Shared King

Rumors of a King

Ava

Sometimes I forget what silence sounds like at St. Morana’s, the ED break room is a temporary ceasefire between alarms, Vocera’s, and the scream of the overhead paging system. Here, silence is just the hum of the fridge and the faint white noise of the air conditioner moving filtered air through marble ducts. I sit at the counter with my shoes off, staring at the bruises on my ankles where a seventy-year-old psych patient kicked me last night. Three minutes into my “lunch break,” and I still smell like blood and latex.

I’m not technically on break, but the new resident, the one with the confidence of a first-year med student and the manual dexterity of a toddler, managed to stick himself with a trauma needle and fainted, so I’m hiding until the charge nurse finds someone else to babysit.

The door swings open. Melissa, one of my favorite people, breezes in with a cup of burnt coffee and a glossy magazine rolled in her fist. Her cheeks are flush, and her eyeliner is already halfway down her face, as usual. She tosses herself onto the couch and glares at me with the practiced drama of someone who’s survived six consecutive shifts in the ED and is about to work a seventh.

“You look like death,” she says. “You’re still wearing yesterday’s scrubs.”

I glance down at myself. The scrubs are technically black, but the left leg is streaked with dried blood, and the right sleeve is still stiff with what I hope is contrast dye and not… I don’t know, something worse. I shrug. “At least I match the interior design.”

Melissa giggles. “This whole place is like mausoleum. I swear, you could fill the ice machine with ashes, and no one would notice.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out hoarse and low. “Isn’t it your turn to die first tonight? You’re running out of organs to donate.”

“Plot twist,” she says, waving the magazine. “I’m going to live forever. Or at least until tomorrow morning. I have plans.”

She kicks her feet up on the table and starts scrolling her phone, half-talking to me, half-narrating to herself. “You ever heard of King Dominic Veynar? You know, the heir to the Veynar throne and who owns half the city?”

“Pretty sure he owns this hospital,” I say. “And all the private ambulance companies.”

Melissa snorts. “Exactly. He could buy your kidneys and sell them back to you with interest.”

I nod, but the name hits me like a jolt of Epi. Dominic Veynar. He’s the kind of urban legend that’s real and everyone in Nyxhaven knows his face, but no one’s met him unless they’ve signed an NDA. Even in my world, he’s more myth than man. The only time I’ve ever seen him was when the news did a segment about a gala for the hospital’s new cancer wing. He was in the background, taller than everyone else, wearing a suit like it was his skin.

“He’s not a king,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Nyxhaven is a constitutional monarchy. He’s just the heir, not king.”

“Technically, he’s King. His father abdicated,” Melissa counters. “Making him the richest man in the country. You know he runs those parties out of his private mansion, up on the cliffs?” She looks up at me, her face suddenly alive with gossip. “You ever done one of those?”

I keep my eyes on the coffee machine, busying my hands with the ancient sugar packets no one ever uses. “One of what?”

She leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “The parties. The contract ones. Where you have to get invited, and the NDAs are like, longer than your mortgage paperwork? I heard its BDSM parties, all Doms and subs. Nothing vanilla allowed.”

I wonder if she’s trying to goad me, or if she actually knows. Six months ago, before everything fell apart, I’d have laughed and made a joke about riding crops and silk scarves. Now, I keep my voice flat. “People have too much money. That’s all it is.”

Melissa grins, delighted by my discomfort. “You’re so full of shit. I saw you in the supply closet last year. You had bruises on your wrists.”

I bristle, immediately reaching for my phone. My thumb flicks through nothing, a calendar, email, old photos, anything to keep my hands still. The ghosts of pressure marks still haunt my wrists, even though I haven’t worn a collar in half a year. Not since Nathan left. Not since I lost the only Dom who ever made me feel like more than a sub.

“I get it,” Melissa says, softer now. “You haven’t had a Dom in a while. Don’t you miss it?”

I don’t answer, because she already knows. Instead, I focus on the rhythm of my pulse, the way it hammers at my throat. It’s always the neck. That’s where the control sits, right at the hinge of the jaw, at the edge of obedience and shame. Sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I press two fingers against the side of my throat and pretend it’s a hand, just to see if I can make myself feel owned again.

