Chapter 1
Warning:
This is a dark romance that delves into themes some may find disturbing, at times bordering on pitch black. It blurs the line between dub-con and non-con, featuring heavy elements of manipulation and coercion.
Rook wields his power over Kade without hesitation, forcing compliance and taking what he wants. This story includes kidnapping and forced sexual acts. While Kade’s perspective may sometimes reflect desire and enjoyment, Rook’s viewpoint casts a much darker shadow.
Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Kade’s POV
The buzzer blares, loud and final, and my team erupts into cheers. A surge of exhilaration rushes through me as hands clap against my back, voices shouting in victory. We won. And damn, it feels good.
The locker room is alive with laughter and banter, but I’m not in the mood to linger. A quick shower, a towel dragged through my hair, and I’m dressed, heading straight for the club.
Tonight isn’t just about celebrating the win—it’s about marking one step closer to my dream. And nothing is going to stop me.
The bass from the speakers shakes the floor beneath my feet, the heat of packed bodies pressing in from every direction. The club is electric, alive with the high that comes after a championship win. People are shouting, drinks are spilling, and hands are grabbing at me, pulling me deeper into the chaos.
I should be celebrating. I should be drunk off my ass, soaking up the attention, riding this high for as long as it lasts.
Instead, I can’t stop looking up. Sure I'm drunk, but not enough, yet.
“Kade Mercer!”
A hard slap lands between my shoulder blades, making me stumble forward. I turn to see Tyler grinning at me, his blond hair damp with sweat, his eyes already glazed over from too many shots.
“Come on, man! We fucking won! You should be wasted by now,” he shouts over the music, shaking his drink at me like I’m supposed to grab it.
I force a smirk. “I’m working on it.”
“Not hard enough.” He throws an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer. “Look at this place! Look at all these girls, man. Championship winners don’t go home alone. Pick one.”
I chuckle, shaking him off. “Not really feeling it.”
Tyler frowns. “Dude. What’s wrong with you? You’ve been off all night.”
I don’t answer. I just glance up again, toward the glass walls of the VIP lounge.
He follows my gaze, snorting. “What? You think you’re supposed to be up there with the suits?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
Tyler laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, good luck with that, man. That’s not our world.”
Maybe not his.
But I’ve never been good at staying in my lane.
I drain the rest of my drink, setting the glass down on the nearest table before turning toward the stairs.
“Where the hell are you going?” Tyler calls after me.
I don’t answer. I walk towards the stairs that go to the VIP lounge.
The bouncer at the entrance barely glances at me before stepping aside.
The second I step into the VIP lounge, the air shifts. The music from the main floor still pounds beneath my feet, but up here, it’s quieter, smoother. The conversations are low, murmured over expensive whiskey, cigar smoke curling through the dim lighting.
I recognize some of these men—team owners, sponsors, people with enough money to decide what happens to guys like me. None of them look up.
Except one.
He’s sitting in the corner, sprawled out on a leather couch like he owns the place. His suit is dark, tailored perfectly to broad shoulders and a body that doesn’t look like it belongs behind a desk. His eyes are sharp, scanning the room, landing on me with the kind of interest that makes my pulse kick up.
I know who he is.
Darren West.
Owner of a killer team. Billionaire. Powerbroker. The kind of man who never has to ask for what he wants—he just takes it.
He tilts his glass toward me, his lips curling into a slow smirk. “Didn’t think you had the balls to come up here, Mercer.”
I smirk back, even though my stomach tightens. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”
He chuckles, taking a sip of his whiskey before setting the glass down. “Oh, I notice winners. And tonight, that’s you.”
I step closer, sliding onto the couch beside him. The leather is cold against my overheated skin. I should ask him why he knows my name, why he’s looking at me like that.
But I don’t.
Because the way his fingers trail lightly over my knee tells me everything I need to know. He’s testing me, waiting to see how much I’ll let him get away with.
I should push his hand away. I should smirk, make a joke, brush it off like this doesn’t mean anything.
