Oh, yeah. Any…second…now…
He gritted back the dread as the door opened again. Goddammit. It was surely Samsyn again, ready to pounce in where their bizarre exchange had left off.
Thankfully, he was wrong. The little nurse Twylah bustled in on him instead. The woman had probably been born with her comforting smile, but it was also clear she’d been kind to Jayd over the last seventy-two hours, so he owed her some surface-level cordiality.
“Hi there. Twylah, right?”
Her smile hitched a little higher. “Yes! Thank you for remembering.”
“Still don’t think that makes us even on the kindness scale for the week.”
She flashed a wry glance while checking his monitor readings. “Oh, indeed. Because you have been such a bear of a patient to tend.”
“Spoken like a dedicated nurse,” he returned. “But I know a downplay when I hear one. And I have a feeling that in this case, the visitors were more high maintenance than the patient.”
“You saved Her Highness Jayd’s life. She, as well as the rest of us, are beyond grateful.”
“I wasn’t referring to the princess.”
His rebuttal was clearly not expected. The woman didn’t have a free second to conceal her sudden stiffness. “Well, your arrival has put King Evrest in an interesting position,” she admitted. “Though he has certainly been in those before.”
Brick settled deeper against the pillows, absorbing that revelation as the downy cushions cradled him. Once more, he cautiously perused the room, attentive for any details he might’ve missed on the first sweep. But there were no motion detectors on the door frames, security cams in the corners, or cuff scuffs on the bed rails.
Still, he couldn’t be dissuaded from asking, “So am I being detained?”
Twylah startled. “Stars and saints, no! You are a guest of Arcadia.” Her eyes widened. “Forgive me. I should have made that point clearer, I suppose.”
“Fuck. I—ermmm—I mean, no, you’ve been great. Honestly. I was doing some conclusion jumping, just considering the circumstances.”
“Perfectly understandable,” the nurse soothed before her demeanor perked. “Are you feeling ready to get up for a bit, then? Would you like to sit on the balcony or take a walk around the wing? We probably could not go much farther since the marble floors in the main vestibule have been newly waxed. Her Highness Jayd would skin me alive if you fell—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that anymore.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
He was glad he’d gotten morose and mumbled that in the direction of his navel. But eventually the acrimony would pass and he’d get to the reward on the other side. The part where he’d be sure about doing the right thing. Nipping this thing with Jayd in the bud before it could shoot up and become a rampant living thing again. But this time, it wouldn’t be a planter full of gorgeous Paris roses. It’d be a carnivorous pod thing, ready to swallow them both whole.
He’d made the right call. He had to believe that, even if it was impossible to envision it.
“So…not a detainee,” he finally said. “Does that mean I can have access to a phone?”
“Absolutely!”
Twylah was all too eager to find a device and get it into his hand, but his original impetus for the request had gone to a weird place. He dwelled in that strangeness for several minutes, staring at the phone like it started to gawk back. In many ways, it probably was.
He wasn’t new to the game. He knew this thing was likely hotwired in a bunch of different ways. A gang of Arcadian spy guys were likely in some bunker right now, just waiting for him to dial. Ready to track where he called, whom he asked for, everything they said, and every detectable cadence in their voices…
So why was he letting that matter?
He had to be okay with this. More importantly, he had to be okay if Jayd ever listened to this. But not once had he’d lied to her about who—or what—he really was. About how he made his living and had chosen to align his lifestyle.
That didn’t mean he’d been totally up-front about it either.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, hitting the green button on the device.
If she found out like this, maybe that was for the best. Maybe it would be the agonizing but galvanizing ax into her heart. With any luck, the blade would hack down the pedestal upon which she’d flung him.
He’d just have to deal with the torment of the fall.
Pain he couldn’t think about right now. There really was that little thing called his real life to check in on. The staff who’d expected him Stateside by now. Shit, even his house and neighbors—the term being loose, of course. Nobody bothered each other too much on his end of Whidbey, but they did keep casual tabs every once in a while.
There was a familiar musical tone in his ear. He jolted from his reverie, not recalling having dialed the US country code and the private digits in Seattle. Christ. What kind of a pharmaceutical cocktail were they dripping into him?
“Thank you for dialing the administrative offices of Bastille, a Seattle nightclub for discriminating tastes. Please note that we do not take private playroom reservations via this line. Public dungeon space is available every night on a first-come, first-serve basis. Additionally, new member interviews are only conducted in person, and only after a full application and background check have been completed. If you’d like more information about joining or playing in Bastille, please consult our webs—”
Brick punched the seven key, which was Z’s office extension. Despite the hour—his sketchy math told him it had to be two or three in the morning in the US Northwest—he knew his night owl friend would likely still be awake and busy.
He’d met Zeke Hayes on a mission neither could ever speak about, in what seemed like another life. Their philosophical and spiritual approach to kink had strengthened their friendship, but none of that meant as much as Z’s earnest outreach to him after the failed mission with Asha. Ops weren’t the same after that, a confession he’d also entrusted to the guy, leading to them actually talking about the reality of the Bastille club. It didn’t take them long to find a space in Seattle’s warehouse district in which they quickly built out to their kinky hearts’ desires.
Helming Bastille’s grand opening and daily operations was exactly what Brick needed during those dark, unpredictable months. Once Zeke decided to step back from active service, it felt right to start sharing the Dungeon Master duties. Life had gotten into something resembling normalcy—whatever that even was when a guy transitioned from spies and subterfuge to whips and safe words—meaning he actually had free time for the first time in his life.
It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Sort of like this little R&R break, courtesy of the French military and his Arcadian hosts.
Which was why, as soon as Z’s voicemail filled his ear, Brick jabbed at the key to be rerouted to the club’s front desk.
He’d have better luck now. He was sure of it. Somebody was probably still in the building, though they had likely wrapped up playtime across the dungeon around midnight. He’d have preferred to speak straight to Zeke, but the guy was the father of an infant now, and sometimes “midnight snack” carried myriad new meanings.