CHAPTER 2:

RAVEN'S POV:

The mirror in my apartment bathroom is cracked in the top left corner, been that way since I moved in three years ago, I never bothered fixing it because it matches the rest of me.

I stare at my reflection under the harsh bulb light, face half shadowed already, and feel the emptiness settle like an old habit.

Tonight's not about beauty only, it's about bait. About becoming the kind of woman Damien Blackwood can't resist bidding on.

I start with the foundation, heavy, matte, the kind that turns my skin into porcelain armor.

Concealer over the faint scar on my left cheekbone from a knife fight two years back, barely noticeable, but I don't take chances.

Then the eyes, smoky black liner winged sharp enough to cut, lashes extended with falsies that make them look predatory.

Contacts, deep hazel tonight, not my natural gray. They change the whole face, make me someone else. Someone he won't recognize until it's too late.

The wig came next, long, glossy black waves cascading past my shoulders, bangs swept to one side to partially veil the upper half of my face.

It's not just a disguise, it's the distance. When I dance, when I let men look, I never show all of me.

The mask is literal tonight, thin black lace that covers from nose to forehead, leaving only my mouth and chin exposed.

It looks like high end fetish wear, but it's practical, hides bone structure, hides the hate that must be leaking from my eyes.

Outfit selection is strategic. I pull the black corset top from the back of the closet boned, laced tight in front, plunging low enough to draw eyes downward and away from my face.

Paired with a high waisted feathered skirt that hugged my hips and ass like paint, with hidden compartments for a slim blade and a mini taser and for shoes, I went for the black pointy heels.

The romper from last night stays in the laundry, tonight calls for something more performative, more vulnerable on the surface.

I strap the garter belt with extra sheaths and two throwing knives on each thigh, concealed under the skirt's hem. The weight feels reassuring, grounding.

I practiced the walk in front of the full length mirror on the bedroom door, hips swaying slowly and deliberately, shoulders back, chin lifted just enough to look arrogant instead of scared.

The heels click against the hardwood like gunshots. I roll my neck, loosen my jaw, force a sultry smile that doesn't reach my eyes. Mirror me looks dangerous, desirable, untouchable.

Good. That's the illusion I need him to buy.

Lila's asleep in the next room. I slip in quietly, stand over her bed for a minute.

She's curled on her side, stuffed bear clutched under her chin, breathing soft and even.

Moonlight from the cracked blinds paints silver stripes across her face, those damn gray eyes closed now, lashes fanned on her cheeks.

I brush a strand of hair off her forehead, light as I can. She stirs but doesn't wake.

"I love you," I whisper, the words tasting foreign after a night of blood. "I'll be home before you know it."

I close her door softly, grab my clutch burner phone, fake ID, small vial of sedative just in case and head out.

The subway ride downtown is a blur of flickers and strangers avoiding eye contact.

I keep my head down, hood up, but inside my mind is racing through contingencies.

If he doesn't bid, I pivot to plan B, slip into his private office during the afterparty, knife to throat in the dark. If he does bid, I let him think he's won.

Let him get close. Then remind him what happens when you take without asking.

**********************************

Eclipse looms at the end of a discreet side street in the Meatpacking District, black facade, no sign, just a single red light above a steel door guarded by two bouncers built like refrigerators.

I flash the fake ID and the invite code I bought off a contact earlier. One of them scans it, nods, opens the door.

Bass hits me like a physical force, deep and throbbing, vibrating through my bones.

Inside, the club is a cave of velvet and sin.

Dim red and purple lighting, crystal chandeliers dripping low over leather booths, mirrors everywhere reflecting bodies in motion.

The stage is central, circular, with poles that gleam under spotlights.

Women and a few men move on it in various states of nakedness, bodies glistening with oil or sweat, eyes distant or hungry.

Tables ring the stage, filled with men in suits who look like money and women who look like they know how to spend it. The air is thick with expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the metallic tang of arousal.