But I don’t. I let him linger.
“You always this forward?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
Darren chuckles, his hand sliding slightly higher, fingers brushing against the inside of my thigh. “I don’t waste time when I see something I want.”
His confidence is unnerving. He isn’t hesitating, isn’t second-guessing.
Neither am I.
I lean into the couch, stretching my arms along the backrest, meeting his gaze with something sharp. “You scouting me or trying to fuck me?”
Darren laughs, slow and deep. “Why can’t it be both?”
I smirk, even though my chest is tight, my pulse uneven. “That’s a conflict of interest, isn’t it?”
He lifts his glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down with a soft clink. “Only if you sign with me.”
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “Guess it’s a good thing I don’t belong to anyone, then.”
His eyes darken slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. Then he shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine. “No?”
The air between us thickens. I should be thinking about what this means, about how reckless this is, about how easily this could blow up in my face. But I don’t.
Because Darren is looking at me like he already knows how this is going to end.
His hand presses firmer against my thigh. “How do you usually celebrate a win, Mercer?”
I swallow, my throat dry. “That depends.”
“On?”
I flick my gaze to his. “On how far you’re willing to take it.”
Darren watches me for a long moment, then exhales slowly. He leans back, his fingers trailing away as he reaches into his jacket pocket. A second later, he presses a key card into my palm.
“Room 714,” he says. “Give me five minutes.”
I glance down at the card, my skin tingling where his fingers brushed against mine. Then I stand up and walk away.
The night air is sharp as I step out of the club, but it does nothing to clear my head. I move quickly, weaving through the crowd outside, gripping the key card between my fingers.
A car pulls up to the curb, sleek and black, the kind that belongs to people like Darren. The back door swings open, and a driver nods toward me.
I hesitate for only a second before climbing inside. The door shuts, sealing me into the silence.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks. “I’ve been told to ask, not assume,” he says.
I glance down at the key card. My heart is still racing, my body still buzzing from the way Darren touched me.
“Hotel Crown Plaza,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my fingers tighten around the card.
The driver nods, pulling away from the curb, the neon lights of the club fading behind us. My pulse pounds harder with every mile.
I should turn around. I should walk away. But I already know I won’t. The car stops and I get out, walking into the hotel. Am I really doing this? I step into the elevator, and tell myself it's the last chance to turn around.
It feels like I should, the elevator ride is too damn slow.
I tap the key card against my palm, shifting my weight from foot to foot as the numbers climb higher. The hotel is high-end, sleek and modern, but right now, it feels suffocating.
I should turn around. Leave. Pretend this never happened. But I don’t.
The doors slide open with a quiet chime, and I step into the hallway. It’s quiet up here, the thick carpet muffling my footsteps as I move toward Room 714. The gold numbers gleam under the dim hallway lights, expensive and unassuming.
For a second, I just stand there. Then, without thinking twice, I slide the key card against the reader.
A soft beep. A green light. The lock clicks open.
I push the door open and step inside. The room is massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, a skyline of glowing lights stretching endlessly into the night. Everything inside is sleek and modern—dark wood, leather, clean lines.
Darren is standing near the minibar, pouring two glasses of whiskey, his tie now loose around his collar, the top buttons of his shirt undone.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me.
He smirks, lifting one of the glasses toward me. “Didn’t hesitate, did you?”
I shrug, stepping further inside. “Figured you wouldn’t send a driver if you changed your mind.”
He chuckles, setting one of the glasses down on the bar. “You always this confident?”
I take my time walking over, before grabbing the drink, swirling the liquid before taking a slow sip. The burn is smooth, expensive.
“You always this persistent?” I shoot back.
Darren tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Only when I know what I want.”
His voice is low, even, and it sends something sharp down my spine.
I lean against the bar, setting my glass down. “And what is it you want, exactly?”
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking. “You,” he says simply.
His fingers trail over the edge of my sleeve, slow, deliberate.
