Damn it.When he snarled, the echo surrounded him, as if he were a caged animal. He'd go to Club Atlantis tonight. Maybe he'd find some relief there, if only for his aggression. They probably wouldn't let him in. Though he'd been in this town only long enough to go three times, he'd gotten the distinct impression he was wearing out his welcome. He didn't blame them. While he'd been to other BDSM
clubs on his travels, they'd been less reputable, more willing to overlook his uncertain temperament in favor of his money.
Money was never a problem. Like the witch hunters of old, he took it from the homes and bank accounts of his quarry when he could swing it, poured it into more weapons, more hunts, more training.
That was another reason Jacob made the damn Inquisition comparison, though Gideon didn't care for it.
He was hunting creatures that were killers, and he wasn't living like Donald Trump. Hell, that temporary club membership was the only significant cost he'd had unrelated to his hunting. He always had plenty left to hide in his cheap room, because what else did he care to do with it?
He didn't like establishing routines, because he was hardly unknown to the vampire world. But he'd been here just over a month, longer than he'd been in most places, and the mystery of Atlantis kept him coming back. It was as if something was hiding there, a faint song in the forest, leading him to the enchanted castle. He went each time, expecting to find it, but had only ended up frustrated.
Hell, he shouldn't be going there at all. He knew the terrible, secret reason he went to those places, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. He was seeking to re-create that one moment of peace. A moment created by a Dominant female vampire, his brother's Mistress, and given to him as a gift.
He didn't deserve any more gifts. He didn't deserve anything. But in some twisted way, he knew he went there seeking punishment. To give or take it, he didn't know, but he had a feeling tonight might be the night he finally found out. It wouldn't be a good thing for anyone crazy enough to mess with him.
I don't even know who you are anymore, Gideon . . . This is beating you down . . .
Jacob's words from that night. It had been a long time ago, but they haunted him. The way a million other fucking things did. He was a haunted house, unable to burn himself down, no matter how often he struck the match.
Gideon . . . This is beating you down . . .
Jacob's words from that night. It had been a long time ago, but they haunted him. The way a million other fucking things did. He was a haunted house, unable to burn himself down, no matter how often he struck the match.
1
ANWYN stood in the security room, her eyes trained on the surveillance screen for the Queen's Chamber. With the high canopy bed, lush draperies and polished restraint systems, it was one of her favorite rooms. The stainless steel and gleaming wood instruments of pleasure and torture had been rendered by quality craftspeople. She'd spent a lot of time designing it, her own private fantasy room in a club dedicated to fantasy. In some ways, she considered it hers, though she took very few sessions herself anymore.
Running any business consumed a great deal of time, and Club Atlantis more than most. An exclusive BDSM club, Atlantis dared to cater to the most extreme players, the ones who wanted to step boldly over the lines and fully immerse themselves in a world few understood, even those who played at less strenuous levels. Knowing persity was key to business success, Anwyn had an upper level for those softer-lifestyle people, as well as the dabblers and thrill seekers. This was the underground level, its geography enhancing the psychological impact of what it was about. The deep core zone.
Though everything that occurred in Atlantis was legal in the ways that mattered, they had the same philosophy as an illegal business. The people who came here paid a high price for the painful pleasures they sought, and therefore they weren't interested in lawyers and liability suits. It made it easier to meet those needs.
Down here, people were fully dedicated to hard-core Domination and submission. They understood that consensual was a term used by the politically correct. While soul-deep consent was the unspoken treasure that made their Dominance or submission possible, they wanted to lose themselves in their craving to dominate or be dominated. For those purposes, choice was often a disruption to the fantasy . .. or the need. Because that was a line that required careful straddling to make sure everyone stayed safe, her largest cost was well-trained security outside each playroom door, and video surveillance of what was happening inside. The eyes she paid to watch those screens never wavered, her staff making a play-by-play judgment as to where the line was. A private ambulance and an on-staff medical team were ready to help those who needed it.