Page 120 of What We Bury

“Of course,” Sage says, cool as a cucumber. “Your shoes are back in your cupboard too.”

“Thanks, honey.” Amy goes to hug Sage again but Tyler grabs her by the arm.

“Let’s go,” he grunts.

“Bye.” Amy gives a little finger wave. “Nice to meet you, Milo.”

“Same to you.” I wave at them as they leave, still smiling wide. “See you around, Stephen!”

Tyler stops in the doorway. “Who the fuck is Stephen?”

“Sorry, man,” I say, injecting just the right amount of sheepish into my shrug. “I thought Amy said your name was Stephen. I’m terrible with names.”

He stares at me, mouth open like he’s about to say something, but it seems his brain comes up short. He jerks his head at Amy, all but dragging her out the door.

Sage is glaring at me.

“Stephen?” she mutters.

“Just checking something, kitten,” I say, dropping a kiss on the top of her head before I head back to the kitchen. “Why don’t you relax for a bit? Put on a movie while I clean this up. If you pick something sad likeThe Notebook, I can eat you out while you cry. Turn that pain into pure pleasure.”

She gawks at me. “You’re actually deranged,” she says, but she’s smiling again. She’s also blushing all the way up her neck, and her eyes are alive, teasing.

“Deranged is the fun flavor, kitten. Trust me, all the best people are.” I make a show of rinsing the plates in the sink, then glance over my shoulder. “Movie. Seriously. Pick something. The shittier the better. Double points for anything with sparkly vampires or a tragic ending where I can lick the tears right off your?—”

“Fine,” she interrupts, “I’ll find something. But I’m not watchingTwilight. And I’m definitely not watchingThe Notebookwith you.” She pauses. “Not tonight, anyway.”

THIRTY-THREE

KNOX

Ipull the mask down over my eyes and push through the door onto the main floor.

During opening hours, Unholy Desires is a different animal from the dead building we sat in this morning. The house lights are killed, replaced by pools of amber and violet that turn skin into something painted. The music is low and heavy, more pulse than melody, the kind that gets inside your ribs and syncs with your heartbeat.

The change hits the moment I cross the threshold.

My eyes adjust in two seconds. I clock exits, count bodies, mark the high-traffic clusters. Habit. The room registers me back—a couple of heads turn at the size of me, then return to their drinks. That’s also habit. Mine and theirs.

You don’t stumble into this place by accident. You’re vetted, sponsored, background-checked, and you sign paperwork that would make a lawyer blush before you ever see the inside of the door. What’s behind that door is the whole point. No warm-up. No easing in. You walk through, and the world you came from stops existing.

The main floor is open plan. Bar along one wall, lounge seating in clusters, and at the center, the exhibition stage. Tonight it’s a shibari demonstration—a woman suspended in an intricate web of red rope, her body arched, her eyes closed, her rigger circling her with the slow precision of a sculptor. She’s naked except for the rope, and the light catches every line the jute has pressed into her skin. There’s a crowd watching. Some standing, some draped over each other on the low couches. Nobody speaks above a murmur. The etiquette here is reverence.

Beyond the stage, the floor opens into alcoves and themed rooms. Some have curtains. Some don’t. You want to be seen, you leave it open. In one alcove a woman is on her knees, her partner’s hand fisted in her hair, looking up at him with an expression somewhere between worship and war. In another, three people tangled on a daybed, moving slowly, deliberately, like they’ve got all night and plan to use it. A man in a leather harness leads another man past on a leash, and neither breaks stride.

The only sin in this place is pretending you don’t want it.

I’ve worked this floor on and off for years. Seen every kink, every configuration, every shade of desire people keep locked behind closed doors. Dominance. Submission. Pain as pleasure. Pleasure as surrender. Bodies used as instruments, as canvases, as offerings. None of it shocks me. None of it repulses me. It justis.People want, and this is where they come to stop pretending they don’t.

My job is to make sure none of it goes wrong.

Security at a sex club isn’t what people think. It’s not standing at the door looking menacing—that’s the easy part. The real work is inside. Watching the rooms. Reading the scenes. Knowing the difference between a woman crying because she wants to and a woman crying because something’s broken. Between a man on his knees because he chose it and a man onhis knees because he’s too drunk to know what he agreed to. Between the sharp crack of a palm on skin that was asked for and one that wasn’t.

Consent is the architecture of this place. Without it, the whole thing collapses. The security team’s job is to make sure it holds.

I tap my earpiece to announce myself to the team. “Mehlar on floor.”

“Copy. Welcome back, Mr. Mehlar.” Ed’s voice in my ear, calm as ever. “Six on the floor, three on cameras, two on the back corridor. Stage about to wrap a shibari, nothing flagged. Twelve’s lit, sapphire and ruby.”