Chapter Two — Rules of the Game
The heavy steel door closed behind them with a final, resounding thud, sealing Eden into the underworld that pulsed beneath the city's glittering surface. The noise shifted instantly—gone was the polite murmur of the lounge upstairs, replaced by a throbbing bass that vibrated through the concrete floor and into her bones.
Dim red and blue lights cast jagged shadows on the faces moving in slow, deliberate rhythms. Eden could feel the weight of eyes, watching, assessing. Men in tailored suits with sharp cheekbones, women in leather and lace, their smiles too tight, their movements too precise. This was a kingdom ruled by control and danger, and she was an uninvited visitor.
Damian's voice broke through the din, low and steady.
"Welcome to the cage."
Eden's gaze followed him through the crowd, absorbing the scene. This was no ordinary club—it was a world apart, a secret society of power, desire, and menace wrapped in velvet.
"You need to understand the rules if you want to survive here," Damian said, stopping by a booth upholstered in black leather.
She looked up at him. The man was impossible to read. His dark eyes held secrets and storms, but they also held something else—an unspoken warning.
"Rules?" she echoed, voice steady despite the thundering in her chest.
"Yes." He leaned in slightly, the scent of his cologne sharp and intoxicating. "Rule number one: what happens here, stays here. No phones, no pictures, no recordings. If you break this rule, you break the cage."
Eden nodded slowly. "Makes sense."
Damian's smirk was slow, dangerous. "Rule number two: respect the chain of command. This place runs on power and trust. Cross the wrong person, and you'll find out just how deep the cage goes."
Her eyes flicked to the guards stationed like statues by the exits, their expressions unreadable but their presence ominous.
"Rule number three: no one gets out with their reputation or life intact if they cross me."
Eden's jaw clenched. "That's harsh."
"It has to be," Damian said coldly. "Because if the rules weren't brutal, no one would follow them."
She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "So, what happens to Riley?"
He hesitated, his expression hardening.
"She was looking for answers in the wrong places."
"And you know this how?"
Damian's eyes locked with hers. "Because I watch. I listen. I control what happens here."
Eden swallowed. "Then why help me?"
A flicker of something—maybe respect, maybe amusement—passed over his features. "Because you didn't run away when you should have."
---
They moved through the crowd toward a secluded room at the back. Damian's hand brushed against hers for a moment—a silent warning, a reminder of control.
Inside, the air was cooler, tinged with the faint scent of leather and spice. A long table sat in the center, scattered with glasses and half-smoked cigars. Damian poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass, handing it to Eden.
"Drink," he said.
She hesitated, then accepted.
"To survival," he said, raising his glass.
"To survival," she echoed, clinking her glass against his.
They drank.
---
Damian watched her closely as she set her glass down.
"You don't strike me as someone who plays by the rules," he said.
"I play by my own," Eden replied.
He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "That's going to get you killed."
"Maybe I'm ready to die," she said quietly.
The room fell silent for a moment, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
"You don't know what you're saying," Damian warned.
"I know exactly what I want," Eden said, voice steady. "I want the truth."
"And you think you can handle it?"
She met his gaze. "I have to."
---
Damian leaned back, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Then the game begins."