She never used to walk like this.
Not with this kind of poise, not in heels this high, or fabric this thin clinging to every curve like it was poured on.
But Riven does.
She glides past the velvet curtain into the darkened atrium of the House of Ash. The doorman doesn't ask her name. No one does here. Only the role you wear.
Tonight, she's chosen Submissive--a beautiful contradiction. Because Riven doesn't kneel. She performs submission the way a dancer dies onstage: beautifully, convincingly, but never really.
She moves like smoke--blood-red silk around her thighs, a bone-white mask with a slash of gold at the lips. A symbol. A warning. A lie.
The music pulses low, like a heartbeat behind the walls. Doors lead to unnamed rooms. Some open. Some locked. All watching.
She doesn't flinch when a woman in leather brushes her shoulder, or pause for two men behind a beaded curtain. She walks straight to the main floor, where the Orchestrators wait--those who choose, arrange, control.
One steps forward. Black mask. Unreadable.
"Submissive," she says, voice clear. Not breathy. Not shy. Just chosen.
"Limits?"
"I'll tell you when I reach them."
He nods and gestures to a velvet-draped alcove behind frosted glass.
"Room 7. You're being observed."
"By whom?"
He doesn't answer. Just leaves.
She walks alone. Always alone.
The room is dim, a leather bench at its center, mirrored wall to one side.
A man is already there. Masked. Dressed in tailored black. Silent. Present.
Something in the way he straightens when he sees her--how his head tilts just so--makes her pulse kick.
"Riven," he says. Not a question.
It's how he says it that stops her. Like he's said it before.
Her throat tightens.
She enters anyway.
Riven sits with her back straight, legs crossed, blood-red silk pooling at her hips. Every part of her carefully arranged. Controlled. Mask in place. Breath steady.
He's already there, seated across from her. Masked in black. Silent. Watching.
He doesn't speak right away.
When he finally does, it's not a greeting. It's a command.
"Uncross your legs."
She obeys without hesitation, her knees parting, her dress slipping higher. She lets the pose hold--open, deliberate, waiting.
From the shadows, another man appears. Bare-chested. Silver mask. Silent. He kneels beside her without being told. His eyes never meet hers.
"Let him touch you," the man in black says.
No title. No role. Just the words--and the weight they carry.
The submissive man's hand moves to her inner thigh, gliding upward with expert slowness. Riven's breathing deepens, but she doesn't move. Her body absorbs the contact, the warmth, the pressure.
"Two fingers," the masked man says.
The submissive complies, sliding the fabric aside and slipping two fingers inside her with smooth, practiced ease.
Riven doesn't gasp. Doesn't whimper. She lets it happen. Her spine stays long. Her shoulders square.
But her thighs twitch. Just slightly.
The man across from her tilts his head, watching the rhythm.
"Deeper," he instructs. "Curl them up."
The submissive adjusts. Riven exhales through her nose, eyes still on the one giving orders.
He hasn't moved. Hasn't touched her. But she feels the weight of him everywhere.
"Good," he says, voice low. "She's ready now."
The submissive withdraws. Her body clenches at the loss. She doesn't speak. Doesn't break the spell.
The man in black rises slowly. Walks forward. Stops beside the submissive and speaks quietly, but loud enough for her to hear.
"Your mouth. But slow. She comes when I say."
The submissive nods.
His tongue replaces his fingers--wet heat and gentle pressure. Riven's back arches slightly, one hand gripping the edge of the bench. But she doesn't moan. Not yet. She waits.
The masked man moves to the wall, behind her reflection in the mirror. Arms crossed, watching both her body and her face.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Take it all. Show me how obedient you can be."
She doesn't reply.
She only gives in.
Her hips start to roll. Her body answering every unspoken rhythm, her legs spreading wider to welcome the invasion, the ache, the worship.
When he finally says, "Now,"
she breaks.
Her climax rolls through her like a storm--deep, sharp, silent. Her lips part, but no sound escapes.
The submissive stills.
The masked man walks forward again. Places a hand on the back of the submissive's neck. Dismisses him without a word.
The door closes softly behind him.
Now they're alone.
Riven smooths her dress, but doesn't close her legs. Her pulse is thunder in her ears.
The man leans close, one hand gripping the edge of the bench beside her thigh.
"I've seen you before," he says, voice like smoke.
She doesn't answer. Not yet. She's still riding the edge between subspace and memory.
He straightens, heading for the door.
Just before he disappears into the dark, he adds,
"Next time, I'll make you say your name."
And then he's gone.
________________________________________
She doesn't remember the ride taking her back to the club.
Only the feeling of the silk catching at the back of her knees as she stepped out of the cab. Only the way the door to the House of Ash opened for her before she knocked.
They know her.
Tonight, her dress is black--like wet ink, clinging to her skin, backless, sleeveless, unapologetic. Her mask is the same. Bone-white. Lips sealed in gold. But her mouth beneath it? Raw.
Riven doesn't hesitate. She doesn't pause to look. She walks into Room 7 the moment the Orchestrator tells her to.
The door to Room 7 closes behind her like a lock clicking into place.
He's already there. Dressed in black. Gloved. Waiting.
Her breath slows, but her heart is chaos.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to.
He steps forward. No hesitation. One hand catches her jaw. The other moves to the back of her head--and just like that, her mask is gone.
His fingers grip her hair at the base of her skull. Not cruel. But claiming.
Then, calmly, he says:
"Micaela."
Her whole body jolts.
The name cuts deeper than anything physical.
She hasn't heard it spoken like that in almost a year.
Not here. Not ever here.
Not in this place where Riven is always in control. Where Micaela doesn't exist.
He lets go.
Her skin is flushed. Her mouth open. Her mask dangling in his hand like a peeled-off lie.
"I didn't give you my name," she breathes.
"No," he replies. "But you left it behind like a scent. It still clings."
Her knees almost buckle. Not from fear.
From recognition.
From heat.
He circles her once--slow and precise--and stops behind her. His fingers hook under the strap of her dress and pull it down without asking.
She doesn't stop him.
She can't.
He exposes her inch by inch--shoulders, spine, thighs--until the silk puddles at her feet.
No commands. No warnings. Just hands that know exactly where to hold her--and when not to.
