All Chapters of His Games, Her Rules: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The pulsing bass of the music greets us before we even reach the velvet ropes. Club Rogue is glowing—literally. The exterior has been revamped, glass and steel gleaming under the blue-tinted lights, with neon signs curling around the entrance like the wink of danger. “I told you they upgraded the place,” I say to Monique as we step out of the car, the heels of our shoes clicking sharply on the pavement. She whistles. “Damn. It looks like money had sex with a nightclub and this was their baby.” There’s a long line outside Club Rogue, but Monique and I don’t spare it more than a glance. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she flashes a gold card to the bouncer. He barely blinks before unhooking the rope and waving us in. The second we step inside, the heat and pulse of the club hit like a living thing. It’s even better than the last time we were here. The walls gleam under shifting blue and crimson lights, fading in and out like a heartbeat. Two circular stages are already in ac

DOMINIQUE Robyn is no longer on the dance floor. I spot her at the bar, perched on one of the stools, waving down the bartender who’s too preoccupied to notice. I approach from the left, slide my wallet out, and flash a few crisp bills at the guy occupying the seat beside her. “Fuck off, yeah?” I say coolly. He barely hesitates. Nods, grabs the cash, and vanishes like smoke. I take the now-empty seat, turning my attention to the woman who’s found her way under my skin and refuses to crawl out. “You always make red look dangerous,” I say, my voice low, deliberate—like I’m daring her to bite back. Robyn turns to me slowly, like she already knew it was me the second I sat down. Her mouth curves into a smirk I haven’t seen before—not the irritated glare she usually gives, not the guarded edge. No, this one is soft. Dangerous. Drunk. “If it isn’t the infamous Mr. Voss,” she whispers, dragging her eyes down the length of me like she’s peeling away my clothes in her mind. For a

Dominique Voss stands behind a billiard table, a glass of something amber in one hand and a cigar between his lips. He exhales a curl of smoke into the air, completely at ease—until his eyes find mine. I’ve seen him in tailored suits and ironed dress shirts, always put together like he lives inside a billion-dollar empire. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for this version of him. Loose black T-shirt. Broad chest. Lean muscle. And ink. His left arm is covered in a full-sleeve tattoo, the designs intricate and dark. His right arm bears a few smaller ones, peeking beneath the hem of his sleeve. It’s raw. Unexpected. Sexy as hell. He looks like trouble. College frat-boy energy, paired with billionaire cockiness. Sinful in every sense of the word. Who the hell knew he had tattoos? And why does this man keep surprising me? Dominique notices me checking him out—and of course, the bastard smirks. I immediately peel my eyes off him and focus on the room instead, pretendi

“Okay, Camilla, tell me if you can feel this,” I say, gently pinching the brunette patient’s wrist. She yelps, pulling her arm back with a dramatic glare. “Ouch!” I wince apologetically. “Sorry! Just had to be sure. Reflexes are a good sign.” “I’m fine, really,” she assures me, relaxing against the pillows. “I’ve just been stressing myself too much lately. Guess I needed to hit pause.” I nod, replacing her IV saline bag with a fresh one. “This’ll help keep you hydrated.” “What’s been stressing you out, if you don’t mind me asking?” Camilla lets out a breath. “I’m getting married soon. And I’m terrified I’m going to mess everything up.” “Ah,” I say, carefully adjusting the line. Weddings. Can’t say I’ve walked that path, so advice isn’t exactly my strong suit here. She looks like she’s about my age—mid to late twenties. A Good Samaritan rushed her in not long ago after she collapsed at a mall. Thankfully, she’s fine. Just dehydrated and anxious, apparently. “Well,” I b

“Then show me.” “I would,” Dominique says, his voice a velvet threat, “if you let me take you to dinner.” That’s not the answer I expected—and the surprise must be all over my face, because he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing. I lean back, folding my arms beneath my chest with a grin. “Are you asking me out on a date?” “I am.” Blunt. Bold. Typical Dominique. He leans forward, dragging his fingertips along the back of my palm—slow, teasing strokes that send a ripple through my body. I should pull away. I don’t. “You could just say yes,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with heat. “A friendly dinner. No strings. And in return…” he tilts his head, eyes locked on mine, “…I’ll show you how badly you want me. How you’ve always wanted me.” I open my mouth to shut him down, but he leans in, breath warm against my ear. “I saw it in your eyes. That night at Club Rogue. You want me to slam you against a wall, press my body to yours, and make you forget your own name.