“You okay?” Melissa asks.

“I’m fine.” I set my phone down, careful not to look her in the eye. “So, you said you had plans?”

She brightens, all too happy to change the subject. “I’m going tonight.”

“Going where?”

She glances around the break room, as if expecting the hospital to be bugged. “The mansion. The one with the black marble driveway and the private heliport. I heard the guest list is insane. All the top-tier submissives, flown in from everywhere. The kind of event that spoils you.”

I smile, but it’s brittle. “Sounds exclusive.”

She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. “I’m nervous as fuck. They say the security at the door will turn you away if you’re not perfect. Like, if your eyeliner is crooked, or if you’re not ‘submissive enough’ they can tell. Some people get blacklisted just for trying to sneak in.”

I shift in my chair. My neck is prickling, an old scar itching underneath the surface. “How did you get invited?”

Melissa laughs. “You know the guy who runs the surgery floor? He knows someone in the royal family. Apparently, if you sign a special contract, they’ll let you observe. Maybe participate, if you’re brave.”

“You’re not a sub,” I say, more curious than I want to sound.

“Tonight, I am.” She grins, devilish. “For the right Dom, I will be a sub tonight!”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I twist the ring on my finger a cheap, stainless-steel band I bought myself after Nathan left. Sometimes I wear it on my left hand, just to see if I feel taken. Today it’s on my right, loose enough to spin.

Melissa catches the gesture. “You should come with,” she blurts. “We could go together. They like duos.”

My heart lurches. “I can’t. I have the next shift. And anyway, I don’t…”

“You don’t want to see what it’s like?” She presses, smile fading to sincerity. “Ava, you’re the best nurse here. But you’re also the most… I don’t know, the most disciplined. The most in control. Sometimes I wonder if you even know what it feels like to let go.”

I freeze, anger and longing both rising. “I know exactly what it feels like,” I say, quietly. “That’s why I’m not interested.” That part is a lie, and we both know it.

Melissa holds my gaze, then shrugs, unconvinced. “If you change your mind, just text me. I’ll make you my plus one.”

She stands, smoothing her hair and grabbing her coffee. “Okay, I’m going to shower and try not to look like I haven’t been up for thirty-six hours. You should do the same.”

She leaves, and I stare at the empty doorway. The silence floods back in.

I reach up, absently, and run my fingers along the line of my throat. The memory of leather is as strong as the real thing. For a second, I let myself imagine kneeling at the feet of a man who owns everything and everyone, a man who could break me and put me back together with a look. I imagine the weight of a collar, the click of a lock, the sound of my name said like an order. I imagine King Dominic, I imagine him watching me, deciding if I’m worthy. I pull my hand away and laugh, embarrassed even in my own head. I pick up my phone and scroll through messages, pretending not to care.

Eventually, when the minute hand has circled twice, I open the door and step out into the corridor. There’s a tightness in my chest that won’t go away. At the elevator, I see Melissa again. She’s changed, but I can’t see what she is wearing because she has on a long coat. Her makeup perfect, hair sleek and black like a whip. She looks at me, lifts her chin, and grins.

“You’re coming,” she says, not a question.

I want to say no. Instead, I ask, as casually as I can, “Where is it?”

She gives me the address, scribbled on the back of a hospital prescription pad.

By the time the elevator doors close, I’m already planning what to wear.

***

The mansion looks like something out of a fairytale. From the outside, it’s all black marble and glass, crouched against the edge of the cliffs. Security lights cast long shadows over the manicured lawns. There’s a high wall, topped with silver spikes and a driveway that feels like a private road into nowhere. Even the air is different here, salted and sharp, scraped raw by the ocean. I can feel my calves shaking with every step. The dress is tight, but still one of those “mandatory black attire” things that Melissa promised would be “slutty enough, but classy, since I am only watching tonight.” I check my reflection in the window of a parked Tesla. Memories start to flash in my head. If I am completely honest with myself, I miss the lifestyle.