I make my way to the back, where the "talent" entrance is. A woman in a headset manager, probably looks me up and down, nods approvingly.

"You're the last-minute addition? Raven Noir?"

"That's me."

"Private dance auction starts in twenty.

You're lot seven. Get changed if you need to, then wait in the green room.

Bids start at ten grand. Don't disappoint."

She hands me a numbered paddle 07 and disappears into the crowd.

The green room is a narrow space behind the stage mirrors, makeup stations, racks of lingerie and costumes, girls touching up lipstick or adjusting straps.

Some chat, some stare blankly at phones, some stretch like cats.

I find an empty stool, sit, cross my legs, and wait. My pulse is steady, but there's a low hum under my skin anticipation, not fear.

I've faced worse than a rich man with a hard on.

The music shifts, slower now, sultrier. A voice comes over the speakers smooth, male, practiced.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Eclipse's exclusive midnight auction. Tonight's selection is exquisite, each performer available for one private hour. Bidding starts at ten thousand dollars. Remember, what happens in Eclipse stays in Eclipse."

Lot one goes first, a blonde in red lace who moves like liquid fire. Bids climb fast, fifteen, twenty, thirty. Sold for forty-two grand to a man in the front row with a Rolex that could buy a house.

I watch through the curtain gap, cataloging faces. No Damien yet. My stomach tightens, not nerves, just hunger. I want him here, watching, wanting.

Lot two, three, four each one hotter, bids higher. By lot six, the energy in the room is electric, thick with money and lust.

Then the voice announces, "Lot seven, Raven Noir."

The curtain parts.

Spotlights blind me for a second.

I step out onto the stage, heels clicking, hips rolling slow.

The music drops to a deep, pulsing beat, something dark and sensual, bass vibrating up my spine.

I grip the pole, swing around once, letting the wig cascade, letting the lace mask catch the light.

I don't look at the crowd yet. I feel them, eyes on my body, on the way the cloth hangs to my body, on the way my thighs flex as I drop low, rise slow, back arched.

Then I look.

He's there.

Front row center, black suit tailored to perfection, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar just enough to show tanned skin.

Damien Blackwood. Older than the memory, sharper, colder. His face is all angles, high cheekbones, jaw like carved

stone, mouth set in a line that could be boredom or hunger. Storm-gray eyes locked on me, unblinking.

My breath catches, not fear, not yet. Something else. Recognition. Rage. And underneath it, a flicker I hate, the way his gaze drags over me like he already owns the hour.

Like he knows exactly what he wants to do with it.

I spin the pole again, slower this time, letting my legs open just enough to tease.

The mask hides my expression, but my mouth curves, small, dangerous.

The bidding starts.

"Ten thousand."

"Fifteen."

"Twenty."

Voices overlap, numbers climbing fast. Damien doesn't speak yet.

He just watches, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.

"Thirty."

"Forty."

"Fifty."

Still nothing from him.

My stomach twists.

What if he doesn't bid? What if I have to pivot, sneak into his office later?

Then his voice cuts through the noise low, calm, commanding.

"One hundred thousand."

The room goes quiet for a heartbeat.

The auctioneer recovers. "One hundred thousand from the gentleman in front. Do I hear one ten?"

Silence.

"Sold! To Mr. Blackwood for one hundred thousand dollars."

Applause ripples. I stepped off the stage, heart pounding not from the money, but from the look in his eyes when he said my stage name. Like he was tasting it. Like he recognized something he couldn't place.

A handler escorts me through a side door, down a dim hallway lined with private rooms.

We stop at number 12. The door opens. Damien's already inside, standing by the floor to ceiling window overlooking the club floor, back to me.

The door clicks shut behind me.

We're alone.

He turns slowly.

Those gray eyes meet mine through the lace mask.

And for the first time in ten years, the emptiness inside me cracks just a hairline fracture.

