Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.

Hello, hello! For once, there's a chapter that fits with the holiday, or it would've if it were posted three days ago. Think you can still summon some Halloween spirit? :)

I'm even more woefully behind than usual on responding to reviews, but I'll get to them, promise. Thank you so, so much for all your comments and encouragement. It really is fuel to my fire.

This one is for Grace (I'm sorry your present is so hideously overdue, but if it wasn't late, you wouldn't know it was from me, right? ;)) and Helena cuz it's her special day! *throws confetti*

Hope you enjoy this one. We're fast (er, relatively) approaching the end.

I'll post a pic of Elena's collar on Tumblr tomorrow. Check out my page at seethegoodinyou if you're interested.

Reviews are balm to a writer's soul, so leave one, pretty please? xoxo

Catch you on the other side! :)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Damon tilts the sketch, admiring Nik's work. Talented bastard. It's exactly what he wanted. It's like Nik crawled into his mind and captured every detail, right down to the final length of rope and the scarlet petals on the rose.

A ping from his laptop signals a new email, and he slaps the computer shut without looking at it. He should be ass-deep in spreadsheets—this month's financial report isn't going to write itself—but after spending thirty-eight minutes with Agent Myles, enduring his snide comments on how people in the kink community are "asking for trouble," he would rather focus on the design his friend spent hours crafting to perfection.

The FBI agent showed up at the club to meet with Frederick and Alaric then—because he hadn't reached his quota on digs—spoke to Damon and—since she isn't working at the Doc's office today—Elena. He was gentler with Elena, which saved him from a swift kick out the damn door, but recounting all of Enzo's bullshit drained her. By the time Agent Judgy left, she was staring at the couch like it was an oasis in the desert.

Speaking of his girl, she was supposed to be back—

"Miss me?"

Elena's leaning against the doorframe in a snug tank and shorts, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, and the ball of tension between his shoulder blades loosens a little.

"Always."

She smiles and wanders over to his desk, perching on the corner. Spotting Nik's drawing, she leans in for a closer look.

"What's this?"

"Remember the tattoo I told you about?"

Elena nods, eyes widening.

"Nik drew it," he says, which is stupidly obvious. She knows he's no Rembrandt. This design is special, better than his original concept, and he reorganizes an already sorted stack of papers while he waits for her opinion.

Her fingertip glides over the dark outline of the triskelion and the rope curled around its curves like ivy. Small knots replace the three center dots, and she touches each one in turn. She follows the rope to the bottom of the emblem where it binds the stem of a rose in mid-bloom. It's the finishing touch—the looped tail of rope dangling from the rose—that stills her finger.

A lowercase e.

"Is this me?" she asks, voice soft as she traces the letter again. A tingle starts in his chest, directly above his heart. He swears he can feel her lips there, kissing the spot where his ink will be.

"No, it's my other lover." He pauses, teeing up the punchline. "Elijah."

She scrunches her nose, pairs it with an adorable grin, and punches his arm. "Smartass."

"Do you like it?" He's not insecure about the possibility that his girlfriend hates the idea of being permanently represented on his skin. Nope, not one fucking bit.

"'Like' isn't the word I'd use." Ouch. As his hopes teeter on the edge, ready to sink to the pit of his gut, she crawls into his lap and puts her mouth to his ear. "'Love' is more accurate."

Okay, so he had that coming.

He swats her ass lightly, just enough to put some pink in her cheeks. "It should be an m for minx."

"The rose . . . it reminds me of the one you sent me before our first night together."

"That's what I was aiming for." Elena's lips trail across his jaw then dip lower to explore his throat. He tilts his head to give her better access, groaning when she sucks on his pulse point. "I made an appointment with Kat for two weeks from Friday. Come with me?"

It's not a fear-of-needles thing. He wants to share the experience with her—another chance to deepen their bond, another step closer to a ceremony, vows, a collar.

"Of course."

She pulls away from his neck and he almost tells her not to stop, but there's a reason she's here and it isn't to hone her hickey technique. Not that he's complaining.

He plucks at the hem of her tank. "Sure you still want to do this?"

A self-defense training session on top of the day they've had is pushing it, but it wouldn't hurt for her to let off some steam.

"Depends." She hops out of his lap and strolls to the door, and he tracks the sway of her hips. Those shorts are a godsend and a curse all wrapped in one.

"On?"

"Whether you're ready to get your butt kicked."

###

Bap. Bap bap.

"Again. Give me all you've got."

Bap bap. Bapbapbap.

"Harder."

Bapbap. Bap. Bap bap.

That's it. Let me feel that fury, baby."

Elena's fist connects with the leather mitt in a series of sharp punches. Bap bap bap. It's a satisfying sound. Much better than bop and a hell of an improvement over the boop she started with.

"Keep 'em coming," Damon coaches, and she adjusts her stance for maximum impact. He actually grunts on the next one.

The blood rushing through her veins and her heartbeat pounding in her ears almost drown out the awkward throat-clearing behind them.

It's Ric, pink-cheeked, brow furrowed, looking like he'd rather be ambushed by a pack of rabid raccoons. "I thought I heard . . ." He scratches his head. Stares at the wall. "Is this a, uh, sex thing?"

Damon snorts. "We're fully dressed, buddy."

"You're in the rope room—"

"Shibari."

"Yeah, that. Anyway, it sounded like bad porn."

"You would know."

Elena tears at the Velcro strap on her glove and refastens it. "Can we save the pigtail-pulling for later? I have to finish beating up my boyfriend," she drawls.

Alaric chuckles and props himself in the doorway. "Don't let me interrupt."

"I'm ready for a break," Damon says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "Ric, c'mere so 'Lena can practice her groin kicks."

"I'll pass, thanks."

Damon lobs a mitt at him. "If you're not gonna offer up your body for a good cause, run along. I hear your Hot Pockets calling."

"And miss Elena wiping the floor with your ass? Not a chance."

"Dick."

###

Maybe she shouldn't have taunted him.

Damon's relentless. He's too fast, too strong. No matter what she does, the end result is the same: she's facedown on the mats or in one of his unbreakable holds. Or both.

Despite Alaric's cheerleading ("Get him! Kick his ass!"), she hasn't bested him. Yet.

"C'mon, Buffy," Damon teases, grabbing her wrist.

She twists loose and bats his hand away, hopping out of his reach. She yanks up her tank to scrub at her sweaty face, hiding her wince. Her hip is screaming thanks to an awkward crash-and-burn on the padded floor, but she's not waving the white flag.

