One Night With My Brother’s Worst Enemy

The mask itched.

Vienna Cross stood in the narrow back hallway of The Velvet Room, her bare shoulders pressed against cold concrete, and tried not to throw up.

Six other women lined the wall beside her. Each wore the same thing: black lace lingerie, a silk robe, and a full face masquerade mask in matte black. No names. No identities. No witnesses.

That was the point.

"Last call for lot seven," a bored voice echoed through the speaker overhead.

Vienna's number was seven.

She had pinned the small gold tag to her robe an hour ago, fingers trembling so hard the clasp took four tries. Now the tag felt like a brand. Property. For sale. One night.

Her twin brother, Silas, did not know.

No one knew.

If anyone from her real life found out, the church they grew up in, the hospital where Silas lay sedated after his third surgery, the debt collectors who called twenty times a day, she would lose everything.

But she had already lost everything.

Silas was dying. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just slowly, bone by bone, as the experimental treatments drained their parents' life savings and then hers.

Thirty seven thousand dollars remained on his latest hospital bill.

Thirty seven thousand for one more month of him breathing.

And Vienna had nothing left to sell except herself.

"Lot seven." A handler appeared, a woman in a sharp tuxedo, her own mask silver and expressionless. "Follow me."

Vienna's legs moved before her brain agreed.

The hallway curved. Red velvet walls. Gold sconces. The sound of low music and lower voices bleeding through from the main room. When the handler pushed open a heavy door, Vienna stepped into a private viewing box overlooking a stage.

Below, a crowd of masked men sat in leather chairs, drinks in hand, watching.

On the stage, lot six, a girl Vienna did not recognize, was on her knees. A man in a wolf mask stood behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other wrapped around her throat. Not tight. Just there. A promise.

The girl's eyes were closed. Her mouth was open.

She looked, Vienna thought with a jolt of horrified fascination, happy.

"Your rules are simple," the handler murmured. "You have one safe word. Red. Say it, and everything stops. No questions. No penalties. You will be escorted out and your f*e forfeited."

"My f*e."

"Already wired to the account you provided. Fifty thousand dollars. Half now, half after completion of the night."

Fifty thousand.

More than she needed for Silas's bill. Enough to cover his medication for two more months.

Vienna's throat closed.

"If you walk away now," the handler continued flatly, "you owe nothing. But you also never return."

On the stage, lot six was crying. Soft, helpless sounds that carried through the speakers. The man in the wolf mask whispered something against her ear, and she nodded frantically, her whole body shaking.

She wants it, Vienna realized. She is not pretending.

A strange, hot pulse went through Vienna's lower belly.

She had never felt that before.

Not with her college boyfriend who fumbled in the dark. Not with the two men she had slept with since, both kind, both gentle, both leaving her feeling nothing but relieved when it was over.

She had read about desire. Written it into the journals she hid under her mattress. I want to be held down. I want to be told what to do. I want someone to take control so I do not have to be strong for one single night.

But she had never said it out loud.

Never asked for it.

And now, here, surrounded by strangers in masks, watching a woman sob with pleasure on a velvet lit stage, Vienna understood.

She was not here just for the money.

She was here because she was starving.

"Lot seven," the handler said. "Your buyer has been preselected. He requested you specifically based on your profile. You have the right to decline once you see him. After that, the night proceeds according to his terms."

"What are his terms?"

The handler's masked face tilted. "Hard limits: none. Soft limits: you will discuss them. He has been vetted. He is not cruel. But he is particular."

"Particular how?"

"You will see."

The handler took her elbow. Vienna let herself be guided down a different hallway, away from the stage, away from the crowd, into a private room at the end of a long corridor.

The door was black. Unmarked.

When it opened, Vienna forgot how to breathe.

The room was small. A bed in the center, covered in dark gray sheets. A single armchair in the corner. A table with water, towels, and a velvet box she could not see inside.

And him.

He sat in the armchair, legs crossed, watching her enter.

His mask was different from the others, not black but deep charcoal, with sharp angular lines that made him look like a shadow given form. His body was long and lean under a perfectly tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms crossed over his chest.

He was older. She could tell by his hands, strong, veined, capable, and by the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples.

Forty, maybe. Forty five.

Twice her age.

He did not stand when she entered. Did not speak. Just looked at her with an intensity that made her skin feel too tight.

The door clicked shut behind her.

"Vienna." His voice was low. Rough. Familiar in a way she could not place. "You are even more beautiful than your photograph."

She should have been scared.

She should have said red and run.

Instead, she asked, "You requested me?"

"I requested you." He unfolded from the chair in one fluid movement. He was tall, six two or six three, and when he walked toward her, Vienna had to tilt her head back to keep his masked eyes in view. "I have been waiting for someone like you for a very long time."

"Someone like me?"

"Someone who has never been touched properly." He stopped a foot away. Close enough that she could smell him, cedar and whiskey and something darker underneath. "Someone who says I want to be ruined with her eyes before her mouth ever forms the words."

Vienna's heart slammed against her ribs.

She had not written that in her profile. She had been careful, clinical. Open to exploration. Interested in power exchange. No hard limits.

She had never said ruined.

"How do you know what my eyes say?"

His hand lifted.

Slowly. So slowly she could have stepped back a hundred times.

She did not move.

His knuckles brushed her cheek, feather light, trailing down to her jaw. He did not grip. Did not grab. Just touched like he was memorizing her.