But it's enough.

I feel it.

The hate surges, hot and alive.

He steps closer.

"Take off the mask," he says, voice low, commanding.

I smile behind the lace.

"Not yet."

His jaw tightens.

"You think you set the rules here?"

I tilt my head, let the wig fall over one shoulder.

"Tonight? Yes."

He closes the distance in two strides, stops inches away.

I can smell him, sandalwood, leather, power. The same scent that still haunts me.

His hand lifts, fingers brushing the edge of the mask.

I don't flinch.

But my pulse spikes.

And in that second, with his breath on my face and his eyes boring into mine, I knew, this isn't just revenge anymore.

It's something worse.

CHAPTER 3

RAVEN'S POV

His fingers hover at the edge of the lace, so close I can feel the heat from his skin brushing mine like a threat.

The room is a cocoon of dim red light filtering through heavy velvet curtains, the bass from the club below thrumming up through the floor like a distant heartbeat.

Private suite 12 smells of leather and bourbon, his bourbon, the kind that's aged in barrels worth more than my rent.

The window behind him overlooks the writhing bodies on the dance floor, but up here, it's just us, predator and prey, though he's got it all wrong about who's who.

"Not yet," I repeat, my voice a low purr laced with steel.

I tilt my head just enough to let the wig's waves shift, obscuring more of my face.

My hand moves, slow, deliberate, brushing his away like I'm indulging him, like this is still a game he paid for.

But under the skirt, my fingers itch toward the sheath on my thigh.

One quick draw, and I could have the blade at his carotid before he blinks those damn storm gray eyes.

Damien's mouth quirks, not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, the kind a wolf gives before it lunges.

"Feisty. I like that." His voice is velvet over gravel, the same timbre that echoed in my nightmares, grunting and commanding in that hotel bathroom.

He steps even closer, crowding me against the door, his body a wall of tailored muscle and entitlement. 6'5 ft, easy broad shoulders that block out the light.

I remember how they felt pinning me down, unyielding.

The scent hits harder now sandalwood and leather, twisting my gut with a cocktail of hate and something sharper, unwanted, that coils low in my belly.

He reaches again, insistent, fingers hooking under the lace. "I paid for the full show, Raven. Mask off."

I let him pull it halfway, just enough to expose one eye, my gray one, hidden behind the hazel contact, but close enough to risk it.

His breath catches, a micro-falter in that iron composure.

Does he see it? The flicker of familiarity in the shape of my jaw, the curve of my lip? No. Not yet.

His memories are blurry, he said once in an interview I stalked online, youthful indiscretions, blackouts from too much champagne. But I remember every detail, every tear in the fabric, every bruise.

Before he can tug it fully free, I move. My hand snaps up, gripping his wrist in a vise that's all assassin training, pressure on the radial nerve, just enough to make his fingers loosen without screaming pain. Yet.

"You paid for an hour," I say, leaning in so my lips brush his ear, breath hot. "But I decide the pace. Touch without asking again, and the show's over."

He doesn't pull back. If anything, he presses closer, his free hand sliding to my waist, fingers splaying possessively over the corset. "Bold. Most girls here fold like cheap cards." His eyes search mine through the half-mask, probing. "But you... you're different. Like I've seen you before."

My heart stutters, sixty-eight beats spiking to eighty. Recognition? Already? No, can't be.

The wig, the makeup, the contacts, it's a fortress. But that "something worse" from earlier surges, a dark undercurrent that makes my skin hum where he touches.

Hate, yes. But laced with a twisted pull, the way a flame draws the moth even as it burns.

Ten years of fantasizing about this moment knife in his gut, twisting slow, and now, with him this close, the emptiness cracks wider, letting in flashes of what could be: not just death, but destruction.

Make him want me, need me, then shatter him from the inside.

I release his wrist, trail my fingers down his arm instead, turning the power play. "Maybe in your dreams," I murmur, voice dripping honeyed venom. "Or your nightmares."

