross

I straighten my cuffs slowly. Precisely.

Bespoke linen, sharp against skin that doesn’t feel much anymore. Every movement is controlled. Ritual. The illusion of humanity, stitched into seams and silence.

The floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the penthouse like a velvet curtain torn wide. Below me, Manhattan glows like a crime scene—gaudy, throbbing, drunk on its own decadence.

My kingdom of rot.

I don’t see people.

I see pawns. Placements. Flesh-wrapped ambition dressed in borrowed power. All of them clinging to relevance like it’s oxygen.

Behind me, the air thickens—Tom Ford and sin. Smoke curling like whispers from the Devil’s mouth.

Julian steps in, glass in hand, smile sharp enough to wound. “Bored already?”

His voice is velvet dipped in poison. The kind that undresses women and makes kings kneel without understanding why.

“These people are fucking cattle,” I say, eyes never leaving the glass. “Drunk on their own reflections. Every one of them bought and bred to kneel.”

Julian chuckles, deep and amused. “You always were a romantic.”

I finally turn.

The room pulses with desperation. Gold chandeliers throw light across the rot—models half-coked, tech founders pretending not to stare at barely legal dancers. Girls in couture too tight to breathe, too desperate to care. They orbit me—hope in heels.

I scan their faces.

Perfect cheekbones. Overfilled lips. Eyes wide with hunger.

I imagine ruining them by category—bending the redhead over the balcony rail until she sobs. Forcing the brunette to gag until her makeup runs like ink down her face.

They want it.

They just don’t know how far I’ll take them.

“Cross.”

The voice slices through the din.

Senator Thompson.

He approaches like he’s relevant. Smile tight. Drink full. His skin gleams with effort—fake tan, bleached teeth, borrowed dignity.

“Senator,” I say, smooth. Controlled. “How’s your wife enjoying her new role on the Appropriations Committee?”

His face twitches.

Not fear.

Awareness.

The kind that comes from knowing who owns your secrets.

“She’s thrilled,” he says too fast. “A real honor. Of course, your support—”

I wave a hand. “You earned it.”

We both know that’s bullshit.

I bought her seat like I’d buy cattle. Because he owes me. Because I have him—video, wire, receipts. One leak and his career turns to ash.

His knuckles tighten on his glass. I smile.

“Do enjoy the party,” I murmur, then lean in. “She looks lovely tonight. Pale pink suits her.”

He nods stiffly and disappears like a trained dog, tail tucked, leash invisible.

Julian sips. “Still housebreaking senators, I see.”

“Old habits.”

Before I can turn, another parasite slithers up.

Langston. Hedge fund clown. Always sweating, always smiling. The kind of man who fucks spreadsheets and mistakes debt for dominance.

“Nathan,” he says, gripping my hand. “There’s a biotech out of Berlin—CRISPR-adjacent, very hush hush—”

I stare at him until he starts to drown in his own sweat.

He doesn’t get it. They never do.

I could ruin his fund in a day. Could buy it, burn it, and force him to thank me for the privilege.

“Email it,” I say, deadpan. “I don’t talk business at the trough.”

He laughs like I’m joking.

I’m not.

He scurries off. Julian raises his glass. “You’re in rare form.”

“I’m starving.”

I scan the room again.

Nothing worth the effort.

I’d break every one of them in half and forget their names before dawn.

Julian lifts his drink toward a blonde. She preens, sucking in her gut like penance.

“She’s got the bones,” he muses. “Might scream nicely.”

“She’s already screaming on the inside,” I mutter. “They all are.”

His grin widens. “We could fix that.”

We toast to it—our kind of brotherhood. Born in blood and champagne in a Harvard basement. Shaped by ritual, sharpened by silence. The Dominion Society didn’t mold us. It unshackled us.

Julian and I learned early: power isn’t taken.

It’s given. Willingly. Desperately.

“Speaking of,” he says, nodding toward the bar. “Pick one. Or two. I’m in the mood for something messy.”

