Alex

FUCKING TWISTED VAMPIRES.

Toxic, the vampires’ BDSM club, is half lounge, half medieval dungeon: all heavy wooden furniture, red velvet, and dark corners a guy can get lost in. At one end, a small bar serves only top shelf liquor and rare wine. Glasses clink, a civilized sound that will soon be drowned out by the darker ones coming from the dungeon.

Above our heads, music starts to pulse, throbbing through the ceiling. Not long now before couples start to descend from the nightclub on the first floor.

I thread my way through the stations, careful not to touch any of the implements of torture, the custom-built furniture that looms like nightmarish monsters in the dim light. The sight of spanking benches and St. Andrew’s crosses is enough to make a submissive quake. Pant with desire. Makes no damn sense to me, but I watch it happen every night.

I wait in the shadows as the first of them enter, pairs of people slipping down the stairs. Some head straight for their favorite area or private alcove, others freeze at the foot of the stairs, staring into the dungeon with a mixture of fear and desire.

The vampires keep it dark down here, maybe to hide what they are. That might work on frail human senses, but I smell ‘em at every turn. Here’s one tying a lovely blonde to the wall. There’s another seated in the lounge with a slender man on his lap. The vampire whispers in his submissive’s ear and the

man’s eyes grow wide, locked on a lighted display of implements. Torture tools, I call them, even though the submissives seem to love them. Hell, arousal pours off the male sub as his vampire master tugs him to a spanking bench. The human can’t wait to get his ass smacked.

I don’t get it. It’s a mystery to me, a mating ritual that makes no sense.

The vampire snaps his fingers and a lovely redheaded woman joins the male couple. She goes to the wall and selects a black flogger before returning to the vampire who’s making a big show of tying his partner down. The redhead is a little slip of a thing wearing a skimpy white robe, her white thong clearly visible under the thin fabric. A white leather collar is buckled around her neck. Head bowed, she offers the flogger to her master, holding a serving pose for as long as it takes for him to grab it. At his dismissive gesture, she retreats to wait for his next order. A few people gather to watch the vampire flog his male sub, but I only want to watch the redhead. A breeze stirs in the club, cool air blowing from the air conditioning vents. The little redhead’s skin breaks out in goosebumps and her nipples harden. She’s cold, dammit. I don’t know why I care, but I do.

I don’t get the point of all this pomp and ceremony. It’s the worst sort of foreplay, unnecessary and complicated. No wonder the vampires love it. Half of these fuckers grew up in the Victorian era.

Now the redhead, I get the appeal of her. She’s got a delicate spray of freckles across her face, and bare feet. She stands on the edge of the scene, quiet and unobtrusive as her master scenes with another. If I was her master, I wouldn’t ignore her. I sure as hell wouldn’t scene with another. I’d keep her close, tie her up until she knew she belonged to me. Train her to greet me, tug me to the couch with eager hands, get on her knees between my feet and give me a proper welcome.

And now my dick is hard. I turn away from the redhead. Watching her riles up my bear, and I need a cool head tonight. I took this gig because it’s low key, but more importantly, it gets me closer to my ultimate prey.

My heavy boots beat a familiar rhythm as I make my rounds of the club. I can move silently, but better that they see a big lumbering oaf, a bear employed by vampires, a shifter servant of the king. Most couples ignore me. This vampire BDSM club takes some getting used to, but it’s quiet, unlike the shifter Fight Club where I used to work. Here, most patrons are polite and do their thing.

A blonde slinks by, naked but for a tiny red lace thong and black collar. There’s a leash hanging from her collar, between her bare breasts. She smiles as she passes me, flicking the leash over her shoulder so it hangs between the reddened globes of her perfect ass.

Yep, bouncing at the vampire BDSM club is a nice gig if you can get it.

Some nights are nicer than others.

I round the corner and there she is—the little redhead—naked with her arms stretched over her head. The vampire demonstrates some sort of rope bondage thing, using the redhead sub as his model. Her white robe pooled at her feet, she obeys with a calm, almost blissed out expression. There’s a smattering of freckles on her arms and shoulders. Her chest rises and falls with deep even breaths as the rope constricts her chest. Her eyelashes flutter.

The vampire finishes the demonstration and unties the girl, directing her to put away the rope and sending her off with a smack on her ass. A growl lodges in my throat. Fuck, I’ve been standing here staring for far too long.

“Like what you see, shifter?” a vampire lisps at my side. “Maybe you should try it.”