He chuckles, low and dark, but his eyes narrow, intrigued, not amused. "Nightmares? Darling, I make them for others."

His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me flush against him.

I feel the hard lines of his body, the evidence of his interest pressing insistent. It should repulse me, trigger the bile from that night. Instead, it fuels the fire, a tool to wield. I arch into it just enough to tease, my thigh brushing his, the hidden knife a secret thrill.

"Then let's make this memorable," I say, and before he can respond, I spin us, quick pivot on the heel, using his momentum against him.

He stumbles back a step, surprised, ass hitting the edge of the leather chaise.

I straddle him in one fluid motion, knees pinning his thighs, hands on his shoulders.

The mask stays half-on, shadows playing games with my features. "You like control, Mr. Blackwood? Try letting go."

His hands roam up my sides, bold now, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the corset. "Call me Damien." It's a command, but there's a hitch in it, curiosity, desire. He tugs at the lace again, gentler this time. "Show me your face."

I grind down once, slow roll of hips that draws a sharp inhale from him. Distraction. "Earn it." My mind races, plan shifting on the fly. Kill him now? Easy. Blade out, throat slit, gone before security checks. But torture... that's slower. Make him suffer, draw it out. And something in his eyes, that stormy gray mirroring Lila's, tugs at the void. What if I burrow deeper? Infiltrate his world, become indispensable, then rip it apart.

He flips us suddenly, strength I remember all too well, pinning me to the chaise with his weight.

Breath hot on my neck. "I always earn what I want." His lips graze my collarbone, teeth nipping just enough to sting.

The "something worse" ignites, hate twisting into a dark heat that makes me arch involuntarily. Fuck. This wasn't the plan.

But then his phone buzzes in his pocket, insistent vibration against my thigh.

He ignores it at first, mouth trailing lower, but it doesn't stop. With a curse, he pulls back, fishes it out. Glances at the screen, expression shifting from hunger to cold calculation.

"Business?" I ask, voice steady, using the moment to readjust the mask fully.

"Always." He stands, adjusting his tie, but his eyes linger on me. "This isn't over, Raven. I want more than an hour."

I sit up slow, crossing my legs like a queen on her throne. "Everything has a price."

He smirks, tapping something on his phone. "Name it. But first, work for me. Exclusive, no more auctions. I need someone like you, sharp, fearless. My world eats the weak."

The offer hangs there, a lifeline or a noose. Recruit me? Perfect. Get closer, learn his weaknesses, strike when he's vulnerable. And that dark pull... I can use it, weaponize it.

"Exclusive?" I echo, standing, hips swaying as I close the distance again. "What's the job?"

Discreet tasks. You move like you know how to handle yourself." His eyes rake over me, appraising. "And I like having beautiful weapons at my side."

I let a smile curve my lips, small and sharp. "Deal. But on my terms, no unmasking until I say."

He nods, once, sealing it. "For now." Then he turns to the door, but pauses. "Meet me tomorrow. Blackwood Tower, penthouse office. 10 AM. Don't be late."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the red lit silence. My pulse thunders, not from fear, but from the widening fracture.

This game just got longer, deadlier. I'll play his recruit, let him think he's winning. Maybe he'll fall for me. Then, when the time's right, the knife.

But as I slip out the back exit, melting into the night, a new shadow creeps in. Something about his offer feels like fate's cruel joke.

CHAPTER 4

DAMIEN'S POV:

The office feels smaller tonight, the air thicker, charged with the kind of humidity that clings to skin even before anyone touches.

Seventy second floor. Floor-to-ceiling glass framing Manhattan like a living painting cold blues and golds bleeding into black.

I keep the lights at thirty percent. Just enough glow to catch sweat, to trace the curve of a hip, to make shadows do half the work.

Shadows are honest. They don't lie about hunger.

Clarissa arrived at 9:47 p.m. sharp.