“Me too,” I say, flat.

We move through the room like wolves among show ponies. Suits cut sharp. Glasses half-full. A drunk socialite bumps into me, tits first, heels wobbling.

“Fuck me like I’m nothing,” she breathes.

I give her a flat look. “That’s the only way I fuck.”

She clings for a second too long. I peel her off with two fingers like lint from my lapel.

Julian chuckles, sipping his scotch like the world’s a comedy written just for us.

“These events used to entertain,” he says, bored. “Now it’s just the same pussy in new packaging.”

I scan the crowd. Identical hair. Identical curves. Identical desperation. They don’t want sex.

They want access.

Julian’s scotch swirls lazily. “Christ, you look half-dead. You need something new. Go slumming—find a different cut of meat.”

I almost laugh.

But then she’s there.

Not in the room.

In my head.

Dark eyes. A full mouth. A tongue made for sin—and sharper things.

Lana Reyes.

Cocktail server at Vortex. NYU law student with a superiority complex and no sense of self-preservation. Twenty-three. Reckless. Walks like the floor owes her rent.

She doesn’t fawn. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t flirt.

That makes me hard.

“She’s not like them,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

Julian glances over. “What?”

I wave him off. “Nothing.”

Because she isn’t.

She doesn’t pander—she resists. Doesn’t soften—she cuts. Looks me in the eye and spits “sir” like it’s venom. And every time, I imagine her voice breaking from screaming it, wrecked and ruined.

She’s a fucking problem.

And I want to solve her.

She’s young. Cocky. Still believes resistance is power.

She doesn’t know the rules yet.

But I do.

Which makes her perfect.

I take a slow sip. The scotch tastes like foreplay now. Like blood in the water.

She’s mine to break. Mine to own.

No one knows.

Not Julian.

Not Elliot.

Not yet.

And I like it that way.

I’ve ruined women for less—eye contact, silence, curiosity dressed up as courage.

But this one?

This one fuels me.

She’s the fucking hunt.

And I’m starving.

Julian’s laugh drips across the terrace like smoke. He’s already tangled with some heiress too drunk to realize she’s been chosen.

Julian Blackwood.

My oldest friend. My only equal. The first man I met who didn’t blink.

We met at Harvard—two wolves in suits, circling each other with blood in our teeth. We rushed the same frat, bled in the same rituals, built empires between court briefs and lines of coke.

Julian didn’t just match me. He mirrored me.

That’s why I trust him.

Almost.

We weren’t friends. We were forged. Oath-bound by power older than money and twice as cruel.

Julian’s the closest thing I have to a brother.

But even he doesn’t know about her.

Not yet.

And he won’t.

Not until I’m done.

Until she’s on her knees.

Or out of my system.

Whichever comes first.

The party thins, rot rising. What’s left reeks of cologne, ambition, and the kind of desperation you can taste.

Still—she’s all I’m thinking about.

That mouth. That fire. That challenge in her stare.

Tonight, I drink.

Tomorrow?

I hunt.

Julian leans in, voice low. “Let’s find something to fuck before this place flatlines.”

I scan the room. Flesh everywhere. Gowns clinging to ribs. Lips too swollen to be real. Bodies built to be used and discarded.

A blonde catches his eye—tall, vacant, eager. Sucking the rim of her glass like it’ll whisper secrets.

Julian nods toward her. “That one. She’ll say yes before we speak.”

“She’d say yes if we spat on her,” I mutter.

Julian grins. “Even better.”

We move. She sees us and straightens instantly, sucking in her stomach, parting her lips like an open invitation.

“Come with us,” Julian says—not a question, not a command. Just truth.

She hesitates a beat. Long enough for her dignity to twitch. Then it dies.

She nods.

We don’t wait.

The limo slides through Manhattan like it owns the streets—black, sleek, and impervious. It doesn’t stop for red lights or regret.

Inside, Julian pours scotch from the minibar, his grin all appetite and wreckage.

