Trapped In Pink

LIV

He doesn't give me time to process the panic, or the sound of my real name on his lips.

He just reaches past me, his forearm brushing my shoulder, and shoves the steel door open himself.

The twin human refrigerators immediately step aside without looking at him. They don't even dare meet his eye.

A wall of vibrating bass and sweet, artificial air slams into my face.

I step over the threshold, bracing myself for a dark, smoky, Godfather-style den.

Instead, I freeze. My boots literally glue themselves to the floor.

Did a cartel boss hire Barbie as his interior designer?

Gia seriously needs to fire her informants.

She completely left out the part where Velvet Tears looks like a billionaire's fetishistic dollhouse.

Everything is pink.

The walls are draped in plush blush velvet. The VIP booths are upholstered in hot-pink leather.

The bartenders are pouring pink liquor into crystal coupes, and the dozens of women dancing inside elevated glass cages are wearing nothing but bubblegum lace and clear, towering heels.

The place is packed to capacity, the air thick with the scent of expensive French perfume, sweat, and top-shelf alcohol.

As we cut through the crowd, heads immediately start to turn.

Damn it. He was right.

In a sea of bare skin, silk, and pink, my sensible wool winter coat makes me stick out like a flare in the dark. A sheep wandering straight into a slaughterhouse.

"Still bent on keeping the coat?" he asks over the pounding bass, not even bothering to look back at me.

"I'm not here for whatever these people are here for."

He glances over his shoulder, a dry, mocking smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "First time in a strip club?"

"No."

Technically, that's a lie. Unless Google Images counts.

I write erotic horror. I've researched enough seedy underworld clubs to mentally live in one.

"Though it's definitely my first time in one that looks like a cotton-candy nightmare," I mutter.

Suddenly, a man covered in thick tribal neck tattoos bumps hard into my shoulder.

His bloodshot eyes drop hungrily down my denim-clad legs.

Instead of moving on, he steps directly into my path, blocking me off from my escort, his breath reeking of top-shelf vodka and aggression.

"What's with the civilian?" the guy slurs, reaching a hand out toward the lapel of my coat. "There's a dress code in here. You might want to take it off."

Before I can even recoil, a large, scarred hand clamps over my hip bone.

Long fingers dig hard through the thick wool of my coat, jerking me backward so fast my spine collides with a solid, immovable wall of muscle.

"Is this a new dress code, Klaus?" the tattooed guy laughs, his eyes darting down to the possessive hand locked around my waist.

Klaus.

So the monster finally has a name.

"She's with me," Klaus says. His voice is dead flat, quiet, yet somehow slicing straight through the thumping bass. "And you're reaching for something that isn't yours. Do you want to keep that hand?"

The tattooed guy squares his shoulders, lifting his chin like he’s about to test his luck.

Klaus doesn't even blink.

He doesn't raise his voice or ball his fists.

He simply steps smoothly around me, planting his body between me and the guy, blocking me completely from view.

The stillness radiating off him is terrifying.

It’s the lethal calm of a man who knows seven different ways to snap a windpipe before your drink hits the floor.

The tattooed guy stares at him for a long, suffocating second.

Then, survival instincts clearly win out. A tense smirk spreads across the guy's face, and he throws up a lazy two-finger salute.

"See you around, Klaus."

He turns and melts back into the pink crowd.

Klaus doesn't let go of my hip.

If anything, his grip tightens, steering me forcefully through the maze of grinding bodies, up a flight of curved glass stairs, and down a shadowy mezzanine toward a tinted black glass door.

My heart is hammering wildly against my ribs.

Between the sensory overload and the heat of his palm burning straight through my coat, I can barely catch my breath.

"Fucking hell," Klaus mutters, his voice vibrating with low annoyance as he hauls me up the final step. "It’s impossible to move you through a room when you're dressed like a sign begging for attention."

"Don't blame me!" I snap, twisting in a vain attempt to pry his fingers off my waist. "I told you we could have this conversation outside on the sidewalk!"

"And I told you," Klaus replies, shoving the glass door open, "you don't get to call the shots."

He propels me inside and steps in right behind me.

The door clicks shut and the pounding bass and pink vanish into thin air.

The silence is instant. Soundproof. Deafening.

I am locked in.

I spin around, finally taking in the room we just entered.

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp rush.

This isn't a VIP lounge. It’s a dungeon.

The walls are paneled in charcoal slate and dark mahogany, lined with leather harnesses, coiled velvet ropes, and gleaming silver restraints.

I squeeze my eyes shut, mentally promising to murder Gia if I make it out of here alive.

Apex isn't just trying to scare me.

They lured me into a BDSM suite to stage compromising photos and blackmail me into renewing my contract.

I just walked straight into my own execution.