Velvet Chains

The bass beat pounded like a heartbeat beneath the crimson brocade shadows of *The Crimson Room*. Smoke drifted along the darkened room, weaving with perfume, sweat, and decadence. Valerio Moretti leaned in the back of the VIP club, his hand wrapped around a glass of black whiskey, unmoving.

Partygoers were around him, society's elite losing themselves in excess as if they had no fear of death. Which was appropriate.

They did not know that he was there.

Valerio was death in a specially tailored suit. No one breathed in that club without his permission. The owner knew it. The girls knew it. Even the bartender handed him his drinks without meeting his gaze.

And yet…

His gaze did not leave the stage.

A new girl had appeared in the limelight.

She did not dance like them. Did not stalk, did not strike. She was frozen in place for a moment too long, blinking in the blinding light as though she didn't belong there. Her trembling fingers twitched ever so little at her hips, and when the music started, she finally—hesitantly—began to move.

But not like them.

No bending over for a tawdry thrill. No come-on smile that curled her lip. No sly look in her eye. Instead, her movements were calculated, almost too protective. As if she was remembering choreographed steps. As if her body wasn't used to being touched like this, seen like this.

And *fuck*, was she seen.

Men crouched forward in chairs like vultures, tongues heavy, beaks agape. Some advanced on the stage, eyes slavering, tossing bills at her feet.

She winced when the first man tried to seize her ankle.

It was slight—a shift, a spasm in her thigh—but Valerio saw it.

He saw everything.

Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, bouncing against her exposed back as she twirled. Her black stilettos were too high for a girl who wasn't used to them. Her outfit—a small silver top that glittered under the lights and a matching G-string—was at odds with her mood. She wasn't enjoying being sexy.

She was enduring it.

Every inch of her body screamed in pain. Not revulsion, no—she wasn't above that. She was just… ill-fitted for this world.

A girl pretending to be someone she wasn't. Wearing sin but behaving like innocence trapped.

Valerio's cock stirred.

Not because she was dancing—*God*, no. He'd seen a thousand girls grind with rehearsal-perfect skill. He could've taken any one of them with the curve of his finger. But her?

She was different.

She was *wrong*. And that made her right for him in every damn way.

He rested his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on hers.

"Who is she?" he growled, low.

Dante, his second-in-command, standing by his side like a silent specter, cleared his throat. "New girl. Two weeks. Doesn't mingle with clients. Management's upset she won't do private rooms."

Valerio raised an eyebrow. "She won't?"

"No. Dances only on stage. Says she's saving up for college or something."

He grinned. "A stripper with morals. How quaint."

Her performance had been ungainly. No pose dramatic, no wink or blown kiss. She'd merely turned, gathered the cash off the floor with shaking hands, and removed herself from the stage as though she couldn't possibly depart faster.

The audience didn't give a damn. They moved to the next one. But Valerio. couldn't.

He stood up.

"Have the owner put her in my private suite. Now."

Dante hesitated. "Boss, she doesn't—"

Valerio's eyes had glazed.

---

Backstage was chaos. Perfume and sweat filled the air. Girls reapplied lip gloss, laughed too hard, counted out money with fingers weighed down by glitter.

Sera Devlin moved through it all like a ghost. She did not talk with the other girls. She did not preen in front of the mirrors. She marched straight to her dressing room with her head cast downward, her bag clutched firmly in both hands like protection.

She hated this place.

She hated the music, the hands, the reek of liquor and lust. She hated the men staring at her as if she was tits and legs. But more than anything, she hated the way her body betrayed her—flushed in that stage lighting, tingling in that eye.

That one stare.

She had felt it. Like a fire on her flesh.

Whatever he was, he had not looked at her as a client. No, he had looked at her as if he wished to unzip her.

As if he wanted to *claim* her.

Sera locked the door on her dressing room, dropped bag on floor, and started trying to get rid of glitter top. She wrestled it off and tossed it onto chair, shivering with chill air ghosting over bare skin.

She reached for her robe as the door behind her cracked open.

She froze.

Then turned, mouth agape, arms folded across her chest. "What the hell?! This is a private—"

The words were choked off.

The man in the doorway wasn't a tipsy client. He wasn't wearing a cheap suit or holding a wad of money.

He stood tall. Towering. In black-on-black, shirt open to the collar, with a sliver of ink creeping down his neck. His face all sharp angles and shadows, eyes like iced coffee—dark, deep, and regarding her as if he'd already decided she was his catch.

He leaned against the doorframe, comfortable with himself.

"Lock your door," he told her with a smooth voice. "A girl like you. might catch the wrong eye."

Sera's breath caught in her throat.

"Get out."

He smiled.

Good God, his smile was wicked. The kind that promised sin without needing to touch you. Her skin flushed in response, and she hated it.

"I said *get out!* " she spat, stepping forward.

To her surprise, he did.

He retreated from the room in silence, letting the door slowly creak shut. But not before she heard him whisper through the gap, low and foreboding:

"Fire suits you, little dancer."

Click.

The door closed.

Sera was paralyzed, her heart pounding like it was desperate to tear itself out of her ribcage. Her knees gave way, her pulse pounding. Her body was still half-dressed, but it wasn't fear that made her tremble.

It was something far, far worse.

Need.

---

Behind the door, Valerio walked down the hall, a smile spreading across his lips and fire burning in his blood.

She didn't even realize he was present.

She'd screamed at him. Demanded him away. Shoved him away like he was nothing.

And he'd never been stronger in his life.

This girl… this girl was going to kill him.

And he was going to allow it.

No—he was going to make her.

One touch at a time.