The front door is guarded by two men dressed exactly alike in black suits. They don’t move when I approach, but one lifts a gloved hand for my invite.

“Name?” His voice is low, professional, not interested in small talk.

“Ava. I am Melissa’s plus one. She said that she would leave my name with you.” I say, careful not to give a last name.

They look on the iPad and then the taller one say’s “Enjoy your evening, Ava. All devices off. No photography, no recording.”

I nod, grateful for the release, and push through the glass doors. Inside, there’s music, nothing I recognize, just a steady, pulsing background that moves the crowd in waves. The floors are a checkerboard of marble so polished I can see my own footsteps. The ceilings vault overhead, hung with crystals and mirrors. There are people everywhere. No one looks at me directly, but I feel the eyes anyway, grazing along the hem of my dress and the dip of my collarbone.

I head for the bar. The bartender is a woman, tall and athletic, hair shaved on one side, hands moving with the precision of a surgeon. She pours me a whiskey without asking, sliding the glass across the counter with a wink.

“First time?” she says that voice low enough to not carry.

“Is it that obvious?”

She shrugs. “You’re not wearing a collar. You keep touching your neck.”

I let my hand drop, embarrassed. “Old habits.”

“Don’t worry. Happens to a lot of us.” She nods to the crowd. “If you want to blend in, just follow the protocols. Don’t stare. Don’t interrupt a scene. If someone offers you a color-coded drink, say no unless you know what it means.”

“Thanks,” I say, though I’m not sure what to do with my hands now. I grip the whiskey glass and drink half in a single gulp. It burns, but it’s a good kind of burn.

I scan the room. There’s a staircase at the far end, guarded by two more men in black. Beyond them is a hallway, velvet ropes, and a steady stream of people disappearing into back rooms. Some emerge with flushed faces and marks on their wrists. Others come out with new jewelry, collars or bracelets, moving more slowly than before. I spot Melissa almost immediately. She’s at a table with three men, laughing a little too loudly, her eyeliner already a casualty. When she sees me, she lifts her drink in salute.

The crowd is beautiful in that predatory way rich people have. Even the submissives are dangerous. I see a pair of women, maybe sisters, standing shoulder to shoulder with matching silver cuffs and blank, doll-like faces. I see a young man in a suit, kneeling quietly by his Dom’s chair, unmoving even when people brush against him. Everywhere are little signals: a ring on the right hand, a tattoo peeking from the edge of a sleeve, a scarf knotted in a particular way. I know the language. I just haven’t spoken it in a while.

I move slowly, acclimating. The air smells of expensive cologne, liquor, leather. For a second, I wonder what it’s like to live in a world where money can buy you every kind of power. Then I remind myself I’m just visiting. This isn’t my world. I’m just borrowing it for a night.

The whiskey warms my chest and smooths the edges of my anxiety. I let myself drift, half-invisible, watching the way the Doms move through the crowd like they own the oxygen. I watch the submissives, the way they hover at the edges, waiting for a cue. I want to leave, but I want to stay more.

I finish my drink and set the empty glass on the bar. The bartender gives me a small, knowing smile. “You’ll be fine,” she says.

I nod, pretending I believe her, and head for the main room. If King Dominic is here, I haven’t spotted him yet. Maybe he watches from above, behind smoked glass or two-way mirrors. Maybe he doesn’t bother with these parties at all. I keep moving, blending in as best I can, heart pounding at the base of my throat.

***

Everywhere I look, power hums beneath the surface. The Doms don’t smile. They don’t mingle, not really, they scan the room, evaluating, weighing. The subs that are with their Doms are all kneeling beside them on a leash. The rest are probably subs like me without a Dom; they are mingling.

I try to keep moving. Every time I pause, someone brushes by too close, a hand grazing my back or a voice murmuring “excuse me” with a weight that feels like something else. The air is heavy with cologne and perfume and the metallic bite of nerves.

