A guard opens the heavy door, standing aside as we enter the den. Ivy slows in hesitation as the sound of the world around her begins to flood her senses. Whips. Chains. Grunts. Feminine moans and soft, dark music fill the space.

"Santiago?" She turns her body into me, clutching at me as if I could still be her salvation. The very man who leads her to her destruction. The man she should be running from.

I can’t fathom her thoughts, but it feels like a trick. Ignoring her pleas, I drag her deeper into the fray, even as she clings to my cloak. We pass by the scenes of sexual depravity at its finest. The masculine grunts of a dominant sharing his sub with another member are the sounds that produce goose bumps on Ivy's skin. When she comes to a complete standstill, my frustration wins out.

Tearing the blanket off her and discarding it, I force her onto her hands and knees, gripping the chain attached to her collar in my hand. The only identifying mark on her naked body is my tattoo, but it is obscured by her hair right now.

I can feel the eyes of others on her, but right now, my need to exert my dominance is winning out above all others.

"Crawl," I bark.

She shakes as she begins to crawl forward, struggling to hold the weight of her mask up. More than once, she has to pause to lower her head, but she never gives up. She never admits defeat. And perhaps that stubborn will is what draws me in so much. My wife wants to believe she’s a fighter. Determined to handle any punishment I throw her way. But she hasn't seen the worst of me. Not yet.

When we reach an empty station, she collapses into my arms as I hoist her up onto the wooden bench, forcing her torso up over the center cushion. I make quick work of the restraints, using them to secure her in place. She's on her hands and knees, legs spread wide, arms splayed out on the wooden slats in front of her. In this position, she's forced to hold up her head, and already she is struggling.

"Hello, Sir," a feminine voice whispers from behind me. "I see you already have a playmate this evening. But would you like another?"

My eyes are on Ivy as she cranes her neck in my direction. Maybe it's my imagination, but her muscles seem more rigid than they did only a moment ago. She’s frozen, listening carefully for my response.

A cruel smile crosses my face. I haven't even turned to examine the courtesan employed by IVI to work in this den. They are here for our pleasure, and she is only doing her job. But Ivy doesn't know that.

"What do you have to offer?" I ask.