Easy money.
At least, it was supposed to be.
Then I overhear four of the club’s most powerful members talking about an old tradition nobody has performed in decades. A secret initiation. Four founders’ chairs. One willing initiate.
And rules so scandalous I should walk away before I hear another word.
Instead, I ask questions.
That’s my first mistake.
My second is staying after midnight.
Thatcher is rough and relentless. Cortez likes control. Orson knows every filthy detail of the old ritual. And Flint, the enormous, quiet man in the fourth chair, might be the most dangerous of them all.
They give me every opportunity to leave.
I don’t take it.
Because once I’m standing in the center of those four chairs, I don’t want safe. I don’t want sensible.
I want to find out exactly what it means to be used and initiated.
And by morning, I might discover I belong in their secret club far more than I ever imagined.
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