Damon has his own battle scar. A bruise is forming on his jaw from a wayward punch that missed the mitt. She's torn between wanting to kiss it and reminding herself not to get too close to his Venus-flytrap grip.

"Give me a minute."

She sags, palms on her thighs, puffing harder than she needs to. The wounded animal routine.

"Babe?"

Damon stops behind her, squeezes her shoulders, and she taps into her inner badass. Catching his hands, she tugs until he bumps into her. She wraps his arms around her, dips down with Damon blanketing her back, pops her hips, just a little more—ouch, fuck—to throw his balance, twists to the side, lets go of his arms, and . . .

Whump.

"Atta girl! I knew you could drop him," Ric crows, smiling so widely the corners of his eyes crinkle.

She steps over Damon, her Nike trainers on either side of his waist. He blinks at her and scrapes a hank of damp hair off his forehead.

"You cheated," he mutters. Still, his lips quirk into a grin that says he doesn't really mind that she laid him out flat on the floor.

"No, you just fell for the bait."

"Literally." More beaming. "Well done, princess."

Her knees have had enough, so she sinks to the mat, straddling Damon. She slumps forward, resting her head on his chest, and Alaric takes the hint.

"Supper's not gonna eat itself, so . . ." He wanders to the door, daring to glance back once. "Better close this, knowing you two."

"Thanks, Ric."

With a click, he's gone. Elena rubs her cheek on Damon's shirt then rolls it up so she can kiss his heated skin.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" she asks, tonguing his nipple. She chases a drop of sweat, savoring the saltiness.

He groans and latches onto her ponytail, pulling at it until her hair spills loose, covering him in tangled waves.

"Damon?"

Her fingertips ghost over the bruise on his jaw. "I'm fine, baby. What about you?"

He peels off her tank, examines her arms and belly, tickles her sides because he's a shit. When his hand sneaks past her waistband, she fishes it out before he finds a spot that does hurt. She's achy, sure, but mostly she's riding high on her victory, so she grips his wrists and pins them to the mat.

"Never better." The hard ridge of his cock is between her thighs, nudging her core, and she rubs against it. Message received.

Damon's eyes darken as she snags his bottom lip with her teeth. She knows that gleam—it's trouble. His fingers twitch and he flexes his hips, patience fading. He's probably dying to flip her onto her back and fuck her into next week.

She shakes her head. "Uh-uh. I'm enjoying my prize."

"Your prize? What about all the times I won?"

"Shush."

Releasing his wrists, she goes to work on his shirt, wrestling it over his head.

"Did you just—"

Two fingers pressed to his lips stops him short and a growl rumbles in his chest. It fades into a moan as she shoves his joggers down, freeing his cock. Her thumb sweeps across the tip then moves lower, tracing veins, massaging sweet spots.

It doesn't jive with her nature, taking—no, borrowing—control. She thrives on the thrill of submission, the pleasure of serving him, but tonight is about embracing the fight. Basking in the power of what she can do, what her body's capable of.

She leans into him, tasting his mouth with little flicks of her tongue, still stroking him.

"I want to feel this, just for now," she whispers.

The glint in Damon's gaze softens and he nods, cupping her nape. "Whatever you need, as long as I get to touch."

"Be my guest."

He gently snaps the strap of her sports bra. "Can we ditch this?"

Always the mind reader. Nothing makes her happier—well, maybe a couple things—than shedding her bra, so it joins her tank and his shirt in seconds flat. His hands are on her breasts, her nipples puckering against his palms, before it hits the floor.

She guides him closer to her sex, cursing her stupid shorts. Should've worn tear-aways. Hell with it. At least they're loose-ish. Tugging one leg to the side, she reveals a whole lot of bare skin.

Damon licks his lips, riveted by her lack of undies. "That's my girl."

She grins and raises up, ignoring the twinge in her bum hip. His cock brushes her folds, slick on slick, and she sinks onto him.

"Shit. Elena, wait," he grits out, fingers digging into her waist. "Condom. Box on the shelf."

There it is, next to the stacks of rope, a million miles away. But he's already right where she wants him, making her whole and shredding her sanity at the same time.

She sucks in a breath then another because the air seems thin all of a sudden. "I'm . . . I'm good. Are you?"

"Am I . . . ?" He blinks and loses his grip for a moment, slipping deeper. "Baby, I'm halfway to heaven and my brain's on the fritz. Are you saying you don't want to use one?"

She nods, bobbing her head until it's convincing. "I'm still on the pill and Doc says everything's working like it should, or y'know, not working, in the baby-making sense."

I'll take Awkward Conversations to Have in the Middle of Sex for $1,000, Alex.

Looooong pause.

"Um."

"But if you're not comfortable with that, I totally understand. I'll go get—"

"Hang on, kitten." He's holding her in place, their bodies frozen as if someone hit the pause button. "I'm one hundred percent sure I've never felt anything more amazing than being inside you, nothing between your skin and mine"—heat spreads in her cheeks as memories of their last bareback sex flood her mind—"but if this goes sideways, not that it will, I need to know you won't regret it forever."

A child. Theoretical, but still. There was a time not so long ago when the mere suggestion of it would've sent her bolting for the door: it's too soon, she's not ready for that kind of responsibility, what if they don't stay together, etcetera.

But this is Damon. She knows his heart. And hers.

Every morning they wake up tangled in a human knot, every shared shower and meal, every have a good day and please be careful, every night spent deepening their bond and connecting on a level she never imagined was possible, every I love you.

This isn't temporary. This is an always kind of thing.

She smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth that's creased with worry.

"No regrets. Ever."

###

Good goddamn.

She'd have his child. Their child. They hadn't gotten around to talking about kids. He assumed he'd have a munchkin or two at some point, but the when and, pre-Elena, with whom were TBD. And it's not like they're designing a nursery and stocking up on parenting books, but if the pitter-patter of little feet happens sooner rather than later, it's not a deal breaker.

He lets go of her and she slides all the way down to the root of him. There aren't words—well, there are, but he can't remember how to speak now that he's buried balls-deep, trying to survive her experimental squeezes, and the feel of her . . .

Heaven might've been an understatement.

He hauls himself upright, desperate for more of her mouth. "I fucking love you," he murmurs between kisses.

"You're not, mmm . . . so bad . . . yourself."

