“You’re not supposed to be here.”

The voice slithered into the room like an accusation dipped in disbelief. I froze mid-bend, the whip still dangling from my hand like a crime scene prop. Damian stood in the doorway, face unreadable but that sharp judgmental eyebrow of his doing enough talking for both of us.

Oh, he was alone.

“I… this isn’t what it looks like,” I said, hastily shoving the whip behind me like I was hiding a cucumber in church.

Damian stepped in.

The room shrunk.

The muffled moans of the gagged waiter tied to a chair in front of me didn’t exactly help my case. Nor did the...