The blonde presses herself against me. Perfume too sweet. Touch too practiced. Her fingers crawl up my thigh like she’s trying to buy time with her hands.

I let her.

But she doesn’t register.

Julian watches me with mild amusement, swirling his glass. “You need something with bite. You’ve been chewing on soft for too long.”

I don’t argue.

Because he’s right.

The blonde giggles at nothing. Mid-twenties, maybe. All polish, no weight. Skin like glass. Brain like air.

She leans in, lips grazing my ear. “You gonna let me be bad tonight?”

I stare through her.

Out the window.

Past the city’s lights. Past the noise. Past every meaningless moan I’ve already forgotten.

Julian raises a brow. “That a no?”

I pour myself a drink. Ice clicks like a countdown.

“It’s a waste.”

He chuckles. Low. Cruel. “You’re insufferable when you’re starving.”

I smile—slow and surgical. “I’m not starving.”

“No?”

I take a sip. “I’m hunting.”

That shuts him up.

The blonde keeps touching me. Let her. She’ll be stripped, used, and gone before she even realizes she was never seen.

The limo slows.

We pull up to a building tucked between two designer storefronts—anonymous concrete and shadow. No name. No entry code. Just permission.

Julian downs the rest of his scotch and straightens his jacket like armor.

He’s not dressing for fun.

Neither am I.

Because what waits beneath this building isn’t a party.

It’s a purge.

The elevator greets us—black marble, no buttons, no numbers. Just mirrored steel reflecting what we pretend to be.

It opens.

We step inside.

We descend.

Because men like us don’t rise.

We drag the world down with us.

The doors slide open.

Not into a room.

Into a different fucking reality.

Private floor. Gold lighting, low and deliberate. The air is thick—cigars, perfume, sex, secrets. The marble radiates heat. The music throbs, slow and obscene—less sound, more warning.

This place doesn’t welcome.

It consumes.

We step inside like gods returning to our underworld—unapologetic and unchallenged.

And somewhere, on the other side of the city, a girl with fire in her eyes and no clue she’s already been chosen... pours drinks and mouths off like the wolves haven’t noticed her yet.

But we have.

And I’m going to be the one who bites first.

Bodies writhe in corners, blurred by shadow and sin. Dresses bunched around waists. Shirts open, zippers down. Every groan, every gasp, every whispered safe word—or brutal silence—is caught by ECHO. Cameras hidden in sconces. Microphones buried in stone. The Dominion Society doesn’t ask for consent.

It collects obedience.

Elliot’s already here. Shirt unbuttoned, tie discarded, a redhead grinding slow in his lap like she knows it’s being recorded and hopes she’ll make the highlight reel. He raises his glass when he sees us, grin all teeth and venom.

“Finally,” he calls. “I was about to bleed the virgin myself.”

Julian smirks. “Try not to ruin the rug this time.”

“No promises,” Elliot says, tossing back his drink.

Elliot Harrington is the distraction we let the world gawk at—obnoxious, indulgent, utterly disposable. His father built an empire. Elliot pisses on it nightly with champagne and other people’s daughters. He’s our smokescreen. When violence needs a face, he offers his with a smile.

Julian and I shrug off our coats. Hands take them—anonymous, well-trained. The blonde trails behind us, eyes wide, steps a beat too careful. She doesn’t belong, and she knows it.

Julian picked her. Told her to follow.

She obeyed.

Now she’s here, trying to pretend her thighs aren’t shaking, brushing against my arm like proximity might earn her value.

It won’t.

She’s already been cataloged: replaceable.

Near the bar, two women are bound to a mirrored table. Red rope bites into skin. One cries. The other comes. A man films from behind, camera steady.

Not for pleasure.

For leverage.

“Nathan…” the blonde whispers. “I’ve never—this is…”

I don’t look at her. “Of course you haven’t. This isn’t for people like you.”

She flinches. But she stays.

They always stay.

Julian chuckles under his breath. “Still dragging strays into the fire?”