I don’t move. “Is that so?” I murmur.
His lips twitch, eyes darkening. “You tell me.”
His hand skims lower, brushing against my wrist, then my thigh, fingers pressing just hard enough to make my breath hitch.
My pulse pounds in my ears, but I don’t pull away. I let him touch me. Let him test me. Let the silence stretch between us, thick with something heavier than I expected.
Then, finally, I reach up, grabbing the back of his neck, dragging him down to meet my mouth.
The second my lips crash against his, Darren takes control. Taking exactly what he wants.
His hand fists into my shirt, yanking me closer, his body heat pressing into mine. The whiskey on his breath mixes with mine, the taste of it sharp between us. I expect him to ease into it, to test the waters, but he doesn’t.
He devours. His teeth scrape my bottom lip, tugging just enough to make my breath stutter. His tongue flicks against mine, demanding, consuming.
I don’t hesitate—I meet him with the same intensity, pushing him back against the bar, my hands gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him down harder.
Darren exhales a quiet chuckle against my mouth, like he’s amused by my urgency, by the way I can’t seem to slow down. But I don’t care. My skin is burning, my pulse erratic, and all I can focus on is the way he moves against me.
His fingers slip under the hem of my shirt, sliding up the ridges of my stomach, his touch firm, knowing. He presses me back, guiding me toward the bed with slow, steady steps. I don’t stop him. I let him take me there. His body pushes mine onto the bed as he bites against my lip harder.
Slowly, his fingers curl around the waistband of my jeans, his smirk still in place, but there’s something darker behind his eyes now—something deliberate.
The cool air hits my skin as he drags them down, slow, watching me like he’s waiting for me to second-guess myself.
I don’t.
I lift my hips, letting him strip them off completely.
“Not shy, are you?” he muses, hands gripping my thighs, sliding up, teasing but firm.
I exhale sharply. “Wouldn’t be here if I was.”
Darren laughs, low and deep, before shifting back up, his body pressing into mine, his mouth on my neck, my jaw, his hands mapping me out like he’s committing every inch to memory. I let my head fall back against the pillow, letting myself sink into the heat of it, the way his touch feels like it’s pulling me apart piece by piece.
I can’t help but arch into him, desperate for more contact. My hands slide down his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his skin as he moves against me. I grip his hips, pulling him closer, gasping at the friction as I feel his hardness pressing against my own through the rough denim of his jeans.
Our lips crash together, hungry and insistent. Darren kisses like he’s trying to devour me, all teeth and tongue and breathless intensity. I match his fervor, pouring weeks of pent-up desire into every slide of my lips against his.
Suddenly Darren pulls back, his chest heaving as he looks down at me with dark, hooded eyes. Without a word, he stands and slowly, deliberately removes the last of his clothing. I drink in the sight of him - all lean muscle and golden skin in the soft lamplight.
He crawls back onto the bed, covering my body with his own. The full-body skin-to-skin contact sends electricity coursing through me. We kiss again, slower this time but no less passionate. I run my hands along the planes of his back as he begins to move, grinding against me in a maddening rhythm.
I gasp into his mouth as Darren snakes a hand between our bodies. He wraps his long fingers around both our lengths, the calluses on his palm creating delicious friction. My hips buck involuntarily as he strokes us together, already slick with arousal. The dual sensation of his cock sliding against mine and his skillful hand working us both over is almost overwhelming.
His lips drag down my neck, biting, his breath warm, teasing, and then...
The door swings open.
A sharp click. A flash.
Darren jolts upright. My body tenses, instinct kicking in too late as I whip my head toward the doorway, blinking against the sudden burst of light.
A camera.
A fucking camera.
And the man holding it.
My stomach drops.
Nikolai Volkov.
He stands just inside the room, phone in hand, his face unreadable except for the slight, knowing smirk curling at the edge of his lips.
Darren moves first, pushing up onto his knees, his body still half-draped over mine. “What the fuck?”
Nikolai doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him.
His gaze is on me. Slow and calculating.
