Clean in, Clean out
I hated this place already.
Even the smell.
The Veil's masquerade ball swirled around me like something out of a fever dream crystal chandeliers dripping gold light, heavy velvet drapes, and the low, pulsing music that seemed to throb between my legs whether I wanted it to or not.
Everywhere I looked, people wore masks and power like second skin. Collars gleamed at throats. Leashes dangled from elegant fingers. Dominants guided their submissives with casual possession while switches danced between roles like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Gross. All of it.
ALL OF IT!
I'd never had a Dominant.
Never wanted one.
The whole concept of being owned made my skin crawl. The law might say you needed to be collared to get into places like this, but I thought it was archaic, some controlling bullshit.
I was a thief, not someone's pet.
Tonight, though, the thin black band around my throat was just a ticket in. A very convincing fake.
I'd even gone the extra mile and slipped in colored contacts before leaving the hotel. My natural eyes—one a vivid, unnatural green, the other a warm brown were too memorable in my line of work unfortunately but I certainly never looked for attention. Just tried to look like any other girl at a party.
My black hair was pinned up in a deliberately messy chignon, loose strands brushing my neck. The deep crimson gown hugged my curves before flaring at the hips, the slit up one thigh flashing when I moved. I looked like I belonged here. Like another submissive looking for attention.
Perfect cover.
I drifted through the crowd with a champagne flute in hand, scanning for the private staircase that led to the upper offices. The client wanted Abraham Davenport and Theodore Langford's encrypted call logs, and I was going to get them.
A tall man in a tailored black tuxedo and a simple silver mask stepped into my path. Blonde hair, sharp jaw, piercing blue eyes visible even through the mask. Theodore Langford.
"New face," he murmured, his voice possessing that distinct, melodic Irish lilt. His gaze dropped to the fake collar at my throat. "And wandering without a lead. Looking for someone to claim you tonight, little stray?"
I tilted my head, giving him my best bratty little smile. "Maybe I like being unattached. More fun that way."
His blue eyes sparkled with interest. "A dangerous game to play, love."
Before I could reply, another man appeared at his side. Taller, black hair swept back, the same piercing blue eyes but with a colder, sharper edge. Abraham Davenport. His matte black mask made him look almost predatory.
"Already causing trouble, Theo?" Abraham asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp with the rhythmic cadence of a Dublin street. He stepped closer, eyes unblinking. "Now, that's a bit of a surprise, isn't it?"
I shrugged, keeping my tone light. "Just enjoying the party, gentlemen. Don't mind me."
I slipped past them before either could press further, feeling the weight of their stares on my back. My heart picked up speed.
Close call. Too close.
Now I just had to find that study, steal the logs, and disappear before these two most powerful Dominants in the club realized the pretty little thief in the fake collar had come for more than conversation. Or for their stupid party.
The night was young, the music pulsed, and I had a job to do. Money to be made.
I slipped deeper into the crowd, letting the pulsing music and swirling bodies swallow me up. The weight of those two pairs of blue eyes still burned between my shoulder blades, but I didn't dare glance back. Instead, I drained the last of my champagne, set the flute on a passing tray, and made a deliberate beeline toward the ornate hallway that branched off the main ballroom.
Bathroom, I thought. Classic. Unremarkable. No one questions a woman disappearing into the ladies' room.
The corridor was quieter, lined with heavy crimson wallpaper and gold sconces that cast long, flattering shadows. A small line had formed outside the restroom mostly submissives in various states of undress and one very bored-looking switch checking her lipstick in a compact mirror her man on a leash. I joined the end of the line, shifting my weight and smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my gown.
Perfectly inconspicuous. Just another girl who'd had too much champagne and needed a moment to collect herself.
When my turn came, I stepped inside the lavish bathroom marble counters, velvet stools, even a small sitting area with a chaise. I chose the farthest stall, locked the door, and immediately hiked up my skirt. Tucked high on my thigh, strapped tight against my skin, was a slim, flexible tablet no bigger than a credit card. I peeled it free and woke it with a tap.
The building schematics glowed softly on the screen blueprints the client had provided. The private study was on the second floor, northeast corner. Main staircase was guarded. Elevator required a keycard.
But the HVAC system... that was my way in.
A narrow service vent in the ceiling of the far maintenance closet connected to the main ductwork. From there, I could crawl along the ceiling joists and drop into the study's private powder room. Risky, loud if I wasn't careful, but doable. I'd done tighter spaces in worse conditions.
I slipped the tablet back into its hiding spot, flushed for show, and washed my hands while studying my reflection. The emerald contacts still looked natural enough. The fake collar sat snug against my throat. I adjusted one loose strand of hair, then stepped out like I owned the place.
Instead of heading back toward the ballroom, I turned left down the narrower service hallway, moving with purpose but not haste. A bored attendant in a tuxedo vest glanced at me but didn't stop me probably assumed I was looking for a private playroom. Good.
The maintenance closet was exactly where the map said it would be, tucked behind an unmarked door near the staff elevator. I tried the handle. Locked. Of course.
