Couples that liked to push it way past the safe-word route, into play that was far too risky for the body. Asphyxiation, full sensory deprivation, beatings, electric shock. Russian roulette with loaded weapons. Anwyn passed by it all with perfect aplomb, whereas Gideon felt like he needed a shower. What he’d seen in the lower levels of her dungeon had skirted into these areas, but were far better monitored, the boundaries far clearer than he’d realized at the time. Anwyn had no interest in facilitating people with a careless desire to throw away their lives or who cared so little for the trust of their slaves that they’d cause them permanent damage.
While Gideon had shied away from the physical machinations of BDSM, having a difficult enough time with his own strong responses to psychological D/s, he had a new appreciation for Anwyn’s firm but intelligent hand on it by the time they reached the final staircase. They were already belowground, making Gideon wonder if the club had once been some type of utility facility, delving this far into the earth.
“If you’re a bit squeamish about taking things too far, this level isn’t for you, little queen,” Xavier said, sliding a finger across the top of her right breast, a casually possessive touch, as if he already assumed he had that liberty. “Typically only very select clientele go into this area.”
“Lord Stephen hinted you had such a place.” Her gaze gleamed, her lips lifting in a cruel smile. “Why do you think I was so eager to come here?” She glanced back at Gideon as if she were looking at a prized possession, not a sentient being. “Last night, I used a bullwhip on him. Thirty-six lashes, until the skin was hanging in strips off his back.” She gave a shiver. “He screamed during the last of it. Then he crawled to me, put his lips to my shoe. I was a Mistress before I was a vampire, but I find I like how much deeper I can take it . . . with fangs.”
“I would have liked to see that. I can see why Lord Stephen directed you our way.” Eyes gleaming in anticipation, Xavier flourished her ahead. “I have a captive lion below that needs to learn quite a bit more humility. Maybe I’ll let you help me with that.”
“My pleasure.” Anwyn’s expression reflected eagerness, with the right touch of wariness. Gideon amended his earlier assessment. She was scarier than he’d ever imagined she could be. However, as she gracefully descended, he had to bite back his irritation and discomfort when Xavier stepped in behind her, leaving him to bring up the rear. The bastard’s hand rested nearly on her ass to “steady” her going down the winding staircase.
We’re getting close, Gideon. She’d done such a good job of pulling in Xavier, Gideon was relieved to hear her voice, the concern and compassion, speak in his mind. I can feel him, but I’m not sure . . . I think he’s out again.
All right. We know our plan. Hold to it. I’ve seen eight vampires in the building so far, and it’s a safe bet Xavier’s linked to all of them.
This was a dungeon in truth, complete with water dripping from damp walls and stifling, close air. Though he heard nothing, it was like the stone had absorbed past cries of pain and hopelessness. Cold fingers gripped his vitals. As they reached the ground level, Xavier took them down a narrow, poorly lit corridor. Opening a metal door with a security panel code, he swung it inward, gesturing Anwyn ahead of him.
Following them in, Gideon saw several cells. Two of them held small clusters of young women who had obviously been club patrons above. Their clothes were too thin and scanty for this damp level. Some were like junkies, sprawled on the dirty floor or cots in various stages of stupor. Seeing the pallid tones of their skin, their lethargy, he realized they were being used as donors, with no care for how much or how often. When they were husks, their bodies would be discarded.
Others not so far gone huddled in the corners or behind the cots, keeping their eyes down, as if that would keep them from being noticed. He saw bruises and gashes, evidence of other forms of abuse Anwyn would recognize far too well. The pretty clothes they’d donned to entice others and please themselves were now soiled rags that mocked the independent spirit that