“She’s your fucking stray.”

“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head, eyes on her trembling spine. “But she’s sniffing around you.”

She’s back at my side, drink untouched, trying to act composed while her nerves tremble through her skin.

“Teach me,” she says quietly. “I want to know everything.”

I grip her jaw. Tilt her face up. Her pulse flutters beneath porcelain skin.

“Be careful what you beg for,” I murmur. “Some knowledge doesn’t set you free. It ruins you.”

Then I release her.

She’s not here to learn.

She’s here to be watched.

She doesn’t know the difference yet.

But she will.

I take in the room—the wet slap of flesh, the panting, the performance. But my mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere across the city, a cocktail server with fire in her eyes and no idea who’s watching is pouring drinks like she owns the bar.

Lana Reyes.

I’m not hard because of the girl beside me.

I’m hard because of the one who resists me.

Not because I want to fuck her.

Because I want to undo her.

And the moment she gives me an inch?

I’ll take everything.

A few feet away, some hedge fund degenerate snorts coke off a woman’s stomach. Her body is all silicone and symmetry, her laugh hollow and practiced. He licks the powder from her navel like it’s caviar, pupils blown, jaw grinding.

Then he sees me.

Recognition flares.

And dies.

He looks away.

They all do.

My attention slides to Senator Thompson—yes, that Senator Thompson. Hours ago, he smiled and shook my hand like we didn’t share decades of threats dressed as favors.

Now? He’s sprawled on a velvet chaise, flushed and frantic, face buried between the legs of a Society-kept rent-boy like he’s starving.

Sweat drips. The boy moans. The senator clutches and claws like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

It’s not pleasure.

It’s evidence.

He senses me before he sees me. His head jerks up.

Our eyes lock.

Panic.

Immediate. Primal.

He stares, mouth working for a sentence he’ll never finish.

I give him nothing.

No smirk. No nod.

Just the cold stare of a man who already owns the footage—and knows exactly when to use it.

Let him sweat. Let him pretend he still has options. Let him call himself a good man in the mirror tomorrow morning.

ECHO caught it all.

Every thrust. Every moan. Every whisper he’ll beg me not to repeat.

Because no leash is tighter than one made of secrets.

Julian slides in beside me, sipping whiskey like it’s sacrament. His eyes scan the room—half-bored, half-calculating.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “They think they’re free.”

“Freedom is perception,” I say flatly. “We don’t control them. We just control the limits of the world they’re allowed to exist in.”

Julian grins, slow and hungry. “And with ECHO recording every filthy second, we’ll own them long after they’re dust.”

Footsteps stagger closer. Elliot emerges from the haze, shirt open, tie long gone, lipstick smudged across his throat like a signature. The redhead from earlier clings to his arm, glassy-eyed and giggling.

He looks like a king in his own padded cell.

“Gentlemen,” he slurs, grinning. “This is fucking perfect.”

He drops into the chair opposite, dragging the girl into his lap like a prize he’s already tired of unwrapping. She squeals, legs splayed, tits half-out, mascara running down both cheeks.

“You’re late,” Julian says, raising a brow. “What’d you do, get lost in a twink’s colon?”

Elliot cackles, unbothered. “Please. I don’t get lost—I redecorate.”

Julian laughs, deep and sharp. “Bet his walls are still echoing.”

“Should be thanking me,” Elliot adds, stroking the redhead’s hair like a pet. “Most men go their whole lives without being split open by something worth remembering.”

I say nothing.

Because the show’s predictable.

The rot, rehearsed.

Elliot lights a cigarette with the same hand that’s still wet from whoever he ruined ten minutes ago. His grin is wide, empty.

Julian smirks and raises his glass. “To compliant bodies and compromised souls.”

Elliot toasts with him. “And to the kind of depravity that needs a nondisclosure.”

I drink.

Not to them.

Not to this.

To the girl across the city who doesn’t belong in this world.

Yet.

But she will.

And when she does?