Sass-pants. His hands resettle on her waist then trail lower, tracing the delicate jut of her hipbones. He cups her ass, latching on tight enough to leave tiny, smudgy bruises in his wake, prepared to give her the ride of her life. The first thrust is smooth, perfect, but then she whimpers, her nails biting into his shoulder.

"Elena?" he asks, his thumb caressing the dimple at the base of her spine. "What was that."

"I'm fine," she insists. She peppers his jaw with kisses, attempting to distract him. "My hip's a little sore. I landed weird or something." She shrugs. "I'll live."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's not a big deal."

It might not be serious but she's still hurt, and hiding it from him? That's a big deal.

"Elena—"

Her lips seal to his, soft and urgent, cutting him off again. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against his. "I don't wanna stop. Please. Being with you like this"—her fingers flutter over the place where they're joined and his dick twitches, the eager sonofabitch—"I was missing out, starving for you. All of you."

"We won't." He'd rather play hopscotch barefoot on a sidewalk made of Legos than end this before it's even properly begun, but he would if he had to. "But no more sweeping things under the rug. If you're hurt, I want to know."

He's willing to compromise, but not when it comes to her safety.

She nods and seals the deal with an apologetic kiss. Then she's moving, slow at first but working her way up to a decent rhythm. She bounces in his lap, head thrown back, mouth open, serenading him with her cries.

He's never been passive about sex, but he doesn't mind letting her lead tonight, watching her take—no, share—her pleasure. She clenches around his cock on every rise and releases on the fall, pumping him like she was earlier with her fist.

And it's fuckin' incredible.

She's barreling toward an orgasm and he's helping her get there, kneading her breasts and tweaking her nipples until her legs tremble. Fatigue sets in just before the fireworks go off and she groans, losing momentum.

"So damn . . . close," she pants.

"I've got you, baby."

This won't take long, for either of them. He slips a hand under her thigh and boosts her up, holding her steady while he rocks his hips. His thumb circles her clit, rubbing faster with each thrust. Three more strokes, the pinch of his teeth on her nipple, and he fucks her over the edge. She grips his hair, his shoulders, anything she can reach as her walls crank down on him, driving him to his own release.

His cock jerks and his hips arch off the mat, giving into her body's demands. His vision goes hazy and for half a second, everything threatens to go black. Jesus, he's never come this hard in his life.

When his brain finally reboots, he's slumped on the floor (again) with Elena draped on top of him.

"'Lena, you okay?" he whispers, brushing her hair out of her face and his. She seems content. Exhausted, sure, but she's not panicking, which is a good sign.

"Mmhmm."

"No regrets?"

Her eyes drift open and she greets him with a sleepy, lopsided smile.

"Not one."

###

"Shouldn't we be helping?" Rose asks, eyeing Caroline as she scampers up the ladder. In her ridiculously cute heels.

"I already offered but she didn't bite." Caroline slips into a Zen groove when she's decorating, so it's better (and safer) to just leave her to it.

Elena sips at her afternoon pick-me-up, a warm tingle travelling all the way to her belly thanks to whatever Rose doctored it with. A pumpkin kink latte, she dubbed it.

The club's lounge area is now home to several fat, hairy spiders dangling from filmy webs, bats with wiggly wings and fangs, and smiling jack-o'-lanterns, courtesy of Caroline's passion for decking the halls, whether it's with Christmas lights or paper hearts or black cats.

Caroline stretches to fasten an orange garland over the doorway and wobbles on the ladder. Elena jumps off her stool and Rose darts from behind the bar where she'd been restocking bottles, both of them racing to catch her. Care rights herself before it's too late, losing a shoe in the process.

Elena skids to a stop, one hand on the ladder and the other on her bestie's leg. "Could you not break your neck, please? I don't want to explain to Nik why you're in traction."

Caroline smiles, unbothered by her near wipeout. "I always land on my feet."

"You're not a cat."

"Speaking of cats," Rose says, passing Caroline a string of pumpkin lights. "What are you going as for the party?"

"Damon hasn't given me the details yet." Not helpful considering she only has two days to prepare. "Is it a costume-type thing?"

"It's a pet show!" Caroline does a little shimmy and Elena's heart thumps against her ribs.

"Stop wiggling."

A pet show?

Oh. Pets as in people-pets. Sub-pets.

"I'll be a fox," Rose beams, a blush rising in her cheeks. Elena can picture the furry ears perched in her short, choppy hair. It's a perfect fit.

"You know me," Care chimes in. "Ponygirl all the way."

Ah, right. That was how she originally discovered the true nature of Nik and Caroline's relationship. Coming home early from work to find her friend prancing around the living room in a bit gag and faux horse tail while Nik led her by the reins was an eye-opener.

So, that leaves Elena as the only one without a pet alter ego. She still has time to shop, although she has no idea what to even look for. There's a box of costumes from Halloweens past somewhere amongst the piles of her stuff currently littering Damon's house, but a ladybug, Blanche from The Golden Girls, and a Care Bear (don't ask) aren't great options. Knowing Damon, he already has every detail planned, down to her collar, but on the off chance he doesn't . . .

"I guess I'll be—"

"My kitten."

Damon's arm slides around her waist, his nose tracing the shell of her ear.

"What if I'm in the mood to be a tiger?" He clutches her nape, his lips leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses on her neck. "Or a wolf?" she murmurs, but his tongue is flirting with the pounding pulse at the base of her throat and she can't concentrate.

"Mmm. How about now?"

His hold on her neck tightens, then he sets his teeth on the sensitive skin above her carotid. There's no pain, only a pleasant pinch, and she wants to sink to her knees for him. Right fucking now.

"D-definitely a kitten," she stammers.

He loosens his grip. Licks the bite. "Whose kitten."

"Yours."

Rose drifts over to the box of decorations and studies a pair of ghosts made out of handkerchiefs, her cheeks red as ripe apples. Caroline tsks and fusses with the garland.

"I'd tell you two to get a room, but—"

"But it's my club and I'll kiss, taste, tease, and fuck wherever I want," Damon interrupts with a smug grin.

Care's mouth drops open, ready to lob some snarky comment, but Damon arches a brow and she focuses on untangling the pumpkin lights instead.

"If you're done nibbling on my best friend, could you please hold this for me?" she asks, tossing him the plug end while she weaves the rest of the string around the garland.

They might not be related, but they have the siblings-annoying-each-other-with-their-banter thing down to a science.

