Page 22 of Nash
The room is quiet. I don't confirm. I don't deny.
"I'm glad you're here tonight," she says. "Because I need your eyes on something."
I lean against the doorframe.
"There's a couple. Members for about four months. Derek and Tessa." She pulls a file from the stack. "They went through the full intake. Interviews, references, consent documentation. Everything checked out."
"But."
"Tessa's been coming in with marks that don't match what's on their approved activity list." Amelia's voice stays level, but her pen stops tapping. "I've seen her flinch twice in the lobby when he puts his hand on her back. Last week she came in wearing long sleeves in July."
My jaw tightens.
"He's charming. Knows the vocabulary. Talks about boundaries and aftercare like he read the manual." She sets the pen down. "But I've been in rooms with men who use the right words to do the wrong things, and something about the way she watches his face before she answers a question makes my skin crawl."
"Have you talked to her alone?"
"I tried. He showed up ten minutes into the conversation. Said he wanted to make sure she was comfortable." Amelia meets my eyes. "She was comfortable before he got there."
The back of my neck goes hot. A Dom who uses the title to isolate, to control outside of consent, to make a woman watch his face before she speaks. That's not dominance. That's a man using the structure of trust to dismantle it from the inside.
"Is Tessa safe right now?"
"They're not scheduled until next week."
"When they come in, I want to be here. I'll watch the session from the monitor room."
Amelia nods.
"Get Tessa alone before that. Without him knowing. Have the conversation. If she confirms what you're seeing, pull the membership and flag him. If she doesn't, flag him anyway and put a monitor on every session going forward."
"And if it's what I think it is?"
"Then the club handles Derek."
The words come out flat. Quiet. Victor would put Derek through a wall. Victor, who built his entire dynamic with Olivia on the principle that power exchanged without trust is just abuse with better lighting. Victor, whose first wife used control as a weapon until the club took care of it, and who spent years rebuilding what that word meant before he let himself hold it again.
Amelia studies me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just make sure she's okay."
I push off the doorframe and walk the corridor to the main floor. The venue is empty, secure, and quiet; the quiet is the problem.
Ruby would fill this space in thirty seconds. She'd have an opinion about the lighting, a joke about the furniture, a running commentary on the layout that would make me bite the inside of my cheek. She'd find the darkest corner of the venue and ask me what it was used for with that look on her face, chin tilted, red lips pulling into a grin that's already daring me to answer.
The thought sits in my chest and spreads. Ruby in this building. In one of those rooms. Ruby, who pushes back on every instruction I give her, who says "yes sir" in a voice that turns compliance into a dare. Who tests every boundary I set and watches my face when she crosses it.
Ruby, who doesn't know what she's asking for when she looks at me the way she looked at me tonight.
I know.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Ruby hits the women's group chat. Candace screenshots it to Malachi—this one time, because apparently "baby shower" overrides all prank-war confidentiality—and Malachi screenshots it to the officer thread, because nothing in this clubhouse stays contained for longer than forty seconds.
Sunday. Clubhouse. 2pm. The Sergeant-at-Arms is about to become a father.
Beneath it, a photo of a pastel balloon arch already half-assembled in Ruby's car.
