DAMON

I do not enjoy surprises. I pride myself on anticipating reactions. Moves. Like a chessboard. Think three steps ahead. I knew Emery wouldn't be pleased that I shut down Lux. I knew that my request for a private dance would be ignored. But I didn't know that the emotion dancing across her pale face would stab me in the chest with such guilt. I thought she'd be angry. I don't mind making her angry. Anger vibrates on a similar frequency as the emotion I'll eventually conjure within her. But she's not angry.

Her beautiful green eyes gloss over with a sea of sadness, the glistening effect making them shine bright like a halo on an angel. But there's nothing ethereal about the way she stands before me, lifeless and weak. Like a ghost who has no one to haunt. Like a phantom with no purpose. Like a spirit with no soul. Her green eyes briefly turn a familiar shade of blue, and my heart races with agonizing regret as she runs off the stage.

"Emery!" I bolt out of my seat, cursing myself for such a foolish move. I refuse to have her look at me like that. I've seen that look before. I've suffered the consequences of that look. Not again. Never again. "Emery, wait! Stop!"

"Such a bastard," she mumbles, voice trembling with emotion. She scoops up her bags off the floor, dashing to the back exit.

"Emery, please, stop." The last time I sounded this desperate, I learned that begging was useless. She swings open the door and I chase after her, like some sick fuck who isn't capable of learning from the past. Like some masochist who enjoys reliving devastating history. "Emery!"

"What?!" She spins around, teeth gritted as tears spill down her cheek. Like a helpless ocean. Like the sea when the moon conspires with the sky to betray its tides, and the earth then suffers. I'm the moon. And my thoughtless actions are the sky. "You—"

Suddenly, she gasps, holding her hand to her chest as her knees buckle and she drops to the ground. I lurch toward, trepidation seizing my organs, panic spreading through my veins.

"Emery!" I kneel down beside her as her short breaths create clouds of concern in the frosty night air. With a gentle hand on her back, I ask, afraid to hear the answer, "Are you okay?"

With both arms crossed across her chest, her head hung low, she breathes out, like a prayer, "My bag. I need my bag." Unable to allow myself to be out of her reach, I stretch across the parking lot, looping the handle of her purse around my finger and tugging it toward me. "Blue," she whispers, breaths ragged and weak. "Blue ones."

I frown, opening her purse. A jumbled rainbow of prescription bottles fills up half her bag. My mind races with questions. I force myself to ignore them. Fumbling around, I find a bottle with a blue sticker on it, refusing to read the name of the medication as I twist open the cap and pull out a pill.

"Do you need water—"

Emery pops the pills into her mouth, swallowing it as if it were air. Her stiff shoulders gradually loosen as I carefully watch her start to relax, her breathing returning to normal, her terrified eyes opening. Her hand remains on her chest as lifts her head up, her glossy gaze meeting mine.

"Thank you—" She reins in a shameful cringe but I see it. "You can leave now."

"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper, afraid to move, to touch her, like she'll break upon impact. "Are you okay?"

"You've seen the contents of my bag, Damon," she says listlessly, swallowing as she shakes her head. "Does that look okay to you?" Hesitantly, she attempts to stand up. My arm is around her waist before she can protest. She doesn't. She allows me to help her to her feet. And I'm grateful. "I'm fine now. You can let go."

But I don't want to let go. The moment you let go of someone, even for a split second, you risk never holding them again. But this time is different. This time, I don't have the disapproving voices of my entire family dictating my actions. For a fleeting moment, that brings me solace. Brings me hope. But shortly after, that solace pangs my conscience and it's reverted, once again, to bitter remorse. I shake it off. Now is not the time to linger in the past.

"You look a bit pale, Miss Jones," I note. Was that a panic attack? Did I cause it? Am I the catalyst once again? "Maybe you should sit down."

"I'll be fine," she says with a pointed edge as she pulls away from me. I frown. "Don't look at me like that. I'm fine."

"Most people who are fine don't carry around seven different medications," I observe, uncouth in my prying. I swallow, mouth dry as I ask, "Are you sick?"

She lets out a bitter laugh. "We're all sick, Mr. Cavanaugh. In one way or another."

My hands ball into fists. His cruelty knows no bounds. "Is that a yes?"

"If I said yes, would you take pity on me?" She tilts her head. "Would that make me less desirable in your eyes? Would the idea of fucking a sick girl make you recoil in disgust?" Her combative gaze slices through me. "If so, then yes, I am."

Her projective words pain me. Is that how she views herself? "Your entire body could be riddled with cancer, Miss Jones, and I'd still want nothing more than to feel you wither beneath me." I take a step forward, tendering cupping her cheek. "Are you sick, Emery? Tell me. Please."