She’ll crawl just like the rest.

Except when I make her fall—she’ll know it wasn’t an accident.

My attention sharpens like a blade drawn slow.

Julian’s little blonde accessory has stopped pretending she belongs here. Frozen. Eyes wide, mouth parted, breath shallow and uneven. She’s trying not to look—at the ropes, the restraints, the raw skin, the bodies coming apart in real time.

Her thighs press together like she’s holding in something sacred.

She’s horrified.

She’s wet.

Perfect.

She should be.

She stepped into the lion’s den in borrowed heels, with no idea which mouth bites first.

ECHO watches from the walls—cold, constant. Every moan, every gasp, every humiliation etched into digital permanence. There is no consent here. No safety.

Just exposure.

Just ruin.

I press my palm to the small of her back—firm, claiming. Property.

She jolts at the contact, spine stiffening.

But she doesn’t move away.

Smart.

Or stupid.

Same fucking thing.

Julian and Elliot trail behind, all tailored malice and glinting teeth. We’ve danced this routine a hundred times—different girls, same finish. The choreography never changes.

We cut through silk-draped shadow and settle into a velvet alcove, dim and hidden but not private. Nothing in this place is private. The watchers see everything. That’s the point.

I stop walking.

She hesitates.

“Sit,” I say.

She obeys like she’s trained. Drops onto the chaise like it’s going to eat her alive.

Good.

It should.

Julian lowers himself into a nearby armchair with the leisure of a man who expects to be entertained. Elliot throws his empty glass somewhere dark, somewhere distant. Doesn’t even look where it lands.

The blonde fidgets. Knees drawn tight. Chin tucked.

As if shame can save her.

It won’t.

Her hands tremble against the crushed velvet. She’s not afraid of what she wants. She’s afraid because—somewhere in the back of her throat—she knows she doesn’t fucking matter.

I kneel in front of her, slow, deliberate. My hands rest on her knees, a grip disguised as gentleness.

“What’s your name?” I ask, voice low and smooth as silk dragged across broken glass.

“Victoria,” she whispers, like it’s something worth remembering.

I smile. Cruel. Detached.

“No,” I murmur. “Not tonight.”

Confusion stutters across her features.

I tilt my head, studying her.

“Tonight, your name is Lana.”

Her brows twitch. She doesn’t know the name.

Doesn’t need to.

But she nods anyway.

Of course she does.

Just another body. A mouth. A hollow thing with pretty packaging. A stand-in for the one I actually want.

“Say it.”

“I’m… Lana,” she whispers.

Julian chokes on his scotch. “Jesus, Nathan. Still projecting?”

I ignore him. I’m already halfway to violence.

My hands slide up her thighs, slow and possessive, fingers pressing into skin that trembles too easily.

She’s wet.

Predictable.

“Now, Lana,” I growl. “Show me why you were invited.”

She hesitates.

Wrong move.

My hand clamps down, bruising her thigh.

“I said show me.”

She scrambles—heels scraping, hands fumbling, dress yanked up in jagged panic. She peels away her straps like she’s afraid I’ll punish her for delay.

She should be.

Lace hits the floor. Skin follows. She’s stripped down to fear and vanity, standing in nothing but stilettos and uncertainty.

Julian leans forward, eyes gleaming like a wolf at feeding time.

“She’s got decent tits,” he muses. “Wasted on someone this soft.”

“On your knees,” I snap.

She drops fast. Palms flat. Eyes wide. She’s trying.

But trying means nothing here.

I unzip slowly. Step closer. My hand knots in her hair—too clean, too soft, not earned.

“You know what to do.”

She nods. Mouth parts.

She’s done this before.

Thinks she’s good at it.

She isn’t.

Her lips close around me—slow, careful, practiced. A blowjob by numbers.

I don’t thrust.

I use her.

I grip the back of her head and move her how I want, her throat tightening with each push, tears sliding down her cheeks as she tries to keep up.

It’s not about pleasure.