Damon admires Caroline's work, Elena still tucked against his side, busily popping a button on his shirt. One is fine but two gives her a much better view of his smooth chest.

"Festive. You better not be sticking tacks in my black walnut paneling, Blondie."

"I didn't puncture your precious wood. I used gum." She blows a Pepto-pink bubble and pops it. "Freshly chewed."

"Caroline."

"Damon."

He rolls his eyes and glances at his watch. "Where the hell is Nik. He's late."

"Finishing the new installation at the gallery. He'll be here."

"You could postpone the meeting," Elena whispers, dipping her fingers inside his shirt. She knows he won't. His weekly check-ins with his Dom/mes are important, but his love bite sparked a flame she can't put out by herself. Well, she could try flying solo but it wouldn't be the same. Or as satisfying. "There's a comfy bed downstairs. And a bunch upstairs. I'm not picky."

He chuckles at her offer. "Tell you what." His lips brush her ear and heat seeps into her belly. "When you're done here, go to my office. Strip and bend over my desk, ass facing the door. Spread your legs, nice and wide. While you wait, think about the things I'm going to do to you. I want you wet and ready to take my cock. Clear?" he growls.

Caroline and Rose probably heard every word, but Elena's too far gone to care. She clenches her thighs, his last demand already met.

"Yes, Master."

###

Who knew a pair of pointy ears and a ruffled, satin collar could turn her into an actual sex kitten. Elena strikes a pose in the mirror. (She's gotten quite good at it.) Damon had her outfit picked out in advance (of course) and it's cute. Skimpy, but she's used to the breeze tickling skin it normally can't reach.

Damon's reflection appears in the glass as he steps out of the bathroom, freshly dressed. Shined boots, black pants, dark blue button-down (top two buttons undone), sleeves rolled up, no tie, slightly mussed hair—courtesy of her roaming fingers.

He stops, his body flush with hers, and a wave of warmth laps at her back. His hands drift across her bare belly, inching toward the frilly edge of her off-the-shoulder, cropped top. He palms her breasts, rubbing the soft leather against her nipples until they're visible through the material. She leans into his touch, moaning as his forefinger and thumb clamp onto her nub.

She's greedy tonight. For him. His body. His pleasure. She needs to bring him to the edge then send him over, see his mouth drop open, hear him growl fuck, Elena or maybe that's it, kitten while she swallows him.

He leaves her breasts, leaves her wanting, skimming over heated skin to trace the bow on her collar. Then he flicks the little silver bell dangling there and she's Pavlov's dog. Er, cat. She squeezes her legs together, but it's too late to stop the trickle of wetness seeping onto her thighs.

"Are we . . ." Hello, sex voice. She clears her throat and tries again. "Are we leaving soon?" The party starts in fifteen minutes.

"You're not ready yet."

Fashionably late it is.

Before she can ask what's missing, he's toeing her legs apart and crouching behind her. He flips her matching leather mini up around her waist and she holds it for him. He drags a finger through her folds, front to back, purring his approval at the slickness he finds there. It's an inspection, part of his newest rule: if, at any point during play, her juices aren't flowing to his satisfaction, she has thirty seconds to get herself there or face one of his creative punishments.

This is rarely a problem considering she's usually dripping like a faulty faucet the moment they begin.

He parts her ass cheeks, tongue flicking at her puckered opening. She sucks in a breath so deep it makes her lungs ache, patiently—if not quietly—enduring his probing. The gentle swipes continue until she can barely stand, then he pulls away with a sharp smack to her quivering bottom.

"What kind of kitten would you be without a tail?"

"A t-tail?"

Damon roots in his dresser drawer, producing a long, narrow box. Inside is a whole lot of fluffy, black fur, but then she spots the gleam of metal. A plug.

He grins and taps a spot on the carpet, and she's on her knees at his feet before the command to move has fully registered in her brain.

"Face down. Ass up," he orders. "Show me what's mine."

The carpet is soft beneath her cheek and palms. Good padding for a prolonged session, if it comes to that, but it won't. Not this time.

She knows the drill by now. Legs spread, wide as she can without it being unbearably uncomfortable. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat, repeat, repeat until her muscles relax, ready to give. The lube is next. That dribble will land on her skin any second. Right about—

"Jesus, Elena. You're so fucking good for me," he murmurs, stroking her hair—not enough to muss—his voice low and warm and closer than she expected. In the midst of all that breathing, she didn't realize he'd dropped to kneel beside her. "We're going to try something new tonight."

New? Her pulse does a little jig, a jolt of anticipation firing through her veins. But she's used to plugs. Thick ones, thin ones. Steel, silicone, glass. Vibrating, inflatable. You name it.

"Give me your hand."

She slides her fingers into Damon's waiting ones, and he kisses each tip then runs his tongue over her heart line. There's the snap of a plastic cap and the ooze of gel, but it's coating her fingers, not his. It doesn't have the usual goosebump-inducing chill, and she pictures him rolling the tube in his palms to heat it, which is a decent distraction from the meaning of something new.

"My favorite thing about plugs, besides the way you wear them so beautifully, is how fun they are on the fly. Imagine you're at work and I text you. I snuck your favorite princess plug into your purse that morning. I tell you to go to the bathroom and put it in for me because we have a play date later and I plan on fucking your tight ass. You'll spend the rest of the day filled and waiting, chatting with patients who're oblivious to what a naughty girl you are."

Okay, that's a visual she can get behind.

He guides her hand to the curve of her ass, splaying her cheeks with his knuckles. At the first press of her finger there, territory she's been content to let Damon chart alone, she gasps and jerks away from the strange sensation.

"Easy, pet." He dusts kisses across her bottom, some open-mouth and greedy, others sweet and soothing. He keeps her in place with a firm grip, no chance for retreat. "Talk to me."

"It's . . . weird, doing it myself. I go all tense." The stiffness in her neck and shoulders wasn't there a minute ago.

More kisses. "I'll help. If it's too much, tell me."

"Yes, Master."

"Don't be afraid to explore your body, baby. Even the parts we were taught were off-limits." His fingers guiding hers, they circle her rim, massaging the ring of muscle. "Learn what feels best. Lean into it."

That's not bad. Kind of nice, actually, if she doesn't think too hard about what she's doing. Following his instructions, she takes control of the movement, tingles of sensation sparking along her nerve endings. Another plop of lube lands on her finger and she pushes inside with the tip.