"Some things are private, Mr. Cavanaugh," she whispers, batting the urge to lean into my hand. She fights it, stepping away from me. "Like I said, I'm fine."

"I will find out, Miss Jones," I state, teetering the line between soft and firm. The former is foreign to me, but the latter could decimate my desire for the truth. "Either you tell me, or I will harass every physician in the tri-state area."

"I'd say something about doctor/patient confidentiality, but I somehow doubt that rule applies to you." She sighs, begrudgingly knocking down her king. "I'm not sick, Mr. Cavanaugh. Not anymore at least."

"Explain."

She scoffs. "I don't owe you an explanation, Mr. Cavanaugh. My health is none of your business."

"When you collapse before my eyes, Miss Jones," I say, "you make it my business."

A spark of defiance flickers across her face. "If you want to know details, Mr. Cavanaugh, then you better start calling doctors. I'd start in New York if you want a chronological account of medical history." She glowers at me. "I'm sure you'll find at least one physician with compromised morals who wouldn't mind taking your money."

My jaw tightens. "I'd prefer to hear it from you, Miss Jones."

"Yeah?" She looks over my shoulder at Lux. "Well, I'd prefer to be on stage right now, but it appears we don't always get what we want. I asked you for one thing, Mr. Cavanaugh, and you couldn't even let me have that."

"What do you mean? The stage is all yours, Miss Jones," I note, motioning to the club. "You're free to dance all night if you wish."

She glares at me. "For you? And only you? I don't think so."

"So it's not the dancing you enjoy," I muse, cocking my head to the side. "It's the attention. Is that it, Miss Jones? Well, I promise you, you have my undivided attention."

"Unbelievable." Emery lets out a low, frustrated scoff. "It's always about you, isn't it? What Damon wants, Damon gets. It must be nice, you know, to have such control over your life." Her hard gaze snaps at me. "This stage, Mr. Cavanaugh, is the only place that I have even an iota of control over my life. So no, it's not the attention I crave, it's the power that comes with that attention."

She doesn't know it yet, but she's the most powerful creature I've ever encountered. She occupies my thoughts, both past and present. Her energy, it's not something I can ignore. I can forget. I can fight to ignore it. Her power over me is unyielding, so much so that my thoughts often float to the possibility of a future. But what that future holds solely depends on how she wishes to use her power.

"Control isn't power, Miss Jones. Power comes for receiving, not giving." I lick my lips, weighing whether she's ready to walk on the side of the moon. "If you want to see what real power looks like, Miss Jones, I can take you to a place that'll make you feel like a goddamn queen."

She narrows her eyes. "What are you talking about?" 

"Come with me." I hold out my hand, inviting her to enter a world she's only ever heard of. A world with many misconceptions. Once she sees what I'm asking her for, maybe, just maybe, she'll be willing to be mine. "I'm going to show you just how powerful giving up control can truly be."

She eyes my hand warily. "Why should I go with you?"

"Because..." I give her an all-knowing smile. "I think Club Hades will become your new favorite playground."

"Club Hades?" she asks, curiosity brimming. "Is that another strip club?"

I chuckle. Despite her attempts to be bad, Emery is still so goddamn innocent. "You said you don't like fantasies, Miss Jones. Is that correct?" She nods tentatively. "Then you'll enjoy Club Hades." I offer her my hand again, beckoning her to take the first step into her new life. "There are no fantasies there... Only reality."

"It's a sex club," Emery acutely muses, nibbling on her bottom lip, and I can't look away. Oh, the things I want to do to that pretty little mouth. "You want to take me to a sex club?"

"And you want to go," I observe, my smile growing as she reaches for my hand. When our skin touches, we find each other's eyes. They're identical. Both glowing bright with possibilities. She follows me to my car, her gentle grip loosening when I open the passenger's side door. She pauses as if having second thoughts. "Get in, Miss Jones. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Will you let me leave if decide I don't like it?" she asks.

"You're not a prisoner, Miss Jones," I reply. I am. "You may leave anytime, although I am confident you will want to stay and watch."

"Watch?" Her brow perks up.

"Tonight we watch," I say. "And then we decide." She nibbles on her lip, mulling over my proposition. "Well? Shall we go, Miss Jones?"

Her answer is written across her face. "If I get in..." She tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Will you stop calling me Miss Jones?"

I smirk. "I'll take it into consideration." Emery's eyes narrow, fighting the urge to protest, but with a shaky breath, she slides into the car. "Good girl."

Her gaze flicks up at me, and her plump lips curl into a smile. "I like that," she whispers, chest rising with covetous thirst. "Say it again."

My cock twitches. "All in due time, Miss Jones." I close her door. "All in due time."