It’s about power.

Julian watches, amused. Elliot’s already got the redhead’s head in his lap and his belt undone.

“Fuck,” Elliot laughs. “We should host more often.”

Julian raises his glass again. “You always did like the compliant ones, Nathan.”

I don’t answer. I’m not here.

Because this isn’t her.

This isn’t Lana.

There’s no defiance. No fire. Just a wet mouth on autopilot.

I grab her hair tighter. “Let them watch,” I snarl. “Make them jealous.”

She moans like she thinks it’s working.

It’s not.

She’s not her.

So I pull her off suddenly—rough, unapologetic. Her face is flushed, spit-slicked, red. She gasps, stunned.

I grip her chin.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” I hiss. “But you’re boring me.”

Tears pool. She blinks fast, trying not to let them fall.

Julian chuckles. “You going soft, Cross?”

“No,” I say, quiet and flat. “Just sick of pretending a warm mouth makes a woman worth anything.”

And all I can think is:

Lana would’ve choked just to spit me back in my own lap.

And I would’ve fucking loved it.

“Now.”

One word. Sharp as a gunshot. Cold as execution.

The air shifts. The room doesn’t go quiet—it submits. Even the music dulls, like the bass knows better than to interrupt.

The blonde looks up at me, eyes wide and glossy. She doesn’t know what’s coming. But some animal instinct in her spine is already screaming.

Run.

But it’s too late for that.

“You’re going to show Julian and Elliot what obedience looks like,” I say, flat and final.

She doesn’t speak. Just nods, tiny and broken. Whatever pride she had didn’t make it past the first act.

I haul her up by the wrist and drag her to them—two men dressed in wealth and violence, lounging like emperors waiting for the sacrifice to start bleeding.

Julian leans forward, all teeth and hunger. Elliot grins, sprawled out with his pants undone, one hand on the redhead’s throat like a leash, the other swirling a half-empty glass.

They look up at her like she’s meat.

She is.

I shove her to her knees in front of Julian.

“She’s shaking,” he murmurs with a lazy smile. “Good. I want to feel it in her throat.”

I step back and watch. Her eyes flick up to me—pleading, searching for mercy.

I nod once.

It’s permission.

It’s the last thing she gets.

She turns to Julian, hands fumbling with his zipper. He watches her like he’s watching a low-budget performance—expecting to be bored. She pulls him free and takes him into her mouth without hesitation now.

Not submission.

Survival.

Julian exhales. “Tighter.” His fingers curl into her hair like reins. “Don’t fake it. Gag.”

She chokes. He groans. Pushes deeper.

She claws at his thighs, mascara already streaking down her cheeks.

“Fuck,” Elliot laughs, watching with drunken glee. “She’s eager. You sure you didn’t pay her first?”

Julian snorts, thrusting slow, punishing. “She looks like she’d pay us.”

The blonde gags again. Julian forces her nose to his skin, holding her there until she panics—eyes watering, arms flailing. Then he lets her up. Just barely.

“Breathe,” he says. “Then start again.”

She obeys, coughing, spit dribbling down her chin.

I watch with no reaction.

It’s not arousing.

It’s pathetic.

A performance without defiance. A hole pretending it’s a challenge.

“Fucking useless,” Julian mutters, shoving her off. “Elliot, she’s all yours.”

Elliot grabs her hair and yanks her toward the couch like dragging a doll. The redhead scrambles off, wide-eyed and smiling, as the blonde is forced onto his lap.

She straddles him, reaching between them. He doesn’t wait—just shoves into her like he’s trying to bruise something.

“Christ,” Elliot grins. “She’s wetter than the pool at my father’s house.”

Julian laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself. That’s fear.”

“She can scream all she wants,” Elliot says, biting at her neck. “Nobody here gives a shit.”

They fuck her like they’re passing around a used toy—no names, no affection, no meaning.

Just bodies. Holes.

I watch the way she moves—trying to be sexy, trying to be wanted. But she’s not. Not really.