Wow, he wasn't kidding. Snug fit. Aaaaand the weirdness is back. Shit, she's tensing up again.

Breathe in, breathe out.

"Slowly," Damon reminds her.

She eases further. One knuckle, two. Her face is burning, probably tomato-red; she's surprised the carpet isn't singed. Her finger slips deeper and she tries a shallow thrust. It's . . . an invasion, sort of flirting with the edges of a soft limit but miles away from a hard one. She's not panting or half out of her mind with need, a string of please-fuck-mes rolling off her pleasure-drunk tongue.

"This feels so much better when you do it," she pouts.

"You're doing just fine." He tugs her free hand into the vee of her thighs, tangled fingers tracing her slit. "Tease your clit," he says, demonstrating his technique while she cycles through a scale of moans like she's auditioning for a kinky acapella group. "Edge yourself, distract that busy mind of yours, but dial it down if you get too close."

So, no orgasm. She whines a little but obeys his direction, stroking her nub as a surge of desire rolls over her. Instead of her own awkward fumbling, she visualizes Damon's nimble fingers that know exactly where to touch, and how, and when. It's him thumbing her clit while he prepares her for the plug. Him that's gently stretching her tight entrance, pumping into her until she's sopping wet.

A second finger joins her first and she gasps at the fullness, stilling till it passes then rocking her hips to take more because she needs it. "Oh god," she groans. This is what he was talking about, leaning into it. There's a steady buzz of feels-so-good racing across her skin like a low-voltage current, hardening her nipples, making her muscles flutter and clench.

"Almost there, lover. Keep going."

A shudder rolls the length of her spine and down to her thighs, and she eases off her clit, thwarting the almost-release before it gets her in serious trouble. Damon seems to sense the near-disaster and curls his hand around her wrist in a soothing grip, slowing the pace of her fingers as she works herself open. Pulling until she withdraws completely, he places the cool tip of the lubed plug against her opening.

"Press on the base, slow and steady," he says, draping the long tail over her back so it won't interfere.

She's expecting a struggle, but her muscles are too relaxed to fight it and after a little coaxing, it slides home. She sighs, enjoying the slight weight of the plug filling her. Because she can't resist (and because it will most definitely get her Master's attention), Elena wiggles her hips, swinging her tail from side to side.

Damon chuckles and straightens her skirt with an affectionate pat on the ass. She rubs her cheek on his pant leg and circles him—still on all fours—pausing to flash her barely covered bottom.

"Would you like a treat?"

"Please."

She licks her lips, a fierce hunger rekindling low in her belly. Her shameless gaze lingers on his zipper and the unmistakable outline of his cock punching at the fabric. She needs to feel him, heavy on her tongue, while she slicks him up with her mouth and massages him with her throat.

After a pit stop at his dresser for a pair of what look like child-size boxing gloves, he perches on the bed and crooks a finger at her.

"Here, kitty."

Don't have to tell me twice. She scrambles to her feet, dropping her feline façade in her impatience to get at him, but he shakes his head.

"Uh-uh. Hands and knees, baby. Crawl to me," he instructs.

Oh, right.

She sinks to the floor and prowls over to him, rolling her hips and swaying her ass, her tail tickling the back of her thighs. When she reaches him, she settles between his legs and feathers kisses (thank god for smudge-proof lipstick) from his knee to the rock-hard ridge straining toward her lips. Nuzzling his erection, she trails the tip of her nose along the length of his cock.

"See something you like, minx?"

She nods, flicking her tongue at the bulge.

"Beg me for it," he snarls.

The words tumble out in a desperate rush.

"Master, may I please suck your cock?" She bats her lashes for good measure.

"Christ. How can I refuse when you ask so nicely?" He scoots closer to the edge of the mattress. "Give me your hands."

"But—"

The look he shoots her commands instant silence. He slips the gloves on her hands and buckles the leather straps around her wrists. The insides are soft—fleece-lined—and when she flips them palms-up, there are pink toe pads sewn into the bottoms. Paws.

Cute, but hands are, well . . . handy for blowjobs.

Reading the questions in her eyes, Damon pops the button on his pants and pulls aside the flap of material covering the fly. "Use your teeth."

Okaaay. Elena loves a challenge, even one that could potentially lead to a very hard-to-explain visit to the dentist.

She leans in, closing her teeth on the tab, and tugs the zipper downward inch by inch until his cock springs free. She glances up at him expectantly, dying to take him in her mouth.

"Go ahead, pet."

###

The first swirl of Elena's tongue over the head of his dick is the sweetest blend of agony and ecstasy. She braces her paws—those mitts really were an inspired purchase—on his thighs and laps at him like a kitten ravenous for cream. He's more than happy to oblige.

She starts slow, teasing him, hollowing her cheeks with the slightest suction then letting him fall from her lips so she can plant kisses from root to tip. She develops a fascination with the prominent vein throbbing against her tongue, tracing its length until the devil on his shoulder is screaming at him to bury his cock in her warm, waiting mouth.

Fuck the devil. He's content to ride this out with her. Let her work him over like an all-day lollipop. Let her drive him goddamn batshit crazy because the end will be so very, very worth it.

Elena holds his gaze as she finally takes him inside, getting herself reacquainted a couple inches at a time. It's playful but mixed with deep devotion—the combination he loves, one that's so uniquely her.

She pushes further, her tongue massaging the underside of his shaft. His fingers tangle in her hair, holding her in place with a gentle grip. He needs more of that, more of—"Holy hell. That's heaven right there."

Her cheeks dimple and her blush darkens to a dusky rose, spreading to her throat. She laves him with slippery strokes while humming happily, varying the pitch until his eyes roll back. Loosening his grasp on her hair, he gives her the freedom to move again and she rocks his fucking world by taking him all the way in. She stays there for a moment, just breathing, watching him breathe (or try to), then retreats and repeats.

By the fiftieth stroke, or maybe it's only the fifteenth—who is he kidding, he lost the ability to count as soon as her lips parted—his balls are heavy and aching. His heartbeat is pounding everywhere: the soles of his feet, the base of his spine, the tips of his ears, all stemming from the wild frenzy happening behind his ribs.

He meets the pull of her mouth with shallow thrusts, losing any hope of finesse as Elena sharpens hers. She reads his tells, that unmistakable twitch in his cock, and bobs her head faster. Less nudging, more shoving him toward the edge. Fine by him.

