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now, it hadn’t mattered. He looked sideways at Jason. “Does it bother Sara that I’m so...public in my play?”
    “I don’t know,” Jason said, but he knew the man was hedging. Of course it bothered her. Now they were scheduling their nights at the Citadel to avoid running into him.
    “Maybe it’s time I retired from the back rooms,” Michel said, trying to sound as if it were no great thing. “Retired from the Citadel altogether.”
    “You don’t have to do that. We can work things out.”
    “I’m a father now, you remember. My daughter’s happiness is more important than mine.”
    Jason scrutinized him. How annoying, this grim-faced concern. Michel could play the martyr if he wished. He truly valued Sara’s happiness over his own. His paternal devotion had surprised no one more than himself, but it would mean changes. Sacrifices.
    “Just warn me whenever you and Sara will be at the Citadel,” Michel said, turning away in dismissal. He needed some time alone.
    “What about Valentina?” Jason asked.
    “What about her? Find the men she needs for her act. Men of strong constitution, without girlfriends or wives. Work up something new, something more practical, and let me see the preliminaries in a few weeks. I trust you, you’re an excellent director.” As an afterthought, he added, “If possible, keep her out of my hair.”
    “And the back rooms?”
    Michel tried hard not to imagine Valentina in cuffs and chains, begging for his mercy. “If she likes she can visit the other back rooms, but I’m not inviting her into mine.”
    Jason hesitated at the door. “Is she worth all this, Michel?”
    All this.
The risk to the performers she worked with? To poor Adei, who still pined for her? Or did Jason speak of the danger to him, the danger to his sanity? The risk that he’d pursue her against all caution and reason, enveloping both of them in flames?
    “I don’t know,” Michel said. “I’m not sure if she’s worth it. It’s too early to say.”

Chapter Four: Suffering
     
    Michel should have returned to Brussels that evening rather than stay in Paris. He should have, but he did not. He most certainly should not have decided to make an appearance at the Citadel just after one in the morning, not in his present mood.
    The erotic playspace was his creation, his escape, his legacy, and his joy. He’d wanted to take fantasy and decadence and make it real. With the circus he came close. With the Citadel, he hit the mark square in the center. For years now, he had scened and fucked alongside his more adventurous employees, taken the most tantalizing ones under his wing when it amused him and played with them until he grew tired of them. He favored boys for sadism and girls for sex. It was strenuous work, being one of his pets. He was sorely tempted to make a pet of Valentina. She fit his prototype: beautiful, reckless, and utterly uninhibited.
    No, Michel. Think. It would not be wise.
    Even in the darkness of the club, through the smoke and noise, he could pick out
La Vampa
from his vantage point near the bar. She wore a black push-up bra and a matching garter skirt and stockings, her red hair pulled back in a careless twist as she danced, grinding her hips against a female friend. She was normally pale but the club’s lights made her look even paler. She looked like an otherworldly creature brought to life.
    He turned away, scolding himself for his fanciful musings. He needed sex, that was all. Sex to soothe and distract him, and fortify him for the near future when his daughter’s presence would force him to leave these games behind.
    His St. Petersburg boys were there, fine, blond, strong Russian submissives waiting to be beckoned. They could satisfy him expertly, take his full length down their throats and then prostrate themselves for his whip or flogger. They lived for pain, for subjugation. Unfortunately, he was in too unusual a mood to risk playing with them. His eyes roved, weighing his