LYNDA AICHER

“Goddamn it, Deklan. We need to stop it!” Seth Mathews paced away from the screen, raked his fingers through his hair and spun back to glare at his business partner.

The other man held firm, his face a mask of chiseled rock. “Not ’til we hear the word.”

“Christ. He could be permanently injured before that happens.”

Deklan looked down, his hands balling into hard fists. He shook his head, the distress showing in the rigid line of his jaw. “Not our call. You know the rules.”

“Fuck the rules.” Seth swung around, barely resisting the need to punch something. Someone. “It’s gone too far. Look at him.” He pointed to the security screen, the evidence playing out in full color for them to watch.

Put me out of my, put me out my fucking misery. The words screeched through the room, the heavy metal song seeming to say what the man bound to the St. Andrew’s cross couldn’t. The audio feed provided gruesome detail to the abuse taking place in the private room. That was what Seth called it. Because in his opinion, what they were watching had nothing to do with dominance and submission.

Every hiss and crack of the whip was like a stinging bite to Seth’s own skin. The stoic grunts and curses from the submissive a call for help that they were ignoring.

Deklan stared at the screen, cursed again. “How long have they been at it?”

“Forty-five minutes.” Rock pointed to the small clock ticking way in the corner of the screen. The video feed kicked on and off every time someone entered and left a private room. A trick of technology the security lead had engineered, along with the auto storage and backup of every recording. The ex-military man was a computer genius behind a battle-hardened front.

“If you don’t do something, I will.” Screw Winters. Deklan might oversee security, but it was Seth who dealt with the business fallout. And the Scene playing out before them was clearly in the realm of extreme edge play. “Consensual or not, this is not what The Den is about.”

He pushed around Rock’s chair to get to the door but was halted by Deklan’s hand on his chest. He glared at Deklan, willing the man to move before he was forced to punch him.

“Christ. It’s not like I condone it.” Deklan met his glare and raised it with his own snarl. “But we can’t stop every Scene we don’t agree with.”

“And if he’s injured? Then what?”

Jake entered the room on a wave of thumping dance music that clashed with the guitar riff screeching from the computer. He pulled up short, gaze darting between the both men. “What’s going on?”

“Bad Scene,” Rock finally said, his gruff voice filling the tense pause.

“Fuck. Who is it?” Jake slammed the door and strode over to the security screens. He shoved between Seth and Deklan to stand behind Rock’s chair and break up their standoff. He swore a blue streak when he saw the feed. “What a shithead.”

Even with the mask covering the top half of his face and head, they all recognized the Dom on the screen. With over five hundred members, it was hard to know everyone by name. Well, except for Deklan, who had a freak-brain for details. But all three owners could identify the high-profile members on sight.

“What’s he thinking?” Jake voiced Seth thoughts. “Does he want to get outed?”

“He’d fuckin’ deserve it,” Seth mumbled.

Deklan jerked around, eyes narrowing. Seth glared back. It was the truth. The goddamn privacy clause in the contract prevented Seth from acting on the desire, and they both knew it. It would be club suicide.

“Who’s the sub?”

“Tyler Wysong,” Deklan and Seth answered in unison.​