A crumpled wad of duvet in one fist and a hank of her silky curls in the other, he digs his heels in, bracing for a spec-fucking-tacular finish. "Ready for me?" he rasps. "Keep those beautiful eyes on mine."

She nods once, then her perfect, pink lips are wrapped around his base. His hips stutter, a jumbled string of curses catch in his throat, and he's coming, hard. Can't-feel-his-feet-or-hands hard.

Elena stays with him, her tireless tongue gathering every last drop. When he's propped against the bedpost because his muscles have been replaced by string cheese, she releases him from her mouth with a wet pop and sits back on her heels, all smiles and did-I-do-good?

He fumbles with his pants, tucking himself back in. Maybe they should pass on the club and have their own private party right here in bed. "That was incredible, baby," he says once he can form words again.

"Thank you, Master. You were delicious," she says, licking her lips, pleased with herself.

Sweet and sassy as ever.

Deciding one treat deserves another, he scoops her into his lap, her thighs splayed over his, her ankles locked behind his back.

"You owe me an orgasm," he growls.

She glances between them, at his re-zipped pants, then waves her mitts. "Maybe without these I can—"

"Not mine. Yours."

He palms her throat, props her chin up with his thumb, and takes her mouth, not bothering to be gentle about it. He's too hungry for her, too damn impatient to tease his way in. He nips at her soft lips, demanding she open for him. His tongue delves inside, tasting her. Tasting himself.

A groan interrupts the harsh breaths they manage between kisses, and he can't decide if it's his or hers. Probably his because while his tongue is busy tagging in for his cock, fucking her eager mouth, his free hand is under her skirt, cupping her bare pussy.

And, yeah—she's at T-minus thirty seconds. Maybe less, once he gives her what she so clearly needs. He slides a finger past her folds then adds another, zeroing in on her G. A few come-hither strokes, heavy on the come, and her whole body jerks like she grabbed a live wire. Her head falls back and she rocks her hips, grinding her clit against the heel of his hand.

"Master, may I p-please—" Her words are swallowed by a cry as he curls his fingers and presses harder on the spot that's about to send her into the stratosphere.

"You have all the permission in the world. Let me see you come."

She tightens around his fingers, struggling to hold his gaze from behind drooping lids. Elena stays with him until the first wave hits, then he's latching onto her waist to keep her from lurching off his lap. She bucks and twists in his grip, riding out the pleasure that spirals on and on. When she starts to wind down, his fingers go back to work and he strums her clit with a tried-and-true rhythm.

"Did I say you were done? Give me another, kitten."

As she wails at the overload of bliss, pawing helplessly at his chest, he just grins and hangs on.

###

The ponies are Elena's favorite. The gleaming leather body harnesses, the bit gags attached to reins looped around the fists of their handlers, silky tails—some braided and bowed, some hanging freely—and the clip-clop of prancing, booted feet with miniature horseshoes affixed to the bottoms. A few of the ponies have blinders on, and two are wearing full masks with pointed ears, flowing manes, and bridles. Their Dom/mes control their pace (and correct any missteps) with crops and the occasional whistle or firm command.

Caroline and Nik are leading the pony parade, and Care is in her element, matching her perfectly paced trotting to Nik's long strides. She tosses her head and whinnies as they pass, and Elena waves a paw at her from her spot on the overstuffed cushion at Damon's feet. Trent and Jack follow behind them, Jack earning a lick from the crop when his spirited gait takes him too far away from his Master. The swat elicits a moan instead of a wince, and Elena shifts on her pillow, her thighs closing an inch before the subtle tug on her leash reminds her to stay focused. She corrects her position, apologetically nuzzling Damon's hand. If she slips again, that hand will be leaving five-fingered prints on her ass.

She loves being her Master's kitten, but the graceful ponies are stunning. Seeing Caroline in tack that first time, on top of the whole my-best-friend-is-into-BDSM shocker, was a lot to process, but now she can admire the spectacle filling the club's main room.

What would it be like to canter at the end of Damon's reins and feel the kiss of the crop on her bare skin, to go where he leads, her body decorated by straps and buckles to suit his pleasure? He's no stranger to pet play, ponies included, but in case her brain is writing a check she isn't ready to cash, she files the impulse away for future discussion.

After the ponies, it's nothing short of a menagerie. There are bears, foxes, kittens, pups, a pair of pigs, a beautiful tiger covered in expertly applied body paint, and a sleek black panther in a velvet catsuit that she doesn't realize is Rebekah until she spots the end of the glittering leash dangling from the tip of Pearl's manicured nail. Elijah and Rose, with her adorably bushy tail and reddish-orange ears, trail after them.

"C'mon, puppy."

Katherine saunters into view with Stefan at her sky-high heels. A rubber bone is perched between his teeth and when he stops to wiggle his ass, it sets his tail wagging like he's the happiest pup on the planet. Kat coos at him and scratches behind his ears, and the wagging ratchets into hyperspeed.

All of the non-ponies are four-legged, but the hardcore enthusiasts are strutting on bound, heavily padded elbows and knees. Ouch. Elena's arms and legs cramp up just thinking about it.

Once the show is over, the couples wander off to cuddle on the furniture or use the equipment. Some head upstairs and others go down. To the dungeon, probably. A shiver rolls through her and she shifts closer to Damon. She's not cold. Far from it. She's antsy and eager for his touch—there. His fingers delve into her hair, working their way to her nape. He massages her neck until she's purring for him. The two orgasms (or was it three?) he gifted her earlier should've settled her for a while, but no. She needs him. Again.

Rubbing her thighs together is out, so she sways to the rhythm of his fingers.

"Someone's insatiable tonight."

I wonder why, she almost quips but chews her cheek before she ruins her chances of further orgasms. She tries a pitiful mewl instead.

"Turn around," Damon growls.

She scrambles to face him, meeting the cool blue of his eyes, his dilated pupils transforming them into something dark and sinful. His boot slips between her spread legs, tapping insistently against her thighs.

An unspoken command. Wider.

She complies and he smiles—a slow, sensual curl of his lips. He raises his foot, sliding the polished toe across her slit.

"Is my kitten in heat? Show me how much you're aching to be fucked."

His boot skims her folds again. Oh. Oh. Clinging to the last shred of her self-control, she lowers herself onto the expensive leather, rolling her hips. God, she's riding his leg like a sex-starved animal. Heat prickles beneath her skin and she remembers a time—before Damon—when the shrill voice in the deepest pit of her subconscious would tell her she should be ashamed.