She’s nothing.

I step forward as Julian lights a cigarette, watching her like a man staring at roadkill, mildly curious if it’ll twitch again.

She’s straddling Elliot, bouncing on his cock like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the world—skin flushed, tits slick with sweat, mascara dripping down her cheeks in jagged streaks. Her moans are loud, messy, meant to please.

Elliot grins up at her like a drunk king on a broken throne, hands gripping her waist, guiding her rhythm with all the grace of a man who’s never had to ask twice.

Then Julian steps behind her—silent, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes half-lidded with boredom and calculation.

He spits into his hand, drags it down her spine.

And without a word—he thrusts into her ass.

Hard.

No warning. No easing. Just claim.

Her back arches violently, a guttural sound tearing from her throat—not pain, not pleasure—just shock. Elliot only laughs beneath her, still fucking up into her like nothing’s changed.

Julian exhales smoke.

“Jesus, she’s tight,” he mutters, voice flat, amused, like he’s commenting on wine.

They move together—two cocks, one body—driving into her with matched brutality, sweat-slicked skin slapping wet against skin, her body a trembling, twitching thing caught between them.

Not a woman.

Just a vessel.

A receptacle.

She looks up at me.

Eyes wide, lips parted, trying to find something in my face. Approval. Ownership. Purpose.

But I give her none.

Because the moment she opened herself like this—eager, willing, compliant—she stopped being interesting.

Now?

She’s just noise.

Just meat.

And I’m already hard for someone else.

I say nothing.

Just walk towards her, cock in hand.

Her mouth opens before I tell her to. She’s trying to earn approval. Trying to belong.

That’s what kills it.

I slide into her throat and don’t stop until she gags. Her hands clutch my thighs. I hold her head in place, fucking her face like a machine.

It means nothing.

No spark. No resistance. No edge.

Lana would’ve spit me out and dared me to slap her for it.

This one just moans.

I finish in a grunt and pull out, painting her face and lips without warning.

She gasps, dripping, blinking through the mess.

Julian finishes too, spilling across her back with a grunt and a flick of his ash.

“Waste of a dress,” he mutters.

Elliot groans beneath her, still fucking, redhead already crawling back over like a hungry pet waiting for her turn.

The air is thick—moans, sweat, smoke. The stink of submission.

I step back, jaw tight. Breathing hard.

But there’s nothing inside me. No satisfaction. No power.

Just rot.

“Enough,” I say. More to myself than them.

I grab her by the arm—tight, bruising. Yank her mid-thrust off Elliot’s lap. She stumbles, fucked out, dripping, her mouth hanging open like she wants to ask a question.

Maybe she thinks this means something.

Maybe she thinks she mattered.

She’s wrong.

Just like the rest of them.

She sways in her heels, cunt still dripping, face smeared with spit, cum, and the illusion of purpose.

Her mouth hangs open like she wants to ask why.

Why now.

Why her.

Why it suddenly feels like the lights came back on.

Maybe she thinks this meant something.

Maybe she thinks she earned something.

She didn’t.

She’s wrong. Just like the rest of them.

She stands there—naked, flushed, used. Mascara running. Cum on her thighs. Hair tangled from being yanked in three different directions.

Waiting.

Like she thinks I’ll tell her she was good.

Like she thinks I’ll praise her for letting us desecrate her.

I reach over to my pants and pull out my wallet. No rush. No ceremony.

I peel off a stack of hundreds—thick, stiff, impersonal.

I don’t count them. I never do.

Then I throw it in her face.

It slaps her cheek, falls in a fan of green across the floor.

She gasps. Just once. A sharp, shocked breath.

No one else moves.

Not Julian, smoking and bored. Not Elliot, zipping up like he’s done with the toy.

Only her.

She drops to her knees without a word.

Scrambling.

Grabbing.

Crawling.

Her bare tits brush the cold marble as she gathers the bills, one by one, clutching them to her chest like they might clothe her. Her knees squeak against the floor as she moves—like a fucking animal.

