Page 100
“Hey, Doll Baby,” Damon says, arm curling around my waist.
I rise on my toes and kiss him. It starts slow, but turns deep, full of the day’s pent-up longing. He hums against my mouth, one big hand sliding possessively around my waist. Then I turn to Hunter, kissing him just as thoroughly. His fingers thread into my hair, holding me close for an extra heartbeat, like he’s been waiting for this all day, too.
God. I love to feel his hands on me.
“I missed you both,” I murmur against his lips. “How’s Ares?”
“He misses you, too. You’re the only one who lets him take up half the bed.”
I’ve been staying with Timothy the last few days, helping him through the final stretch of his physical therapy. He’s ready to come back to us, but the doctors insisted on a few more days of monitored recovery before he returns to the House of Night full-time.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, peering down at the maps spread across the table.
Hunter points to a section near the Mercer property. “Timothy knows the tunnel system better than anyone. He’s studied it for years. We’re focused on the ones that branch out from where everything went down before Christmas.”
Damon scratches at his jaw. “We sent a group down there, but it forks off in too many directions. We had to turn back. Didn’t want anyone getting lost or trapped.”
Timothy is sitting in a large leather armchair nearby, studying another set of blueprints with intense concentration. He looks better every single day–stronger and more solid–but there’s still a careful way he carries himself, protecting the healing wound in his chest.
After a long moment, he smooths down his beard and leans back with a sigh. “I swear I look at these maps and it’s always the same. One dead end after the other.”
Hunter rustles the papers on the table, flipping through them quickly. “Have either of you seen the blueprint from the water department? I can’t find it.”
Damon shuffles through the papers. “It’s not over here.”
Timothy gives a small, distracted, shake of his head. I meet his eye and move over to him and sit in his lap. “You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” he reassures me, catching my hand and pressing a warm kiss to my palm before brushing my hair off my cheek. “How was your day?”
“Good. I’m going to need to book some extra time in the studio to make sure I’ve got my solo ready.”
“I’m sure you’ll be perfect.”
The compliment warms my chest, and I can’t wait for him to see my performance.
Pushing the blueprints aside, Hunter runs his hands over his face and says, “It all feels like one dead end after another.”
I can’t help but notice they all look a little restless, especially Timothy. Too many days cooped up in the hospital, and then here in this house
“Maybe you should take a break. We can have dinner,” I suggest. “Or go out somewhere?”
“Not sure I’m ready to handle the scrutiny of Forsyth,” he rubs my arm, “at least not yet.”
I spent so many years trapped inside Strong Manor, only being allowed out for scheduled classes or events. I know what it does to someone to feel isolated. I don’t want that for Timothy. Whatever we do, we need to do it together.
“You know,” I say, an idea slowly taking form, “there is one place in Forsyth where we can go and be mostly anonymous…”
The three of them share a loaded look. Damon’s mouth curves into that dark, knowing smirk I love so much. Hunter raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
Timothy doesn’t answer–he doesn’t have to–I feel it against my backside when his erection thickens at the idea. He nips my earlobes and says, “Someone go get the car.”
Timothy leads us through the back entrance of Noir Sanctum, bypassing the main floor and the prying eyes of the patrons. His hand is firm on my lower back as we move down a dimly lit hallway lined with heavy velvet curtains. The air grows thicker here, heavy with incense, musk, and anticipation. When he opens the door to the private suite, my breath catches.
The room is far more luxurious than the one we used last time. Deep crimson and black dominate the space. Plush velvet couches line two walls, perfect for watching or being watched. A fully stocked bar gleams in the corner, crystal glasses and expensive bottles catching the low golden light. But the centerpiece is unmistakable–a low platform dominating the center of the room, not quite a table or a bed. It’s a soft cushion, framed underneath in ornate and heavy iron scrollwork, fitted with discreet attachment points, silk ropes already dangling beneath, and leather cuffs neatly arranged on a nearby table. The entire space screams controlled decadence.
“You’ve been holding out on us,” Hunter says, his voice low and rough as he steps inside, eyes sweeping over the room with dark appreciation.
Timothy closes the door behind us with a quiet click. “I know you prefer voyeurism,” he explains to Hunter, a hint of a smirk in his voice. “This seemed a little too private for your tastes.”