I pulled a thin tension wrench and a rake pick from the hidden seam in my gown's bodice. Thirty seconds later, the lock clicked open. I slipped inside, closed the door behind me, and clicked on the tiny penlight I'd palmed from my clutch.
Metal shelving lined the walls, stacked with cleaning supplies and spare linens. Above me, the vent cover was a standard grille. I dragged a sturdy step stool over, climbed up, and worked the screws free with a miniature driver. The cover came away silently. I set it on top of the shelf, then hoisted myself into the duct.
It was tighter than I'd hoped. The crimson gown made it worse the fabric catching, the slit riding high on my thigh. I cursed under my breath and shimmied forward on elbows and knees, the metal cool against my bare skin. Dust tickled my nose. Every shift of my weight made the duct groan faintly.
Keep moving. Slow and steady.
I followed the route in my head: twenty feet straight, left at the junction, then up a short vertical run using the support brackets like a ladder. My shoulders burned. The music from the ballroom was muffled now, replaced by the low hum of the building's ventilation system.
Finally, I reached the drop point above the study's private washroom. I paused, listening. Silence. No voices. No movement.
I eased the vent cover off from the inside, lowering it carefully with one hand while gripping the edge with the other. Then I swung down, dropping lightly onto the marble floor of the powder room, knees bent to absorb the sound.
I was in.
The study door was ajar just enough for me to see the massive oak desk, multiple monitors, and the faint blue glow of electronics on standby. My pulse hammered in my ears as I straightened my gown, wiped dust from my arms, and stepped forward.
Call logs. Encrypted drive. Five minutes, tops. Then I'm gone.
I allowed myself one small, satisfied smirk.
The night was still young. And I was very, very good at my job.
I eased the study door shut behind me, leaving it exactly as I'd found it ajar by a finger's width. The room smelled like expensive leather, aged whiskey, and faint cologne that made my nose wrinkle. Power and control in scent form. Gross.
The massive desk dominated the space. I dropped into the high-backed leather chair Abraham's, I guessed, judging by the colder, sterner vibe and spun it once, slowly, just because I could. The room blurred in a lazy circle of dark wood and shadowed bookshelves.
Boredom is the real enemy on jobs like this.
I planted my heels on the floor to stop the spin and leaned forward, tapping my crimson nails on the polished desktop while the slim black drive I'd plugged into the tower chugged away. The progress bar on the monitor crawled: 47%... 62%... The encrypted call logs were fatter than expected. I sighed, drumming my fingers faster, then slower, then in a restless rhythm that matched the distant thump of the bass downstairs.
"C'mon, c'mon," I muttered. "I don't have all night for your kinky little empire's secrets."
78%... 91%...
I twirled the chair again, lighter this time, letting my head fall back against the cool leather. The gown's slit had ridden up; one bare thigh flashed in the low light. For a second I imagined what the owners of this chair would think if they walked in right now, a fake-collared stray making herself at home in their inner sanctum.
The thought almost made me laugh.
The bar finally hit 100%. Sweet relief.
I yanked the drive free, the little device warm from the machine. I was just sliding it into the deep valley between my breasts, nestling it securely inside the structured bra beneath the gown, when I heard it.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate. Coming down the hall toward the study.
Shit.
My heart slammed against my ribs. No time to check the monitor or wipe anything down. I shoved the chair back into place, snatched the vent cover I'd left leaning against the wall, and launched myself at the open duct. The footsteps grew louder two sets, voices now, low and unmistakably male.
"...thought I saw her come this way," Theodore murmured, that unmistakable, rhythmic lilt of his voice cutting through the ambient hum of the party. He sounded far too amused for a man on a hunt. "That little stray with the mismatched eyes. Suppose she's hiding?"
Theodore.
I didn't wait to hear Abraham's reply. Gripping the edge of the vent, I hauled myself up with pure adrenaline, legs scrambling for purchase inside the metal shaft. The gown caught again, tearing faintly at the seam, but I didn't care. I pulled the vent cover into place behind me just as the study door swung open.
My breathing was too loud. I forced it slower, shallower, pressing my body flat against the cool metal as I started crawling backward the way I'd come. Dust coated my arms and chest. The stolen drive shifted warmly between my breasts with every movement.
Below me, the lights clicked on brighter. Chairs scraped.
A low chuckle.
"Smells like perfume in here," Abraham said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp with that unmistakable Dublin edge velvet-rough and dangerous. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his gaze tracking the shadows. "And something else... the scent of someone running, wouldn't you say?"
I kept crawling faster now, ignoring the burn in my shoulders and the scrape of my knees. Left at the junction. Down the vertical. Straight shot back toward the maintenance closet.
Only when I was three turns away did I let myself smile, sharp and fierce in the dark.
They'd never know I was even there.
I dropped back into the maintenance closet a minute later, landing lightly despite the adrenaline still singing in my veins. I straightened my gown as best I could, dusted myself off, and slipped the drive deeper into my bra for good measure. Then I stepped back into the hallway like nothing had happened.
The masquerade ball still swirled below. The night wasn't over yet, but my part was almost finished.
Now I just had to get out without running into those two again.