At the edge of the main hall, a cluster of women in matching pearls whisper in French. I catch fragments:

“…the last one fainted…”

“…three at once, can you imagine…”

“…the rumor is he only does private contracts now, no more open scenes…”

I drift past, pretending to study the art. It’s all sharp lines, silver and black, abstract shapes with edges so crisp they could cut. Even the decor in this place wants to hurt you. A waiter appears, soundless, with a tray of champagne flutes. His hands are smooth, but there are faint, almost invisible scars across his knuckles. “For you?” he says, in perfect English.

I take one and say thank you. I circle the main hall, hunting for Melissa. She’s gone from her table, and for a second, I wonder if she already got what she came for and left me behind. But then I see her by the velvet rope at the far end, talking to one of the bouncers. Her laugh is loud and brittle, her posture exaggerated. The staircase on the far wall is empty except for two more security guys in matching black, earpieces catching the light. They don’t look at me. They look through me, scanning the crowd for threats.

A few moments later the double doors at the top of the staircase open, and everything changes. He moves down the steps as if he built them for this entrance. He’s tall, maybe six feet, maybe more, with the kind of build that reads as both athletic and predatory. He wears a black suit. His hair is dark, short, neat; his beard is precise, framing a mouth made for orders.

But it’s his eyes that matter. They don’t just look, they assess. Every person in the room gets a moment an evaluation, a calculation, and a verdict. When he glances at a sub, she lowers her gaze without being told. When he meets a Dom’s stare, the other man looks away first.

King Dominic Veynar. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. As he reaches the landing, a woman in a silver mask steps forward and curtsies. She’s in heels taller than my fingers, and she sinks perfectly, no wobble, no show. “My King,” she says, her voice low and certain. He touches her chin, a brief, dismissive gesture, and she glows like she’s been knighted. The room rearranges itself around him. People find reasons to be closer, or further away. Some of the submissives look up through their lashes, hoping to be seen. The doms seem to grow taller or shrink, depending on their own sense of self-worth. He walks the floor, not rushing, never hesitating. People part for him without thinking.

I should look away. It’s the rule. You don’t meet a man like that with your eyes at least, not unless you want something. I want a lot of things. I don’t remember standing still, but I’m rooted now. His gaze comes to me and lingers. For a beat, he just watches. I know I should drop my eyes, but something in me locks up. His eyes are gray, the color of new steel. When he smiles, it’s not a smile at all, just a twitch at one corner of his mouth. There’s a flicker of interest, amusement, maybe, but he doesn’t look away. I feel exposed, and for a second. I’m sure I’ll drop the glass, or stutter, or run. Instead, I take another sip of champagne, holding his gaze like a dare.

He stops, twenty feet away. The crowd seems to fade around us, like we’re in a bubble of static. He says nothing. He just waits, watching. I can’t read his expression. I’ve never felt this visible in my life, not even the time I got stuck on a trauma code in front of the city mayor and half the hospital board. This is worse, because it’s about whether or not I’ll blink first. I don’t. Or maybe I do. My pulse is so loud in my ears that I can’t hear the music anymore.

He finally moves again, slow and deliberate. He heads straight for me, never breaking line of sight. The crowd parts to let him through, and I feel every set of eyes on me, suddenly aware that I’m not just being watched by him, but by everyone.

He stops a step away, close enough for me to smell his cologne. It’s sharp, spicy, but there’s a sweetness beneath it. He looks down at me, just a fraction, and then says, very quietly: “You’re not on the list.”

It isn’t a question. His voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it, like a threat.

I swallow, the bubbles in my throat fighting to get out. “No,” I say. “I’m not.”

He watches me for another long, silent second. “Why are you here?”

I think about lying. I think about saying I got lost, or I’m just here for the drinks. But I know he’s already seen through it.

“I wanted to see what the party is like and …. I miss the lifestyle.”

He considers this, head tilted, lips pursed. Then he leans in, so close that I can feel the heat from his body. “Do you like the party so far?”

I should be scared. I am, a little. But more than that, I’m awake in a way I haven’t been for months.

“It’s nice,” I say.

He smiles, this time for real, a flash of teeth that’s as much warning as invitation.

“Come,” he says. He doesn’t wait for me to follow. He knows I will.

Without thinking my feet start moving and I follow behind him.