Page 55 of Glutton for Punishment

My hand finds hers. Her fingers stiffen for half a second—then settle.

Here goes nothing.

The door opens, and the music doubles in intensity, swallowing the hallway behind us as we step inside.

The club stretches out before us. Low, wide tables scattered across a darkened floor like islands in a shifting sea of color. Lights roll across everything in slow waves: deep purples, golds, electric blues that catch on glass and skin, and metal.

The air is thick with the smell of champagne and expensive perfume. It doesn’t smell luxurious. It smells sickly sweet.

Arwen is trying not to stare. I can see it in the way her eyes move, tracking everything while trying not to let it show on her face. She’s never seen this level of excess before—the way the elite pour themselves into their wealth. Silk, metal, and crystal accents that catch the light in deliberate ways. Overpriced indulgence worn like armor. Like status can be stitched into fabric.

I tighten my grip on her hand slightly and start forward, moving straight ahead to my father’s table in the back.

A woman steps directly into my path.

“Maddox!” she sings. “We’ve been missing you.”

Bright pink hair twisted into an aggressive topknot. Heavy, long lashes that extend above her purple-tinted brows. A fake smile stretched wide enough to be recognized across the room.

I recognize her immediately. One of Amaya’s inner circle.

I don’t respond. She doesn’t wait for one, anyway. Her eyes flick briefly to Arwen, revealing a level of interest and assessment.

“You should come sit with us,” she continues smoothly. “We just opened two more bottles of Vail’s finest.”

She tilts her head slightly, lips pursed, looking at Arwen like she’s deciding what category she fits into.

I look towards Arwen and notice the whispers rippling around us now. I tighten my grip on her hand and shift my weight forward.

“Excuse me,” I cut in flatly, “my father is waiting.” I walk around her and push forward through the crowd, dragging Arwen behind me to get her away from the vultures.

I try to keep my face impassive so they can’t get a read on the relationship.

Bodies shift just enough to let me pass.

My father is in his booth where he always sits—a raised dais of polished obsidian that elevates him just above the swirling decadence of the club. It’s a wide, predatory curve of black leather, stitched with threads of gold that catch the low light like veins of ore. Two guards flank him, motionless as statues, their tailored suits hiding what I know are holstered guns.

My father rises the moment we approach. Arms opening wide, like this were some warm interaction.

“My son,” he says, smiling.

I instinctively recoil at his tone, like a blade wrapped in silk. Stopping at a respectful distance, I eye him up and down.

I stop at a respectful distance.

“Father,” I reply evenly. “You summoned us.”

“Ah,” he says, like I’ve amused him. “Straight to the point. Typical Maddox.”

His eyes flick briefly to Arwen. “I simply couldn’t wait to meet the newest addition to our little family.”

Nothing about this family is little.

He steps forward and holds out his hand to her. Arwen doesn’t look at me. Just like we agreed. We remain neutral, controlled, blank. She places her hand in his with a small nod.

My father’s grip closes around her hand, and I keep my expression flat as I watch. But my eyes don’t move. I track every inch.

My father notices. His gaze lifts to me without moving his head, and he holds it as he lifts the back of her hand to his lips. I don’t blink as Arwen stays still.