The warehouse sat beneath the Manhattan Bridge like a forgotten cathedral, its brick walls sweating decades of river damp. Inside, strobe lights carved the darkness into violent shards of red and violet. Bass throbbed through the concrete floor and up into Isabella’s bare feet as Viktor led her down a freight elevator that smelled of rust and s*x.
She wore only a thin black silk robe, belted loosely, nothing beneath. A new collar circled her throat: matte black leather with a single silver ring at the front. Viktor held the leash attached to it loosely in one hand. The other rested possessively on the small of her back.
On the third night he had told her what the syndicate required.
“One public claiming,” he had said, tracing the fresh bruises on her inner thighs. “They need to see you