I wait until the redhead disappears into a private alcove before murmuring to my unwanted conversation partner, “Sure, Jack. How ‘bout on your dead body?”

The vampire Jack draws his teeth back, showing fangs. “The name’s Benedict.”

“I know.” I tilt my head to the side, already bored. Benedict is one of the younger vampires, turned only a century ago, pale and thin like he’s dying of fucking consumption. Maybe he was when he was turned. “I gave you a nickname. If I was unfortunate enough to be named Benedict, I’d fucking embrace an alternative.”

Jack’s eyebrows shoot up. I’m careful not to look in his eyes, but I can tell he’s upset by the way his chest rises and falls like bellows.

“Careful, bear. You may have the king’s favor, but you’re no match for a vampire.”

“That’s what you think,” I mutter, and shake my head when he snarls. “Get outta here, fangs.”

“Why you—” he huffs.

I curl my lip and give him my back for a solid second before walking away. The worst insult to a vampire: turning your back like he’s not a threat. Most shifters would never do it.

I’m not most shifters. The vampires have no idea. They talk down and taunt me, completely clueless. They don’t know what I am, what I’m capable of. And when the time comes for me to hunt them, they won’t understand what’s happening. Not until too late.

I head back towards the bar.

“The king wants you,” the bartender tells me and nods to the throne in the middle of the room. So Simmon has decided to grace us with his presence. I

pivot and trudge back to see the boss.

The throne is on a raised platform. It’s an actual medieval throne, imported from Italy or some shit. Simmon’s old stomping ground. You can take the vampire outta the Middle Ages but you can’t take the Middle Ages outta the vampire.

A slender young waiter in black tuxedo pants, red cumberbund, a black velvet choker and nothing else, beats me to the throne. He bows at the waist to offer up his tray of beverages. Simmon extends his hand beyond the throne and browses among the glasses, selecting one and motioning the waiter to move on. The waiter backs away, still bowing.

Oh for fuck’s sake. I roll my eyes. So much pomp and circumstance. I guess if you’re practically immortal you have time to indulge in all the ceremony you like.

The waiter turns and leaps out of his skin at the sight of me. His face pales, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his collar. The black velvet chokers are part of the uniform here, but I’d kill any vampire who made me wear one. I’m a bouncer for contract, not a fucking slave. Maybe it’s time to remind the king of that.

I saunter around the giant wooden chair and meet Simmon’s amused glance. No sneaking up on the king.

“Alex. So nice of you to join us.” He waves a hand and two men in chokers arrive with another ornate chair for me—smaller than the throne, of course. Sitting in it would put my head a full two feet lower than the vampire king. So I don’t sit. Instead, I prop my boot on the seat. Simmon sighs.

“Must you put your feet on the furniture? I’m sure we can find you a footstool if you like.” Simmon snaps his fingers and motions to one of the servants. I catch the man’s shoulder before he kneels down on all fours in front of my chair.

“No,” I growl. “Stop it. You know I’m not into this shit.”

“Of course.” A flick of the king’s fingers and the men disappear. Simmon leans forward. “I forgot how much you dislike our little power games. But what is sex about if not power?”

I shake my head. I don’t have time for this. “You wanted to see me?” Simmon sits back and studies me. Even with him seated and me standing,

he’s still slightly taller. The vampire is bigger than you’d expect, and for all his fancy talk, he’s not stupid. Power isn’t a little game to him. It’s the only game, and he plays to win.

“I did, my friend.”

I flinch at that. Fuck, are we friends? I contracted with him to watch his club

at night and keep an eye on a few of his operations. In exchange, he gives me what I need to do what I gotta do.

The redhead is limp, her eyes half closed. I peer into her face, gently raise an eyelid to check her blown pupils. “She’s too far gone to give a safe word.” I may not be into this stuff, but I know how endorphins work. Load after load drops until the submissive is too drugged to even speak.

“She likes it.” The vampire goes to a table and picks up a riding crop. I step between him and the redhead. Between the vampire and his prey. It’s probably the first time anyone’s told this vampire no.

Santiago looks shocked. It’s a good look for him.

“I said stop.”

“Very well. It’s time to eat, anyway.” With a flick of his fingers, he orders another club servant to come forward and loosen the rope around the young woman’s wrists.

She slumps, a cascade of red hair falling over her freckled face. Her head rolls on her neck. She’s totally blissed out from endorphins. Another sweetblood. A submissive, willing vampire victim.

It’s not my business. I shouldn’t get involved. But the redhead’s lips part and she turns toward me and I catch her scent…