But there's only quiet now.

No one cares what she's doing. No one's sneering or judging. Not the ponyboy getting his ass flogged on the spanking bench, or the puppy girl running her tongue lovingly over her Mistress's strap-on. And that's the beauty of it.

"That a girl," Damon coaxes. "Maybe I'll give you that cock you're so desperate for. After you've licked all your cream off my boot, of course."

Holy cripes. Her lips part as she grinds her clit on the slick surface. Better slow it down a notch. She's sure she won't be allowed to come until he's inside her—

A throat clears, delicately enough, but it may as well have been a shout. Elena jumps and tries to lurch away. Damon places a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Easy, pet. Be still."

"Sorry to interrupt." Elena still has her back turned, but she recognizes Trent's voice. "The new Dom—James. He's by the cross."

Damon cranes his neck and nods. "What about him?"

There's a pause then Trevor sighs. So, bad news. "Look, it might be nothing. I hope it's nothing." Another pause and a faint jingle that must be from Jack's harness. "We've seen him at other play parties. His sub is always a pony. Whoever's with him tonight—"

"Is a pup," Damon finishes.

Elena sucks in a breath, the flood of desire in her veins freezing into shards of ice that send chills through her body. No, this isn't supposed to happen here. This is a safe haven. Wouldn't Henry have noticed if . . .

The masks. Most of the pups in the parade were wearing masks that hid everything but their eyes. If the sub arrived in costume, and she's guessing he did, there'd be no way to confirm his identity short of requesting his Dom remove the mask. And once a sub is fully dressed and prepared for play, things like that are generally frowned upon.

Shit.

It's Damon's turn to pause, his gaze falcon-sharp on the couple across the room. He withdraws his boot and tucks Elena against his leg, his palm warm and reassuring on her back. When he stands, it's smooth and unhurried.

"Thank you, Trevor. I'll handle this." His hand slides to her waist while the other cups her elbow, boosting her to her feet and steadying her as she wobbles on tingly legs. She didn't think she'd been kneeling that long. "Do me a favor."

"Name it."

"Fill in Elijah, Nik, Kat, and Pearl. Tell them to spread the word and have everyone watch out for theirs. No need to panic, just be alert."

"Done."

Damon pulls out his cell. Three flicks of his finger and Alaric is on the other end.

"We may have an uninvited guest. Monitor the feeds and tell Henry to secure the exits. No one in or out until I find out what's going on."

There's a faint "Got it" from Ric before Damon kills the call and escorts her from the room. She glances over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of James and his leashed mystery sub. They're on the move, heading toward the hall that leads to the club-within-the-club. She digs in her heels, driven by an urge to go after them, but it's impossible when Damon is hauling her in the opposite direction.

Once they're behind the locked doors of his office, the questions start tumbling out, protocol forgotten.

"Shouldn't we be following them? I'll go with you—"

"Absolutely not."

She expected his refusal. She's also inclined to ignore it. Whoever those people are, they're not going to hurt anyone or ruin the safe space Damon's worked so hard to maintain. She won't let them.

Whirling on her heel, she reaches for the door, fumbling with the knob. Might have something to do with the mitts still trapping her fingers.

"Dammit!"

"Stop." Damon spins her around, one hand locking onto her waist and the other gripping her chin. "Elena, look at me."

When she finally does, she's not surprised at what she sees. It's there in his clenched jaw, the tight line of his mouth, and those pale, nearly translucent irises: simmering anger (whether at her or the two men, she can't be sure; maybe both), a flash of worry, and an iron-clad resolve that she's not setting a toe out of this office until he gives the green light.

"I want to help," she says softly.

He loosens his grip just the slightest bit. "I get that but until I know James and his sub aren't a threat, I need you to stay put."

"But . . ."

Damon's already shaking his head and she sags in defeat.

It's like zero to sixty but in reverse. Five minutes ago, she was trying not to get off on riding his leg and he was probably charting the path of least resistance to a private room so he could fuck the daylights out of her. Now, getting naked is the last thing on either of their minds.

There's a gentle tug on her wrist as he unbuckles the first mitt. The second follows and she flexes her fingers, studying her hands as if she hasn't seen them in ages. After a quick bottoms-up over the arm of the couch, she's tailless. The empty feeling the plug leaves in its wake nags at her, but she shoves it aside.

Damon pulls her against his chest, his arms as snug as the ropes she adores, and she manages to twist just enough to kiss his cheek.

"Be careful."

"I will." His mouth finds her temple while his thumb traces the shell of her ear. "Lock the door behind me. If the knob so much as twitches, call me. Immediately." He pulls away to pin her with his intense, don't-even-think-about-arguing stare. "Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll be back as soon as I can."

With an all-too-short press of his lips to hers, he's gone.

###

It should've been fine. Not the easiest thing she's ever done—twiddling her thumbs while Damon's out there dealing with god knows what—but manageable. Except . . . it's not.

She can't do this.

The waiting. The wondering. The memories assaulting her mind like a horror movie stuck on repeat.

Instead of Damon's soothing tones, it's his voice filling her ears, sickly sweet with an underlying menace dripping from every word.

Shall we do this the hard way, then? Your choice, pet.

The knob rattles, or maybe she imagines it.

Get out of my head, asshole.

She pictures the twisted smirk, outrageous and arrogant. The dark wood creaks as the edge of a crowbar wedges itself in the jamb.

Until we meet again, pet.

"No!"

Out. She needs out of here. Flipping the lock, she yanks the door open and charges into the hall, her fist raised and ready to connect with that smug sonofa—

There's no one there.

Whole lot of nothing except the breeze she created with her hasty exit. Fantastic. Now she's making shit up. That's totally normal and not a giant red flag waving in her face.

She draws in a deep breath, focusing on the Enzo-less hush. Music—that'll work. She'll pop in her earbuds and curl up on the couch until Damon returns.

"Oh, look. A stray."

Cold fingers latch onto her wrists and yank her into an alcove by the base of the stairs. A hand clamps over her mouth, stifling the scream hovering in her throat.

"No time for noise," a low voice hisses. "Your keeper will be here soon enough to rescue his precious slut."

Elena struggles against the man's grip but it only grows tighter. Her bones creak at the pressure and she stops thrashing before they snap. His expression is bland, like they might be carrying on a conversation about the weather or the stock market if he weren't pinning her to the wall. The truth is reflected in his eyes, which flare with twisted glee as she whimpers at his brutal hold.