“You don’t waste time, do you, Mercer?” His voice is smooth, amused, like he’s not standing here with the kind of evidence that could rip my entire career apart.
The blood is rushing in my ears, my body still too wired to process the shift from pleasure to panic.
“What the hell are you doing here?” My voice is hoarse, breathless, and I hate how wrecked I sound.
Nikolai tilts his head, pocketing his phone with an infuriating ease. “Just checking in on one of our rising stars.”
“Checking in,” Darren repeats, voice sharp. “By breaking into my fucking hotel room?”
Nikolai finally glances at him, and whatever Darren sees in that look makes his expression falter, just for a second.
I force myself to move, yanking the sheet up around my waist as I push up onto my elbows. My pulse is hammering, panic clawing its way through my skull now that the reality of the situation is hitting full force.
This isn’t just bad.
This is career-ending.
“You don’t want to do this,” I say, trying to steady my voice.
Nikolai chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, Kade. I already did.”
He pats his pocket, where his phone—where the fucking picture—is sitting.
Darren shifts beside me, his jaw tight. “You think this is gonna fly? That no one’s gonna do something about this?”
Nikolai sighs like he’s already bored. “Darren, if I wanted to leak this, I would’ve done it before you even realized I was in the room.” He steps closer, ignoring the way Darren tenses, his focus still locked on me. “This isn’t about ruining you, Mercer. It’s about owning you.”
The words land like a blow to my gut.
Darren stiffens, his hand gripping the edge of the mattress. “The fuck does that mean?”
Nikolai’s smirk doesn’t waver. “It means your little celebration just turned into a contract. And not the kind you get to negotiate.”
Ice floods my veins.
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
Because I already know.
I’m fucked so, I begin to move fast.
The second Nikolai steps back, I grab my jeans, yanking them on with shaking hands. My pulse is a fucking wreck, my brain scrambling to process what just happened, but my body moves on instinct—get dressed, get out.
Darren is still beside me, half-dressed, his jaw tight with barely restrained anger. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as I pull on my shirt, not bothering to button it all the way. My fingers are trembling too much anyway.
“Smart,” Nikolai muses, watching me from the doorway like he’s enjoying the show. “You always this quick to run, Mercer?”
I don’t answer. My shoes are next, my movements sharp, rushed. Every second that passes feels like another nail in my coffin. When I finally look at him, he’s still smirking, like he already knows what’s running through my head.
“You don’t have to leave so soon,” he says smoothly. “We could have a conversation. Discuss your… options.”
I grit my teeth. “Go to hell.”
Nikolai chuckles, patting his pocket where his phone is still sitting. “Oh, Kade. I already own that place.”
I shove past him, slamming my shoulder into his as I storm out into the hallway.
“Don’t worry,” he calls after me, voice too damn smug. “I’ll be in touch.”
The door swings shut behind me. I don’t stop walking.
I don’t even remember how I got here.
One second, I was leaving the hotel, my skin still burning from the humiliation, my stomach twisted into knots. The next, I was stepping into some dive bar two streets away, the dim lighting and smell of stale beer wrapping around me like a shield.
The bartender barely looks at me as I slide onto a stool, my pulse still hammering in my ears.
“Whiskey,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. “Neat.”
The glass appears in front of me seconds later. I down half of it in one burning swallow, barely tasting it. It doesn’t make the sick feeling go away.
Doesn’t erase the weight of Nikolai’s words, the way he looked at me like I was already his.
I tap my fingers against the glass, trying to shove the memory of that fucking camera flash out of my head.
This is bad. no, this is worse than bad.
This is career-ending if I don’t handle it.
I should be coming up with a plan. Should be calling someone, figuring out how to stop this before it gets out of control.
Instead, I wave the bartender over and order another drink.
Then another.
And another.
The whiskey does nothing to clear my head, but at least it numbs the sharp edges.
At least it makes me forget, just for a little while. Because even I know, no one, and nothing can stop Nikolai.