"Because you have not blinked since you saw me," he said. "You have not crossed your arms. You have not looked at the door. Every signal your body is sending says stay." His thumb found the corner of her mouth. Pressed lightly. "So I will ask you once, princess. Do you want to stay?"

Princess.

No one had ever called her that.

The word slid under her skin like a key turning a lock.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then we have rules." His hand dropped. He stepped back, gesturing to the bed. "Sit."

She sat.

He remained standing, looking down at her like she was a puzzle he had already solved.

"Rule one: You will not say my name tonight. You do not know it. You will call me Sir."

"Sir," she repeated.

His eyes, dark, she could see that much through the mask, flickered with something hot. "Good girl."

That pulse between her legs became a throb.

"Rule two: You will tell me exactly what you want. No hints. No shyness. I am not a mind reader, Vienna. If you want my hand around your throat, you will say choke me. If you want me to hurt you, you will say hurt me. If you want me to stop, you will say red. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Rule three." His voice dropped lower. "You will not pretend to enjoy something you do not. I do not want performance. I want you. The messy, desperate, hungry girl you hide from everyone else. Can you give me that?"

Vienna's eyes burned.

No one had ever asked her for the messy part. Everyone wanted her to be strong. To smile. To say I am fine while her brother's bones softened and her bank account emptied and her body forgot what sleep felt like.

"I do not know how," she admitted.

"Then I will teach you." He sat on the edge of the bed, close but not touching. "Start small. Tell me one thing you have never told anyone."

The room was quiet. The music from the main hall was a distant heartbeat.

Vienna looked at her hands.

"I have never had an orgasm."

His expression did not change. "With a partner?"

"Ever."

A long pause.

Then he said, very softly, "Look at me."

She looked.

"By the time I am done with you tonight," he said, "you will have had more than one. And you will cry. And you will beg. And when you wake up tomorrow, you will know exactly what your body is capable of."

Her breath came shallow. "That sounds terrifying."

"It is." He reached out and took her hand. His palm was warm. Rough. "But you came here because terrified is the only thing that makes you feel alive anymore. Am I wrong?"

She shook her head.

"Then take off your robe."

Vienna's fingers moved to the silk belt. Tugged. The robe parted. She let it slide off her shoulders and pool on the bed behind her.

The black lace underneath covered almost nothing.

His gaze traveled down her body slowly. Deliberately. When it reached the juncture of her thighs, he paused.

"You are wet."

It was not a question.

"Yes, Sir."

"From watching the stage?"

The memory of lot six, the tears, the whispers, the hand on her throat, made Vienna's cheeks burn. "Yes."

"Good." He stood suddenly, pulling her up with him. "Turn around. Face the wall. Hands behind your back."

She obeyed.

Her pulse pounded so hard she felt it in her fingertips.

He stepped behind her. His chest did not touch her back. He left an inch of space, just enough that she felt his body heat without contact. His hands found her wrists. He crossed them, held them in one of his, and his other hand settled on her hip.

"Now," he murmured against her ear, "tell me your fantasies, princess."

The words from her profile. The ones she had typed with shaking hands at 2 a.m., half drunk on wine and despair.

I want to be fucked, ruined, choked, and marked until I am a moaning, crying mess, leaking all over the sheets.

But saying it to a screen was different than saying it to him.

"I want." Her voice broke.

"Say it."

"I want to be fucked."

"Hard?"

"Yes."

"Rough?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Tell me the rest." His thumb pressed into her hip bone. "All of it."

Vienna closed her eyes.

"I want to be ruined," she whispered. "Choked. Marked. Until I am a moaning, crying mess, leaking all over."

His hand moved from her hip to her throat.

Not squeezing. Just resting there, his palm warm against her pulse point, his fingers curling around the sides of her neck.

"You are trembling," he observed.

"I am scared."

"Good. Fear makes it better." He squeezed once, brief and firm, just enough to make her gasp, then released. "But I am going to tell you something, Vienna. And I need you to believe it."

"What?"

He turned her around to face him. His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones.

"Nothing you say tonight will make me think less of you. Nothing you want will disgust me. Nothing you need will be too much. Do you understand?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks.

She had not cried in months. Not when the doctor said experimental. Not when the bank said denied. Not when Silas said just let me go, Vi.

But now, with a stranger's hands on her face and a mask hiding his eyes, she cried like a child.

"I understand," she sobbed.

"Good girl." He wiped her tears with his thumbs. "Now. We begin."

He kissed her.

Not soft. Not tentative. His mouth was demanding, his tongue sliding against hers like he owned her already. One hand stayed on her face. The other slid down her back, over the lace, gripping her ass hard enough to bruise.

Vienna moaned into his mouth.

She had never made that sound before.

He pulled back just enough to speak. "That is it. Let me hear you."

He kissed her again, deeper, and his hand moved between her legs, pressing against the damp lace.

She whimpered.

"Already soaked," he murmured against her lips. "And I have barely touched you. You are going to be a mess by midnight, are you not, princess?"

"Yes, Sir."

He smiled. She felt it more than saw it, the curve of his mouth against hers.

Then he pushed her backward onto the bed.

She landed on the dark gray sheets, hair spread out, lace twisted. He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at her like she was a feast.

"Spread your legs."

She did.

He reached for the velvet box on the table.

When he opened it, Vienna saw coiled silk, black ropes, and a leather collar.

Her heart stopped.

"Tonight," he said, holding up the collar, "you belong to me. Every moan. Every tear. Every orgasm. Mine."

She should have said red.

Instead, she tilted her head back and bared her throat.

"Yes, Sir."

He smiled again.

And then he began.