I’m not five steps into Crossroads the next evening when I’m summoned to Charlie’s office. The messenger is Steph, and from her expression I surmise I’m not about to be offered a raise. After an encouraging squeeze of my arm, she wishes me luck and disappears.

As I walk toward the back hallway—and potentially my last paycheck—I can’t summon remorse. Sure, my impulsivity yesterday might have gotten me canned, might force me to move if I can’t find another job by the end of the week, but I still don’t regret what happened. That feeling, for brief minutes, of relief. Or as Nate called it, freedom from inner-bondage.

I remind myself that working at a sex club was never my career of choice, but rather a Band-Aid on bills until I could figure out how the fuck to live again. I’m not there yet—don’t know if it’s even possible—but Crossroads can’t be the last house on the block for me. Whatever happens right now, I’m not giving up. No way in hell I’m going back to New York.

In the hallway, I glance past Charlie’s door to the next, wondering if Cross is in his office right now. If he knows what’s happening or feels guilty. Then I concede that it’s probably better this way—if he apologized, it would make everything harder. My emotions where he’s concerned are tangled up enough already.

I knock and Charlie calls, “Come in!”

Her office couldn’t be more different from her partner’s, the decor matching the theme of the club itself—all white, gold, and silver. Silk tapestries, a delicate gold chandelier, and a gleaming glass and metal desk opposite plush floor cushions. It’s a bright, serene, harem-esque cave perfectly suited for making visitors feel welcome. A gilded trap to trick the unsuspecting into letting their guards down. But Charlie isn’t nearly as scary as she thinks she is.

I’ve been in a real predator’s trap.

My mind flashes back to a room many times the size of this one, with thousand-dollar rugs and custom furniture. With open windows letting in the mingled scent of roses and jasmine along with brilliant natural light. Priceless artworks. An entire wall lined with books. A place of culture and refinement. A place I first loved, then loathed.

Forcing the foul memory from my mind, I close the door and face Charlie. “You wanted to see me?” I do my best to sound normal, not like I just had a flashback that made my skin crawl and armpits damp. I do my breathing exercise, imagining my lungs are gills.

I’m okay.

Charlie, sitting behind her desk, looks up from some paperwork. She has her poker face on, but her eyes are tight at the corners. She’s either too focused to notice my disquiet, or I’m getting better at hiding it.

“Have a seat, London.”

I glance at the floor pillows. “I’m okay standing, thanks. What’s up?”

Her lips pinch. “I heard a rumor. A very distressing rumor that you’ve broken one of the cardinal rules of Crossroads. Do you remember rules one through three?”

I wilt inside. There goes my job. “No fraternizing with the clients.”

She cocks her head. “You’re not going to deny it?”

I shrug. “What would be the point? I’m assuming Cross told you his version of what happened.”

Her brows skyrocket. “What does Dominic have to do with this?”

My brain slips sideways. “What? What are you talking about?”

Charlie sits forward, disturbing papers. A pen clatters to the floor. “I’m talking about Liam Rourke. Now tell me what the hell happened with Dominic.” Her voice is clipped and icy, the tip of an iceberg hiding miles of ruin-your-vacation feelings.

I just stepped into a shit-pile of my own making.

“Uhh—”

Charlie’s gaze flies over my shoulder a moment before a dark voice says, “Nothing happened. She’s likely referring to when I interrupted them and hauled her out of there for a reprimand. Which you know, since you watched the video feeds.”

Oh my God. The new security cameras. Nate and I are officially idiots.

“Forgot about those, did you?” Cross murmurs for my ears. His voice is closer than before, though I might be imagining the heat of his body on my spine.

Charlie’s eyes narrow, glittering as they veer between me and the man I haven’t turned to look at. I can barely keep my breathing under control as it is. The last thing I need is to see his eyes, his stupidly perfect face.

“And how did you reprimand her?” Charlie asks him tightly.

“I told her to suck my dick. She quickly decided she didn’t want to play at being submissive, after all. Lesson learned.”

Charlie sputters in unfeigned surprise. I gasp, hot mortification flooding my veins. Mortification and anger. My weakness forgotten, I spin and glare up at Cross’s expressionless face.

“You have no right to make it sound that way! I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Darkness flickers in his eyes. “Weren’t you? You’re not a submissive, London. You thought you might like it, but when push came to shove, you were just pretending.”

I gape. “Do you have selective amnesia?”

Will you hurt me?

The words ricochet like a bullet between us, taking pieces of us and leaving wounds behind. Exposing the ugly truth—our fear of what we want, tied inexorably to our primitive needs.

Cross’s eyes drop to my throat. Mine veer to his jaw, clenched tight, a muscle ticking as he grinds his teeth.

“You could have been kind,” I hiss.

“Yes, I could have been,” he grinds out. “But that’s not what you want, is it?”

The blow lands squarely, taking my breath. “You don’t have a fucking clue what I want.” My voice wavers. “You’re too wrapped up in your self-hatred to see it.”

His eyes widen, then narrow with a look that makes me want to run. Fast and far and immediately. But my feet are glued to the ground. Even when he steps so close the toes of our shoes connect, I don’t move.

With my job gone, I’ve got nothing left to lose. I don’t even know why I’m arguing—what I’m fighting for—but it feels more important, bigger and more real than anything in recent memory. More than anything since—

“Say it again.” His voice drops like a machete through my thoughts.

“Say what, exactly? That hating yourself is no excuse for treating me poorly?”

“Whoa!” shouts Charlie. “Mind clueing me in on what the fuck you two are talking about?”

“No,” snaps Cross.

Without breaking eye contact with Cross, I tell Charlie, “I asked the oh-so-respected Dominic Cross to hurt me. Safely, sanely, and consensually. Because the more I think about it, the more I want it. Need it. And he refused because he’s had his head up his ass so long he can’t see I’m not his fucking wife.”