Chapter 1: The First Commandment

The elevator descended into what felt like the bowels of hell itself.

Brooke Hayes pressed her back against the mirrored wall, watching the floor numbers disappear into symbols she didn't recognize. Her white lace dress—chosen carefully for what was supposed to be an innocent bachelorette dinner—now felt like a costume, marking her as prey in a world she didn't understand.

"Jenna, where exactly are we going?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft jazz playing through hidden speakers.

Her maid of honor's red lips curved into that familiar smirk, the one that had gotten them into trouble since college. "Trust me, Brooke. You need this. We all need this before you become Mrs. Perfect."

The other bridesmaids—Sarah and Mika—exchanged nervous glances, but Jenna's confidence was infectious. It always had been. That's how Brooke had ended up here, wherever "here" was, instead of at the quiet wine bar she'd requested.

The elevator shuddered to a stop with a soft chime that sounded more like a funeral bell.

"Welcome to Club Inferno," Jenna announced as the doors slid open to reveal a corridor bathed in crimson light.

The air hit Brooke like a physical force—thick, warm, heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and something else. Something primal. The walls were draped in deep red velvet, and soft lighting cast dancing shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. Her heels clicked against polished marble as she followed Jenna deeper into what felt like a fever dream.

"Ladies." A woman appeared as if from the shadows themselves, dressed in black silk that clung to her curves like water. Her smile was professional, predatory. "You're expected in the Initiation Suite."

Brooke's stomach clenched. "Initiation? Jenna, what kind of place is this?"

But Jenna was already following the woman down the corridor, her hips swaying with the confidence of someone who belonged here. The other bridesmaids fell in line, leaving Brooke no choice but to follow or be left alone in this crimson maze.

The Initiation Suite was unlike anything Brooke had ever seen. The room was dominated by a massive circular bed draped in golden silk, surrounded by mirrors that reflected their nervous faces from every angle. Candles flickered from alcoves carved into the walls, casting writhing shadows that made the room feel alive, breathing.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," the woman in black purred before vanishing through a door that sealed shut with a soft click.

"Comfortable?" Brooke's voice cracked. "Jenna, I want to leave. Now."

"Oh, honey." Jenna moved to a crystal decanter on a side table, pouring amber liquid into four glasses. "We haven't even started yet."

Before Brooke could protest further, the lights dimmed to an amber glow, and a voice filled the room. It came from everywhere and nowhere, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

"Welcome to your awakening."

Brooke spun around, searching for the source. "Who's there? Show yourself!"

A low chuckle echoed through hidden speakers. "Patience. First, you must prove you're worthy of what lies beyond this room. Remove your clothes."

"Excuse me?" Brooke's voice pitched higher. "Absolutely not. We're leaving. Right now."

She turned toward the door, but it wouldn't budge. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pulled at the handle. Locked.

"The door will open when you've completed your initiation," the voice continued, unperturbed by her panic. "Strip. All of you."

Sarah and Mika looked terrified, but Jenna was already reaching for the zipper of her black dress. "It's just a game, Brooke. Don't be such a prude."

"A game?" Brooke whirled on her friend. "We're trapped in some sick pervert's fantasy room, and you think it's a game?"

But even as she protested, she watched in horror as her bridesmaids began to undress. First Jenna, then Sarah, then Mika—as if they were under some kind of spell.

"Your friends understand," the voice observed. "They know that true pleasure requires surrender. You, however, still fight what you desire most."

"I don't desire anything from you," Brooke spat, but her voice lacked conviction. There was something about that voice—commanding, certain, as if it could see straight through to her soul.

"Liar."

The word hung in the air like a physical presence. A panel in the wall slid open, and three figures entered—all dressed in white, their faces hidden behind blank masks. They moved with fluid grace toward the other women, who stood naked and trembling in the golden light.

"Don't touch them!" Brooke rushed forward, but one of the masked figures raised a hand, stopping her with a gesture.

"Remove your dress," the voice commanded again. "Or your friends will pay the price for your defiance."

Brooke's breath came in short gasps. She looked at Sarah and Mika, saw the fear in their eyes, the way they looked to her for protection. Even Jenna, for all her bravado, seemed smaller now, vulnerable.

With shaking hands, Brooke reached for the zipper at the back of her dress.

The white lace fell away like shed skin, pooling at her feet. She stood there in nothing but her white cotton panties and matching bra—undergarments chosen for comfort, not seduction. Yet under the weight of that invisible gaze, she felt more exposed than she ever had in her life.