I melted back into the crowd long enough to look natural, then drifted toward the grand entrance like I'd had my fill of the masquerade. The heavy velvet drapes parted for me, and the cool night air hit my flushed skin like a blessing. The valet line stretched down the curved drive, but I kept walking until the thumping music faded into a distant heartbeat behind me.
A few yards from the main steps, under the shadow of a manicured hedge, I stopped. My hands were still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. I opened my small clutch, pulled out a slim cigarette and a lighter, and lit up. The first drag burned sweet and sharp in my lungs. I tilted my head back, exhaling slowly toward the stars.
"Pretty little thing like you... Your dominant lets you smoke?"
The voice was deep, amused, coming from a man leaning against a black town car a few feet away. Tall, dark-haired, wearing a half-mask and an expensive suit. Definitely a Dominant. Definitely not Abraham or Theodore. A silver ring glinted on his finger as he held a glass of something amber.
I took another slow drag, letting the smoke curl between us. "I don't think that's really any of your business."
His eyebrows rose above the mask, clearly entertained. "Feisty. No collar tag either. Interesting."
I didn't answer. Just turned on my heel and started walking down the long driveway, heels clicking against the pavement, cigarette glowing between my fingers. I could feel him watching, but he didn't follow. Good.
Halfway down the drive, a yellow taxi rolled past, looking for fares from the event. I raised my hand. It slowed, and I slid into the back seat, giving the driver a casual smile.
"Downtown, please. Near the old theater district."
Not my actual neighborhood. Never give them the real destination. The driver nodded and pulled away from the glittering estate. I kept glancing in the side mirror as we wound through the city streets, watching for any headlights that lingered too long. Nothing obvious. Still, better safe.
Twenty minutes later the taxi dropped me at a quiet corner a mile from my real bolt-hole. I paid in cash, tipped well, and waited until the taillights disappeared before I started walking again.
The old motel sat at the edge of an older industrial zone half the neon sign burned out, chain-link fence sagging, weeds pushing through cracks in the lot. I'd picked the room at the far end weeks ago. Cash under the table, no questions, no cameras that worked. Perfect for someone who didn't want to be found.
I slipped through the broken gate, crossed the cracked asphalt, and let myself into room 17 with the key I kept on a thin chain around my ankle. The door shut behind me with a heavy click. Musty air, faded wallpaper, one working lamp. Home sweet home.
I kicked off my heels, reached into my bra, and pulled out the warm little drive. It caught the lamplight like a trophy.
"Got you," I whispered.
Tomorrow I'd deliver it to the client and get paid. Tonight, I just wanted a hot shower and to burn this ridiculous fake collar.
I smiled to myself in the cracked mirror as I peeled off the gown. The night had gone better than expected.
I delivered the drive the next afternoon, still wearing the fake collar to stay in character. The client, Mr. Harwell, a grizzled ex-cop with a beer gut and a permanent scowl, waited in the back booth of a dingy diner on the edge of town. I slid the encrypted drive across the table like it was nothing. He plugged it into his laptop, checked the files, and gave me a curt nod.
"No problems?" he asked.
"Clean in, clean out," I said, keeping my voice light and a little breathy. Submissive-adjacent. Playing the part.
He slid an envelope across the table. I didn't open it until I was back in the taxi heading away from the meet. When I did, my stomach dropped.
It was barely a fraction of what we'd agreed on. Enough for maybe two weeks of groceries if I ate rice and beans every day. Not even close to covering rent at the abandoned motel or the new set of picks I needed. I stared at the pathetic stack of bills, jaw tight.
Back at the motel, I locked the door, ripped the fake collar off my throat with more force than necessary.
I counted the money one more time, then threw the envelope against the wall.
"That fucking bastard."
I punched my pillow onc twice god it made me feel better.
Later that evening, I tracked Mr. Harwell down at some donut shop down town. He was nursing a coffee when I stormed up to his booth.
"This is a joke, right?" I slammed the envelope on the table. "We agreed on triple this. I risked my ass in that club—"
Harwell leaned back, eyes flat. "You accepted the amount I gave you. Take it or leave it."
"I'm not leaving it. We had a deal."
His smile was thin and ugly. "You know it's against the law to be running around uncollared, right? No registered Dominant. Fake documents. I could turn you in right now, little thief. They'd collar you for real and assign you to someone who'd teach you manners. Or you can shut up and take what I'm offering."
The threat landed like a slap. My hands curled into fists at my sides. For a second I imagined smashing his coffee mug into that smug face, but I knew better. Ex-cop. Probably still had friends on the force. I swallowed the rage, turned on my heel, and left without another word.
The walk back to the motel was long and seething. I hated this city. Hated the laws. Hated feeling like prey in a world that wanted to leash everyone.
I was halfway through a cheap beer and plotting my next move when my burner phone rang. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer, but habit won out.
A smooth, professional voice came through. "I hear you're good at getting into places you shouldn't. There's another club. Higher security. Better pay. Interested?"
I stared at the pathetic pile of bills on the rickety table.
"Yeah," I said, voice hard. "I'm interested. Send the details."
Another job. Another risk.
At least this time I'd make sure I got paid what I was worth.