The scent of rubber invades her nose and she glances at the shiny suit covering everything below the spiked collar circling his neck. Only his hands and head are exposed, his hair oddly matted and damp with sweat. He must've been wearing a hood and mitts, like hers.

Wait a fucking second. She's seen that collar. On James's sub.

"Figured it out, have you? Too bad you weren't smart enough to stay hidden," he sneers then shrugs. "Oh, well. Makes my job easier."

Job? Does he think he's dragging her out of here when the exits are locked and Alaric is glued to the security feed?

"You've been careful, having your bodyguard follow you everywhere, so the boss wanted me to drop by your little den of iniquity and pass along a message. To show you how easy it is to get to you, even here. He's a patient man who enjoys the chase. When he's ready to collect his prize, there won't be a single thing you or your boyfriend can do to stop it."

A million questions are marching through her brain like an army of crazed wind-up toys. She'll take those over the fear, which is twisting her gut and turning her heartbeat into an erratic drum solo.

"So, remember," the man continues, oblivious to her shaky limbs, "when you're eating lunch at that café you love, or shopping with your friend—y'know, the blonde one—we're watching. Soon, the game will be over. Why bother fighting it?"

A sudden fury boils to the surface, drowning out the panic and the riot in her head, and she raises her foot, slamming it down on his.

"Fuck!"

His hand slips from her mouth and she jerks her wrists free. She shoves him away, enough to give herself some much-needed room to move. Riding the wave of adrenaline, she darts forward, grabs his shoulders, and rams her knee into his groin. The bastard's eyes pop as he sinks to the floor, cradling his battered balls.

Leaning over the pathetic piece of human garbage, she delivers her message.

"Tell your boss he can go fuck himself."

"Elena!"

Damon's there in front of her, filling her field of vision, his hands gliding over her with a practiced efficiency that would make a paramedic proud. When he reaches her wrists, she can't quite disguise her wince and his eyes narrow. The explanation will have to wait because Alaric is swarming them, talking too fast for her to process. There are other familiar voices nearby—Elijah and Kat, she thinks.

Ric glances at the man writhing in agony and she detects a hint of pride when he looks at her.

She did it. She fought back.

And won.

Maybe it's proof she really has lost it, but she can't stop the ridiculous grin tugging at her lips.

###

Hell of an end to what should've been a fantastic night.

Damon checks his watch and sighs. Right about now, Elena would be waking up in his arms, drowsy but sated, and he'd be bundling her up to take her home. They'd crawl into bed and lose themselves in each other again, slow and sensual, until sleep finally took them.

Instead, he'd cleared the place out so the cops could collect James and his faux sub. Then he had the displeasure of another visit from Agent Myles, who had a little extra pep in his step. Too bad he didn't choke on all that self-righteousness. He left fifteen minutes ago after grilling everyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.

Nursing his bourbon and hoping it'll kill the headache threatening to split his skull open, Damon's gaze drifts to Elena. She's cocooned in a blanket, studying her pink toenails. He thought she'd be terrified after what happened but she's fine, mostly. He's the one losing his shit.

He's back to fantasizing about a remote, tropical island where he can hide her from the world. It's either that or turn the playroom into a bunker and tie her up with every knot in his arsenal. He may do that anyway.

It'll keep trouble from finding her and vice versa.

She must sense his eyes boring into her because she looks up, pink firing in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the warm blanket and everything to do with the storm cloud looming over his head.

He's delayed the inevitable long enough.

"Why were you really in the hall."

She told Agent Pain-in-the-Ass she heard something and went to investigate. Damon's not buying it, not after he explicitly told her to stay put.

Elena picks at a piece of lint. "I was hallucinating, I guess. I kept imagining Enzo on the other side of that door, prying it open. Taunting me. I had to make it stop."

He winces, tightening his grip on his glass. "And then?"

"There was nothing, an empty hallway, then that man ambushed me." She sits up straighter, squaring her shoulders. It's not easy to pull off a power move when you're wrapped up like a fuzzy burrito but she holds her own. "And I kicked his ass."

This woman is going to give him a heart condition.

"You did." He swallows the rest of his drink in a oner. The blaze in his throat will distract him from his instincts, which are screaming at him to go full caveman. "But the goal was to keep the asses that needed kicking far, far away from you."

She grimaces. "Sorry for making you worry. Again."

Damon's on his feet, rounding the desk before the last word leaves her lips. Dropping to his knees, he roots in the copious folds of the blanket until he finds her hands, entwining their fingers.

"You're a fighter. It's one of at least a billion things I love about you." There's that brilliant, pass-the-sunglasses smile. Number two of a billion. "You handled it like a pro, but I don't want you battling this out alone."

Elena nods. "I should've called you."

"Yes," he agrees, "but beyond what went down tonight, promise me you won't go charging into any other one-on-ones with Enzo's goons." He taps her knuckles. "Self-defense, not self-offense."

"Promise." She tries to cross her fingers, forgets they're tangled with his, and giggles adorably.

For a second, he almost forgets what a clusterfuck the evening became. And what a damn failure he is.

"There's no way that should've happened," he mutters, more to himself than her. "Not after the vetting and the background checks. Ric was thorough. So was I, I thought."

James had good references. Not a hint of dirt on his record. Damon groans and raises their joined hands, pressing the gentlest of kisses to the splotchy bruises dotting her wrists.

"I'm sorry, baby. You deserve to feel safe here, always, and I let you down."

"Damon, no." She tugs her hands from his then her palms are cradling his cheeks. "That's how they operate—low profiles, clean slates. You couldn't have known."

He scowls at the bruises, wishing he could throttle the dick who left those marks on his girl. Hope you like orange jumpsuits, asswipe.

His phone buzzes and he wants to pretend he didn't hear it, but it might be Alaric with an update. Seems the FBI has lured him out of retirement to act as a consultant on the case. If anyone can help them resolve this nightmare, it's Ric.

There's an alert for a new text. Unknown number.

Déjà vu rears its ugly head as Damon swipes his thumb across the screen to open it.

Did you enjoy your surprise guest? Pity I wasn't there to join in the fun. Tell me, how does it feel to know you can't protect her forever? She'll be mine.

Soon.

#

##

###

Author's note the second: I shamelessly borrowed "pumpkin kink latte" from Grace, who gets all the credit. :)