She always does when she's feeling neglected. Platinum hair already loose, blouse unbuttoned to the third pearl, skirt riding high enough that I could see the black lace thong when she crossed the room.

She didn't speak, just walked straight to the desk, planted both palms on the glass, bent at the waist, and looked back at me over her shoulder with that practiced pout she thinks is seductive.

I didn't smile, stepped behind her without a preamble.

My left hand gathered her hair into a loose fist at the nape, enough tension to arch her neck, not enough to hurt yet.

My right hand dragged the thong to the side, exposing her. She was already glistening, always is.

I slid two fingers in without warning, straight to the knuckle, hot, slick, eager.

She sucked in a sharp breath that turned into a long, throaty moan the second I curled them upward, hooking that swollen ridge inside her.

"Fuck... Damien..."

Her voice cracked on my name. I didn't answer.

I added a third finger, stretching her wider, pumping slowly at first, letting her feel every ridge of my knuckles sliding in and out, then faster, deeper.

The wet sounds were obscene, loud in the quiet room. She pushed back against my hand, hips rolling shamelessly, chasing the pressure.

I let her have it for a minute, let her moan louder, let the sounds bounce off the glass, then I pressed my thumb firmly against her clit and rubbed tight, merciless circles.

Her knees buckled.

She caught herself on her elbows, forehead dropping to the desk. "Oh God, yes, right there, don't stop"

I didn't. I fucked her with my fingers harder, faster, twisting my wrist so the pads dragged along her front wall on every withdrawal.

Her moans turned ragged, high pitched, almost sobs. Sweat darkened the silk between her shoulder blades. Her thighs trembled.

I could feel her pulsing around me close, so close.

I pulled out right at the edge.

She whined, actual frustration, raw and needy.

"Damien, please"

"Quiet." I hushed her.

I unzipped.

Shoved my trousers and briefs down just enough.

My cock was already thick, heavy, leaking at the tip.

I fisted the base once, twice, spreading the pre-cum, then lined up and thrust in, slow this time.

One long, deliberate slide until I was buried to the hilt. She screamed, high, broken, echoing.

Her walls clamped down like a fist.

I didn't move for three heartbeats. Let her feel the stretch, the fullness, the way I throbbed inside her. Then I started, hard, deep, controlled.

Each thrust drove her forward until her breasts flattened against the cold glass, nipples scraping with every snap of my hips.

The desk groaned under the force. Papers slid. A fountain pen rolled off the edge and clattered somewhere on the carpet. I didn't care.

Clarissa was loud, God! She was loud. Moaning my name like a prayer, begging for harder, faster, deeper.

"Like that,fuck yes, don't stop please" Her voice fractured every time I bottomed out, hitting that spot that made her whole body jerk.

I angled my hips deliberately, grinding against her cervix on the deepest strokes, then pulling back just enough to drag along her walls again.

She sobbed with pleasure, thighs shaking, slick running down the inside of her legs.

I leaned over her, chest to her back, one arm banding around her waist to keep her pinned.

My free hand slid between her thighs again, found her swollen clit and pinched it lightly between thumb and forefinger, rolling it in time with my thrusts.

She shattered.

Her scream was primal, back arching violently, inner muscles spasming so hard I nearly lost control.

I fucked her through it, relentless, drawing out every aftershock until she was whimpering, oversensitive, trembling.

Only then did I let myself go.

I buried deep, hips flush against her ass, and came with a low, guttural groan, hot, thick pulses that made her whimper again.

I stayed seated inside her for long seconds, breathing hard, letting the last ripples move through both of us.

Then I pulled out slowly.

She slumped forward, panting, thighs slick and trembling.

I tucked myself away, zipped up, adjusted my cufflinks. Business as usual.

That was when I saw her.

Raven Noir had been standing in the open doorway the entire time.

Arms loosely crossed, expression blank, no widened eyes, no parted lips, no flush creeping up her neck.