"Beautiful," the voice murmured, and she felt heat bloom across her skin. "Now lie down."

"I won't—"

"You will."

Something in his tone brooked no argument. Against every instinct screaming at her to run, to fight, to resist, Brooke found herself moving toward the bed. The silk was cool against her burning skin as she lay back, her whole body trembling.

The masked attendants approached with bottles of oil that gleamed like liquid gold in the candlelight. Brooke tried to sit up, but gentle hands pressed her back down.

"Please," she whispered. "I'm getting married in two weeks. I can't—"

"You can." Strong hands began to work the oil into her shoulders, her arms. "You will."

The massage began innocently enough—professional, therapeutic. But gradually, the touches became more intimate, more knowing. Hands that knew exactly where to press, where to linger, where to tease. Her body, starved of real passion for so long, began to respond despite her mind's protests.

"No," she gasped as skilled fingers found the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Stop. Please."

But her body was betraying her, arching into those touches, craving more. When had she last felt anything like this with Liam? When had he ever taken the time to truly worship her body instead of simply taking what he wanted?

The hands moved lower, slipping beneath the edge of her bra. She should stop this. Should scream, fight, do something other than lie there drowning in sensations she'd almost forgotten existed.

"That's it," the voice crooned. "Stop thinking. Stop fighting. Just feel."

Her bra disappeared, though she couldn't remember it being removed. Cool air kissed her heated skin before warm hands replaced it, cupping her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked into hard points.

A moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

"Perfect," the voice purred. "You're perfect."

More hands joined the first—how many people were touching her? She couldn't tell, lost as she was in a haze of sensation. Fingers traced patterns on her stomach, her thighs, everywhere except where she suddenly, desperately needed them most.

"Please," she found herself whispering, though she wasn't sure what she was begging for anymore.

"Please what?"

The hands stilled, leaving her suspended on the edge of something vast and terrifying and necessary.

"I..." She couldn't say it. Couldn't voice what her body was screaming for.

A finger hooked into the waistband of her panties. "Say it, Brooke. Tell me what you need."

"I need..." The words caught in her throat. Good girls didn't need things like this. Good girls didn't burn with desire for strangers' hands. Good girls certainly didn't spread their legs in invitation the way she was doing now.

Her panties vanished.

The first touch to her most intimate place shattered every defense she'd built around herself. She cried out, back arching off the bed as electricity raced through her veins. When had she become so sensitive? So desperate?

"Look at yourself," the voice commanded.

Against her will, her eyes opened and found the mirrors surrounding the bed. The woman staring back at her was a stranger—hair wild, eyes glazed with lust, lips parted as she panted. Her body moved with a rhythm she'd never allowed herself before, chasing the pleasure those skilled hands were building within her.

"This is who you really are," the voice continued as the touches grew more insistent, more precise. "Not the perfect society bride. Not the compliant little wife. This. Wild. Free. Desperate."

"No," she gasped, even as her hips bucked against the hand between her thighs. "That's not—I'm not—"

"You are."

The touches intensified, finding a rhythm that had her seeing stars. She was so close, balanced on a precipice she'd never allowed herself to approach. Her entire body coiled tight as a spring, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

"Come for me, Brooke. Show me who you really are."

The command sent her tumbling over the edge into an orgasm that felt like dying and being reborn. She screamed—actually screamed—as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her, reducing her to nothing but sensation and need and desperate gratitude.

When she finally came back to herself, the room was quiet except for her ragged breathing. The masked attendants had vanished as silently as they'd appeared. Her friends sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed again, watching her with expressions she couldn't read.

"How do you feel?" Jenna asked softly.

Brooke stared at the ceiling, at her own reflection looking back at her from the mirror above. How did she feel? Shattered. Reborn. Terrified. Alive.

"I feel..." She swallowed hard, tasting truth on her tongue for the first time in years. "I feel like I've been sleepwalking my entire life."

Hidden cameras had captured every second, every moan, every moment of her surrender. In a control room far above, Julian Thorne watched the monitors with the satisfaction of a man whose careful planning had come to fruition. She was everything he'd hoped she would be—all that repressed passion just waiting for the right touch to unlock it.

He leaned forward and pressed a button on his console. "Prepare her for the next phase," he said quietly. "And make sure everyone understands—she's mine."

The game had begun, and Brooke Hayes was about to discover just how deep the rabbit hole could go.