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ONE
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Scarlett Hanlon doesn’t belong.
That much is obvious.
Orchid Lane is hard-core BDSM, leather, chains, and latex. Piercings everywhere. Whips and Saint Andrew’s crosses. And she…
Christ, she’s no breath of spring, either.
No, she’s something else entirely, born of a different part of hell. Temptation wrapped in an air of innocence no doubt carefully curated from the moment she was born, the type where the girl’s been kept under the right kind of shelter where she’s groomed for the right role.
The kind of girl who’s usually bartered for something by whoever controls her.
In this case, her fuck of a father.
Her river of thick black waves stands out, shining and loose, not twisted up or slicked back and made for a man to manipulate her head, to angle it just how he might want it.
Even the red dress that skims her curves is seductive in the hint at what lies beneath. And it works. It’s a turn-on over all the naked and tightly bound flesh surrounding her. Right now, her back’s to me, but I can imagine her eyes as she takes everything in. Wide, probably more than a little shocked.
She’s not even in the heart of the place. Where she’s standing is surface-level respectable, at least for this club. The BDSM crosses and whips are part of the décor. The music’s got a deep, hypnotic beat. The steel and wood bar in the center of the space is crowded by those dressed for hard play in the lower levels, along with those who like to dabble, and others… the ones looking for thrills.
No, she’s not even in the heart of Orchid Lane but—I’ve read her history, seen her pictures—someone like Scarlett, with her pampered upbringing, should be running screaming, horrified, from this place.
Something electric like excitement spins down my spine.
Because I don’t think she will.
And that… fuck, I can use that.
I watch her through the cameras in my office, not bothering to switch angles as I tap a ringed hand on the back of the black velvet low-slung sofa.
Scarlett fucking Hanlon, daughter of the mark, one half of Hanlon Shipping, whose inner circles I’m looking to infiltrate for a client seedier than most. The pay’s huge and it came to me through the Obsidian Knights. It’s a job I’d have taken on regardless, just to get to her father, but the fat paycheck and white-hot daughter only make my objective more delicious.
“Sir…?”
I vaguely register the sex-soaked tone of the naked whore on the floor at my feet, one whom minutes ago I was looking forward to fucking, but now…
My attention’s on the computer screen on my desk across the room.
I thought my efforts to get Scarlett’s weak prick of a father to send her out as a sacrificial lamb would take longer. I either underestimated his weakness or her loyalty. I’m leaning toward the latter.
Ultimately, though, it doesn’t matter.
As long as she’s here.
As long as my private plan goes down how I need it to after the job’s done.
Death, destruction, revenge among the chaos.
“Mr. West?”
This time the voice comes from my earpiece.
“Bernadette? One minute,” I say as the girl on the floor with the kind of body and face that make most grown men want to come in their fucking pants starts licking her lips and sliding her hands on my thighs.
She stops the moment my gaze touches hers. I wait for her to back the fuck off before I tune back into the front of house. “You were saying?”
