You were supposed to be studying.

A cup of black coffee, half-warm and half-forgotten, sat next to your laptop. The textbook in front of you was opened to nothing thrilling, but important. Midterms were two days away, but your phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

First once. Then again. Then again. Until finally, groaning through your teeth, you picked it up and saw her name: Kylah.

You answered, already knowing it wouldn't be good, and sure enough, her voice came through soaked in alcohol and chaos. "I'm at this crazy bar... never been here before but I swear it's the cooolest! But it's so hot in here, you don't even know, babe. You have to come... It's Obsidian or somethin'"

There were background sounds—music too loud for a regular club, laughter that was far too unhinged, something like moaning? Then she whispered something that made your stomach twist: "I think I lost my purse... Can you come? I don't know..."

Click. She was gone.

That's what friendship with her meant. Cleaning up after whatever mess she dragged herself into. And despite your anger, the concern won. She's never been to Obsidian before, has never called from there drunk or in need. That's what she'll do. Call drunk from first-time visits to new bars and clubs. You shut your laptop and grabbed your keys.

The ride took you further into the city than you usually went. The GPS took you to an old warehouse—black-bricked, low signage, one red neon word: OBSIDIAN. The line outside shimmered with latex, leather, and lingerie.

Your stomach dropped. This wasn't a bar. A woman with silver chains around her thighs strutted past you and entered with a nod to the bouncer—broad, stone-faced, arms crossed. The air smelled like perfume, smoke, sweat, and something unplaceably electric.

Inside, past the bouncer, the music hit like a living thing—bass-heavy, throbbing, sexual. Lights strobed across deep red walls and glinted off bodies dressed in corsets, cuffs, and barely-there lace.

The ground floor opened up into a vast, layered playground of decadence and control.

At the center was the main floor, a wide, open expanse filled with movement—people dancing, watching, performing. Black velvet-lined booths curved around the perimeter like thrones. Dominants lounged in them like royalty, drinks in hand, eyes sharp. Their submissives knelt at their feet, poised and waiting, collars gleaming under shifting lights.

To the left, sunken into the floor, was the dance pit—a pulsing, primal arena where bodies tangled together under red and violet lights. It wasn't a typical dance floor—here, rhythm came second to tension. Some couples writhed, others displayed, with hands roving freely, eyes locked, power exchanged in every beat.

Threading through the room like a ritual path was the Chain Walk—a narrow, raised walkway of dark steel links embedded into glass flooring. Submissives walked it slow, heads bowed, wrists bound in front of them. It wasn't for punishment—it was for presentation. For claiming. For showing off what belonged to whom. Onlookers stood to either side, watching the procession like spectators at a sacred rite.

Overhead, cages hung like chandeliers—some empty, some not. One woman gripped the bars of hers as a masked man beneath her traced his fingers up her leg. Her moan echoed just loud enough to make your spine stiffen.

Security didn't lurk. They stood plainly, tall and suited, backs straight against the red walls. Unmoving. Watching. Every few minutes, one would disappear into the crowd, silent and sudden, only to reappear a moment later. They didn't smile. They didn't need to. Everyone here knew: step out of line, and you vanished behind one of the black doors near the back wall.

And then there was the upper level—the glass balcony that looked down like the throne of Olympus, sleek and elevated. From there, the true Dominants watched. They weren't participating. They were choosing.

It was lust and danger dressed in silk and steel.

You walked stiffly, scanning the crowd for Kylah. Every brush of skin against yours made you flinch. You didn't belong here—and everyone could see it.

And that's when he saw you.

Lucien Duvall.

Tall, commanding. A black tailored suit hugged his broad frame, the first few buttons of his shirt undone just enough to hint at a hard, sculpted chest. Even the dommes lowered their gazes when he passed. He didn't own the club, but he didn't need to.

He was obeyed.

He watched you from the upper level, from behind a sleek glass railing, sipping something dark. He knew every submissive on this floor, every regular, every dom. But you were new. Out of place. Not dressed for seduction. Not desperate for attention.