Her ass is still red from Julian’s hand. Her thighs still sticky with his cum.

And she’s collecting her pay like it matters.

Like it makes this mean something.

It doesn’t.

She was never invited. She was used.

I watch her work—watch her humiliate herself for scraps, for money, for a moment she thought would make her feel seen.

“You missed one,” Elliot says, nudging a bill toward her with his shoe.

She crawls for it.

Good girl.

“That should cover the dry cleaning,” I say, voice dead. “Take it. Get the fuck out of here.”

She nods fast, like agreement will save her. She grabs her dress, trembling hands holding it against her skin—hands that can’t stop shaking. She covers herself with her arms, as if there’s anything left to hide.

She doesn’t speak.

She knows better.

She turns toward the door, clutching her heels, her dress, the wad of cash like it’s penance.

I glance past her.

Someone will be waiting.

She’ll be handed a clipboard. A nondisclosure agreement. Ironclad. Permanent.

No witnesses.

No memories.

Just evidence.

She’ll sign it.

They always do.

Ink, shame, and silence.

That’s the real currency here.

And she just paid in full.

Julian hums behind me, swirling his drink like he’s enjoying a symphony of suffering. “Now that was art,” he says lazily, amusement bleeding through the bourbon. “You’ve still got that edge, Cross.”

Elliot barks a laugh, smacking my back with a hand slick from god knows what. “Jesus, Nathan. You don’t just fuck them—you erase them.”

I don’t respond.

What would be the point?

Julian stands, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel like he didn’t just fuck a woman into silence. His movements are precise. Unhurried. The kind that demand an audience. The click of his cufflinks—platinum and sin—might as well be a curtain drop.

“I’m bored,” he says, adjusting his collar like a noose. “Fun. Predictable. Forgettable.”

Elliot groans, half-sprawled across the couch, belt unbuckled, shirt clinging with sweat. “You two are fucking demons. Don’t you ever rest?”

Julian grins. All teeth. “Not while there’s blood in the water.”

I’m already reaching for my jacket. Cuffs aligned. Watch fastened. My pulse beats like it’s trying to claw through the leather.

“I need a drink,” I mutter. “Something cold.”

Julian lifts his glass, eyes narrowing. “Or someone.”

I don’t answer.

I don’t have to.

He smirks. “Want me to send over that little server from Vortex? The one with the mouth that looks like it’s tasted knives?”

My jaw ticks. “Touch her wrong?” I murmur. “I plan to.”

Julian laughs low. “Knew it. That one’s fire and fury. I’d pay to watch you bleed.”

“I will,” I say, smoothing my tie with slow finality. “And I’ll savor every fucking drop.”

Because I’m already thinking of her.

Lana.

She doesn’t belong in our world—and she acts like it.

No preening. No performing. No desperate tilt of her hips like she’s selling something.

She glares.

That mouth—wicked and full. Built to argue. Built to choke.

That body—real, imperfect, fucking incendiary. Built to be claimed. Or conquered.

And those eyes. Dark. Defiant. Lit like a fuse I can’t wait to burn through.

She doesn’t flirt. She challenges.

She doesn’t want me.

And that makes me starving.

“I’m stopping by the club,” I say, cool and clipped. “Nightcap.”

Elliot groans like a man who’s overdosed on indulgence. “Jesus, Cross. Even I’m spent.”

“Then stay here,” I snap. “Jerk off to the memory. Or whatever’s left of it.”

Julian chuckles, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Vortex it is. Let’s see if your favorite server can teach you some fucking manners.”

The elevator waits—polished steel and silence. We step in like gods in tailored suits, stepping off the altar and back into war.

Suits sharp. Hands stained. Faces unreadable.

As the doors slide shut, my reflection catches in the mirrored steel.

Stoic.

Polished.

Lying.

Because inside?

I’m already at the club.

Already watching her from the shadows.

Already planning how I’ll tear her apart.