Just those storm eyes watching, cool, unreadable, clinical like she was observing a medical procedure instead of a man fucking his employee across a $40,000 desk.

The rage hit first, sharp, irrational. How long? How much did she see?

Then came the heat, darker, hungrier.

She hadn't left.

She hadn't averted her gaze.

She had simply... watched.

Clarissa finally noticed her. She startled upright, yanking her skirt down, clutching the torn edges of her blouse over her breasts. "Who the hell is.."

"Out," I said. Voice flat. Final.

Clarissa blinked, dazed, mascara smudged at the corners.

She shot Raven a venomous look, pure female territoriality, then stumbled toward the private elevator on unsteady heels.

The doors closed with a soft hiss.

Silence.

Thick enough to choke on.

I walked toward Raven slowly, deliberate steps stopping when there was barely a foot between us.

Close enough to catch the faint scent of leather from her jacket, the clean bite of soap on her skin, no perfume, no artifice.

"You're early," I said. My voice still carried the roughness of sex.

"Apparently." One word, no inflection.

"You watched."

"Yes."

A long beat.

"Did it bother you?"

Her gaze flicked down once to the obvious outline still pressing against my trousers then lifted again. "It was... educational."

I almost smiled. Almost.

Instead I stepped closer. "You didn't flinch."

"I don't flinch."

Another beat.

I tilted my head. "You always cover part of your face?"

Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Half mask, full mask, hood, whatever.

As long as the body fetches money for both of us, I don't give a damn what you hide."

She let the silence stretch. Measured it. Weighed it.

Then, quietly, "Why me?"

I let my eyes drag over her, slow, deliberate. From the combat boots up the dark jeans hugging long legs, past the leather jacket zipped just high enough to hint at the curve beneath, to that severe ponytail and those unreadable eyes.

"I'm a businessman, Raven. I venture into anything that turns a profit. And you..." I paused, letting the words settle. "...you look like you could turn a very large profit."

She didn't react, not a blink, not a shift in weight.

I continued.

"Velvet Reservoir. My highest end club, private rooms only, Invite list clientele.

The kind of men who drop six figures without blinking for the right performance.

I need dancers who command attention, not just bodies on poles. Presence. Control. You walk like you already own the room before you step into it."

Still nothing.

"Pay starts at fifty thousand a night. Cash. No paper trail unless you want one.

Tips can double it, triple it, on a good weekend.

You keep eighty percent.

I take twenty for the venue, security, and discretion. No questions asked.

No strings beyond showing up, performing, and leaving with your cut."

Her head tilted slightly, the first real movement since I started talking.

"And if I say no?"

"Then you walk out that door and I never see you again." I leaned in a fraction. "But you won't say no."

"Why not?"

"Because you watched me fuck her for fifteen straight minutes without blinking.

Most women would have left. Or screamed. Or cried. You just... observed. Like you were a tiny little whore."

Her lips curved, just the barest hint of something that wasn't quite a smile. "Maybe I am."

I studied her. The way she held herself, relaxed but coiled.

The way her eyes never wavered.

The way she smelled faintly of rain and leather and something sharper underneath, maybe adrenaline, restraint, hunger, or anger.

I didn't care which.

"When do I start?" she asked.

"Friday. Ten p.m. I'll have a car sent to wherever you want picked up. Black SUV. No markings. You'll be escorted straight to the private entrance."

She nodded once, small, decisive.

Then she turned toward the elevator.

I spoke before the doors could open.

"Raven."

She paused. Didn't turn.

"Next time you watch," I said, voice low, "I'll make sure it's worth your time."

She didn't answer.

The doors slid closed behind her.

I stood there for a long moment, still hard, still buzzing with unfinished heat, staring at my own reflection in the glass.

She hadn't flinched.

She hadn't run.

And that, more than anything, made me want to break her open just to see what was really underneath