---
"The most dangerous love stories aren't about who touches you. They're about who dares to challenge you in front of everyone and still kneels when the doors close."
---
The crowd pressed in like velvet smoke.
Low lighting. Crimson haze. The heavy scent of rose oil and sandalwood curling through the air like a spell. The Grand Hall of the Crimson Room had never felt more electric—charged with anticipation, laced with whispers, and saturated with tension thick enough to taste.
Ava didn't pace.
She didn't need to.
She stood in the center of the room, spine straight, lips stained wine-dark, her fitted red suit tailored so precisely it clung like intention. Her heels were weapons. Her eyes, fire.
Damien stood at her side—not collared, not cuffed—but clearly hers.
And across the floor, seated with one long leg crossed over the other like a queen without a crown—was Lyla.
The leather she wore gleamed under the chandelier, black and slick and sharp, her lips smirking as if she'd already won something Ava hadn't started fighting for.
Mina cleared her throat gently and announced the rules.
"This is a performance duel," she said. "A submissive is shared by two dominants for the sake of artistic seduction, not punishment. At the end, the submissive makes the choice. The room bears witness. No violence. No breaking contracts. Only clarity."
The submissive?
Damien Wolfe.
A murmur rippled through the room. Some curious. Some skeptical. A few turned on.
Ava didn't flinch.
This wasn't revenge.
This was reclamation.
---
They took their corners.
The red floor gleamed beneath them, polished until it shimmered like blood made mirror.
Damien moved to the center, slow and deliberate. Bare-chested, black pants slung low, wrists loosely cuffed—not restrained, but suggestively offered. His body was an ode to tension: shoulders rolled back, chest exposed, his pulse visible just beneath his collarbone.
He dropped to one knee.
Then both.
The room inhaled.
Ava moved first.
---
She didn't touch him.
Not yet.
Instead, she circled, slow and unbothered, like a lioness tasting the air. Her heels clicked softly, each step designed for tension, not noise. Her fingers trailed the air near his skin without grazing it.
"Look at me," she said.
Damien lifted his head.
But not all the way.
Just enough to meet her eyes—those eyes that had seen every wound he'd hidden, every fault he'd buried.
"Tonight," she said quietly, "you are not mine by rule. You're mine by choice."
She stepped behind him.
And unfastened the cuffs.
One. Then the other.
Let them fall.
The room buzzed.
Dominants rarely offered freedom mid-scene.
But Ava did.
Because her power wasn't in what she took.
It was in what they gave.
---
Then came Lyla.
Like a storm dressed as temptation.
She didn't ask permission.
She simply swept in—kneeling behind Damien, sliding her hands along his thighs, her lips close to his ear.
"I can give you what she won't," she purred. "What she's afraid to show you in public. Rawness. Hunger. Need."
Ava tilted her head slightly.
Still silent.
Still watching.
Lyla let her hands climb—torso, chest, neck. She leaned in, pressing her mouth to Damien's pulse point.
He shivered.
But didn't lean.
Didn't open.
"Is that what you want?" Lyla murmured against his throat. "A queen who makes you wait? Or a woman who gives it all, now?"
Her fingers dipped low, teasing the edge of his waistband.
Then Ava moved.
---
She didn't push Lyla away.
She didn't have to.
She stepped into Damien's line of sight, and simply spoke:
"Strip."
Not to Lyla.
To him.
And Damien obeyed.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He stood, fingers hooking the waistband of his pants, eyes never leaving Ava's. The fabric slipped down his legs and pooled at his feet. He stood completely nude now, hard and flushed, yet utterly still.
The audience murmured.
But Ava ignored them.
She walked to him.
Close enough for their breath to mingle.
Then she ran one fingernail down the center of his chest, pausing just over his heart.
"Do you trust me?"
His voice was low.
"Yes."
"Even here?"
"Yes."
"Even if I touch you without touching you?"
He swallowed.
"Yes."
---
She didn't need props.
Not ropes.
Not toys.
Just her voice.
And her body.
She circled again—this time closer, letting the silk of her sleeve ghost over his skin. Every place it passed—his shoulder, his hip, the back of his neck—Damien trembled.
"You're aroused," Lyla scoffed. "But you haven't come."
Ava stopped in front of him.
"He hasn't begged yet," she said.
Then turned to Damien.
"Kneel."
And he did.
Slow.
Controlled.
Every muscle fluid.
The weight of it wasn't in the act.
It was in the intent.
She walked behind him and whispered,
"Touch yourself."
His breath caught.
"Only when I say."
A pause.
Silence.
Then—
"Now."
---
He obeyed.
One hand wrapped around himself, slow strokes guided by her voice.
The audience was breathless.
So was Lyla.
But Ava didn't look at Damien.
She looked at Lyla.
Locked eyes.
And smiled.
Because this wasn't about dominance anymore.
It was about knowing someone so completely, you could own their body without lifting a hand.
Damien's strokes faltered.
His breath hitched.
Then—
"Stop," she said.
And he froze.
Trembling.
Desperate.
Sweat slicked his spine.
"Please," he whispered.
And finally, she stepped in front of him.
Ran one hand through his hair.
And murmured, "Come for me."
He exploded—loud, raw, broken open at the center of the floor while the entire room watched.
He sagged forward, breathing hard.
Still on his knees.
And then…
He turned to face her.
Eyes soft.
Jaw unshaking.
And said:
> "Ava Carson is my Queen. Not because she makes me kneel. But because she lets me rise."
---
The vote was unnecessary.
But protocol demanded it.
Mina stepped forward.
"Dominants of the Room," she called. "Do you accept this submission?"
Every voice echoed back.
"Yes."
Ava took Damien's face in both hands.
Kissed him gently.
And whispered,
"You're mine."
But this time—
She added:
> "And I'm yours."
---
To Be Continued in Episode 9: The Gala of Desire