But your eyes had caught on the way one girl moaned when her collar was tugged. The way another man traced a crop over a woman's thigh.

You were trying not to stare. And failing. That flicker—curiosity under discomfort—was why he descended the stairs. But someone else got to you first.

A man with red cheeks and unfocused eyes stumbled in front of you. His clothes were expensive but wrinkled, his leather cuffs loose around his wrists. You stepped aside, but he followed, grinning with too many teeth.

"Damn, where've they been hiding you, sugar?" he slurred, breath soaked in whiskey. "You just dripping innocence... You know what that does to a man like me?"

He grabbed your arm, not hard—just enough to keep you from moving. Then his hand slid too low, over your hip. Down.

"You got a tight little—" And then he stopped. More accurately, he was stopped. Lucien was behind him in a blink. No warning. No words.

One large hand clamped down on the man's wrist and twisted it back, clean and brutal. The drunk gasped and stumbled, but Lucien didn't let go. He leaned in, voice low, but the power in it turned heads across the floor. "She's not yours."

A simple statement. The room stilled for just a breath. Even the music seemed to bow to his tone. The drunk tried to laugh it off. "Jesus, Lucien, I didn't know she was one of—"

Lucien squeezed his wrist tighter. "She's not. But she's under my protection." Because that's how it worked around here. One word, and a woman was his. Whether she knew it or not. And the club... the club was obedient to his orders. His claims. A flick of his eyes to security, and two suited men stepped forward from the wall like shadows. The drunk was yanked back, disappearing through a side door with a yelp and a stammered apology.

Lucien turned to you then. Not a smile. Not quite kindness. But something... attentive. His voice was lower now, quiet enough that only you could hear it, and yet somehow you felt it settle beneath your skin.

"Long way from home, aren't you?" Without waiting, he placed a hand at your lower back, keeping you close as he herded you up the stairs. "Either you're incredibly bold or stupid coming here."

Eyes followed you. Submissives looked away from him yet lingered on you with clear jealousy. No one stopped him. No one questioned why he was leading you, of all people, up those stairs.

You tried not to shrink beneath the weight of those stares. Tried to keep your steps even, shoulders squared. But the air up here was different—thinner, darker. Exclusive. You were too aware of your body: your softness, your curves, the way your clothes hugged all the wrong places under strobing lights meant for skin, not cotton.

At the top of the stairs, the noise dulled. A hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit, lined with black lacquered doors. You caught the faint sounds behind them—gasps, groans, the rhythmic crack of leather against skin. Lucien stopped at the first door on the right and opened it without knocking.

The room was rich with shadows and scent—leather, cedar, the ghost of perfume. A lounge office. Velvet walls, low lights, a bottle of something expensive already breathing in a decanter. No windows. Only an oversized chair like a throne, an intricate wooden desk, and a long black couch positioned deliberately across from it.

He motioned for you to enter and you did. When the door clicked shut behind you, the club might as well have disappeared. You were alone with him, and silence wrapped around the two of you like silk.

Lucien moved past you, unhurried, shrugging off his jacket and laying it across the arm of the chair. The shirt beneath stretched slightly across his chest as he rolled his cuffs up, slow, precise. He didn't look at you right away—but that didn't make you any less seen.

"You don't know what this place is," he said, voice smooth, low. "But you walked in anyway." He turned then, finally meeting your eyes. "That tells me two things." He took a slow step closer. "One—you're loyal. You came for someone else, knowing damn well you'd be out of your depth."

Another step. "And two..." He paused in front of you, letting the moment stretch. "You're curious. You didn't run the second you saw what this place really is. You watched."

His gaze dipped—over the curve of your waist, the softness of your thighs, the tension in your shoulders. When his eyes met yours again, they were darker.

"Curiosity," he said, tone cooling into something sharper, "is a dangerous thing around here." He raised a hand—not to touch, not quite—but close enough that the heat of his palm lingered over your collarbone. "Especially for someone like you."

There was no cruelty in it. No mockery. Just simple fact. You weren't a girl who walked into clubs like this. You weren't made for shadows and chains. But he was.

And now? Now you were in his world.