Page 66 of His Holy Chaos

The club turns. I watch a man at the bar lower his glass. Pierce whoops, Noa is clapping, another friend is filming on his phone, and Jude is dancing on a table in a BDSM club like he was born in the spotlight.

The thing expanding in my chest isn't embarrassment. It's pride. This reckless, incandescent, impossible creature who sings Disney to my daughter and cries on my guest room floor. He's mine. He chose me. And I'm standing in a club I'd never have entered five months ago, nursing a whiskey, watching chaos incarnate dance in purple light, and I am having, against every instinct and principle I've cultivated in fifty-three years of careful living, the time of my life.

Henry appears at my elbow. He treats me like we're old friends, even though we just met tonight.

"First time watching yours go full brat?" he asks.

"First time watching him go full brat in public."

Henry laughs. "It gets worse," he says cheerfully. "Wait till they start coordinating."

They're already coordinating. I can see it in the way Pierce has joined Jude on the adjacent table, and Noa is heading there already, practically bouncing.

I watch. I drink.

The coordinated misbehavior peaks at eleven fifteen, when Jude and Pierce execute what can only be described as a synchronized drink-stealing relay that leaves three separate tables without their cocktails and one bewildered Dom holding a glass of water he definitely didn't order. Noa provides cover by playfully flirting with the bartender, drawing his attention long enough for the heist to complete. It's impressive. It's infuriating.

Henry shakes his head. "They've been planning this all night."

"Since before we arrived, probably," I agree. "The drink relay had choreography."

Elliot joins us at the bar, compact and bearded. He leans against it, arms crossed.

"Time to remind them who's in charge," Henry says, clearly enjoying himself. He looks at me, then at Elliot. "You're new to this," he says to me. Not unkindly.

"To the club. Not to discipline."

"Fair enough. What do you know about communal correction?"

"I know the theory. I haven't practiced it in public."

"It's simpler than it sounds. The point is the spectacle. They want attention. We give them attention. Just not the kind they were shopping for."

"Rice and corn. Center floor. Fifteen minutes," Elliot suggests. "Gives the room something to watch that reminds everyone where the lines are."

"I'm in," I say. We exchange a look, the kind of mischief usually reserved for brats.

We move together. Henry goes toward Noa. Elliot toward the blue-haired catastrophe currently attempting to convince a sub twice his size to swap collars. I walk toward Jude, who's back on solid ground now but buzzing with performance energy, his cheeks flushed, his eyes scanning the room for the next available disruption.

He sees me coming. I watch his face process it. He's read my body enough times to know the difference between casual and intentional. His smile doesn't disappear, but it sharpens. The playful curve tightens into something watchful.

"Daddy," he says, and the word is a dare. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"Immensely." I stop in front of him. "Which is why you're going to kneel for me now."

The effect is immediate. His pupils blow wide. His chin lifts.

"You wouldn't dare," he says, and his voice is steady, but his pulse isn't. I can see it in his throat, hammering against the skin.

"Wouldn't I, brat?"

Across the room, the scene unfolds in parallel. Henry's hand on Noa's shoulder, guiding him forward; Elliot murmuring something against Pierce's ear that makes the blue-haired brat go still for the first time all evening. The room notices. Bodies turn.

Glynn has spread a thin layer of rice and dried corn kernels in the center of the floor. The grains glitter under the overhead lights like confetti at a parade, except this confetti bites.

Jude sees it. His breath catches. He's in nothing but tiny denim shorts. Convenient.

"Kneel," I say. Heads turn. A woman near the bar sets down her drink. The DJ drops the music half a decibel, instinctively creating space for what's happening.