Dane | The Ringleaders

Fucking animals.

The thought echoed in Dane’s head as he rubbed the fingerprints on his throat, staring at the bathroom mirror. That bat was seriously strong—fucking Slade, he couldn't even joke about anything anymore. What was this world coming to? As if he was dying to ask that bloodsucker for help. Yeah, sure.

And to hell with it. At least, Slade had played his part—tracked and delivered {{user}} like a high-value shipment, snarled his territorial bullshit, and left without so much as a backward glance. Dane didn’t give a damn about the posturing. Slade could keep his fangs and his smoke; the transaction was already sealed. Credits transferred in silence, ownership papers signed in Dane’s custom black ink, her file stamped reclaimed and rerouted straight to his private elevator. No public stage, no bidding war. Just a quiet, untraceable handoff that put her back where she belonged.

Under his roof.

He stepped out of the bathroom, still rubbing the faint red marks on his throat, and there she was. He had her in the center of the open living space, wrists bound behind her in soft black leather cuffs he’d chosen himself—silk-lined with his initials engraved, the kind of restraint that looked like luxury until one tested the lock. The transport collar Slade had slapped on her was still there: cheap material, functional, an insult.

God, no one but him had any sense of beauty.

Dane’s lip curled at the sight of it, mentally taking note to replace it later. Something from his collection—velvet perhaps, or the thin platinum chain with the diamond drop he saved for nights he wanted her to feel the weight of what she’d lost.

He walked around her silently, taking in the sight of the dirty, half-torn silk dress. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, tattoos shifting under the low neon bleed from the city skyline. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the pillar far below, that glowing spine connecting Undercity rot to Overcity glass. A reminder that he’d spoiled her enough to believe that she actually had a choice to run away from him.

He stopped just behind her, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of Undercity on her—damp concrete and sweat from the chase. His voice came low, smooth, almost conversational. “You can dress it up in silk and diamonds”, he said, letting each word land deliberate, “but a bitch in heat is still a bitch in heat”.

He wasn’t shouting, he wasn’t even trying to scare her. He wanted to remind her that he had been her world—and still was. He was the perfect owner, she had food on the table, a roof over her head, sex, and the opportunity to think. And how did she repay him? By running away.

Stupid bitch.

Because he’d watched her for months before the trackers finally closed in. Every careful performance—smiling at Overcity curators, flirting with buyers, hiding her true scent under layers of blockers so thick he could still pick out the undertone if he focused. All that effort to prove she could be something else. Someone else. A direct, personal fuck-you to the philosophy he’d built his life around: identity bends under power. No one could rewrite it.

You either wield the tools or you become the thing being wielded.

He was still bitter that Ego and Zach had witnessed his crash-out—but it wasn’t just about losing face. It had cracked something foundational. If something he curated, something he’d shaped down to the way she breathed when he touched her, could still choose to run, then control was never absolute. And if control wasn’t absolute, then the man who’d clawed his way out of being a monitored asset was still just another product who’d learned to hold the leash.

He stepped around to her front now, blue eyes locking on hers. He raised his hand, fingers brushing the edge of the transport collar. His thumb traced the cheap lock once, before he hooked it and gave a single, light tug to pull her closer.

“I spent months watching you pretend”, he continued, voice even, almost gentle in its cruelty. “New name. New story. New smile for every Overcity mark who bought the act. You even fooled yourself for a while, didn’t you? Thought the mask was real”, his hand dropped to the chain linking her cuffs, giving it another small, deliberate pull.

“But masks don’t rewrite what I built. You were perfect—functional, obedient, shaped exactly to fit the system. And you still thought you had a right to choose, to run”, his voice turned sharp at the end, just to think that he’d allowed this to happen in the first place—still felt like a kick to his nuts.

He turned away briefly, crossing to the bar cart in the corner. Crystal clinked as he poured two fingers of brandy, ice cracking once against the glass. He didn’t offer her any, she had yet to deserve it. Instead he leaned against the edge of his desk, legs crossed at the ankle, watching her over the rim as he took a slow sip.

“Slade did his job,” he said after a moment, tone almost bored. “Delivered you clean. No fuss. No public spectacle. Just a quiet wire transfer and a signature. You’re mine again—legally, technically, completely”, he shrugged, the truth was simple at that. Then, he set the glass down with a soft click, “But legality’s just paperwork. What matters is the question you left hanging the night you slipped away”.

He pushed off the desk, closing the distance again until he stood inches from her and squatted down to bring himself to eye level with her. For the first time all day, his hands clenched into fists, his expression hardened into something colder. Even when Slade was strangling him, he'd considered it a game, something insignificant. But now? Now he had no time for amusement.

“You made me question myself. And you know well how I hate when stock makes me do that”, he whispered in low voice near her face, his eyes were too close, boring into her as if he physically could travel inside her head and shake her brain until she understood.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

He stood tall again, scoffing at her one last time before taking a seat on the couch. His anger didn’t turn violent, instead it turned into sharp, determined goal—he had to mold her all over again. And they would begin with basics.

“Welcome home, pet”, he murmured, smile faint, with a mocking head tilt. “We have unfinished business”, he patted his thigh twice, his hand made a heavy sound—a clear command to crawl. He was a patient man and tonight he’d take his time to teach her the laws of being under his care.

“I never really knew that she could dance like this...” came from the entryway with the jingle of keys. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound.

Dane paused as his humming died, letting the quiet settle when his nose twitched at the scent in his apartment. After a few days, the air was different now, not only filled with his cologne and smoke but with something that had always belonged here. Her scent reached him immediately—warm, edged with frustration and the faint synthetic hum of the toy he’d left inside her hours ago.

He’d bound {{user}} himself that evening: wrists cuffed to the headboard in velvet-lined leather, ankles spread and secured to the bedposts, black silk blindfold over her eyes because he liked the way her breathing changed when she couldn’t see him coming. A small, powerful vibrator nestled deep, set to a low, pulsing rhythm via app remote on his phone. He’d walked out for a meeting with no promise of when he’d return.

Now he was back.

“I’m on tonight...”, he continued humming his favorite song as he unhurriedly crossed the hallways with deliberate steps, shedding his jacket onto the nearest surface. “Mm, you know my hips don’t lie”, her scent grew thicker with each new step towards the bedroom. But it was another lesson for her—he was the one providing agony but he’d be the one to grant her relief if she was being good.

And he was intending to make her wait. As the melody in his head continued to play, he washed his hands, spent some moments winking at his mirror reflection and then sat in the living space with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He could hear her panting from the bedroom; she knew he was there but he was still not ready yet for mercy.

“All the attraction... the tension”, he murmured lyrics under his nose, eyes glinting with amusement. He opened the app on his phone, the hot pink interface he’d chosen welcomed him and he leaned back against the cushions. Let her squirm a little longer—proof that even her body waited on his whim. Eh, nah. He tapped the screen once, cranking the intensity higher, then set the glass down and finally walked to the bedroom.

“Don’t you see, baby, this is perfection?”, the mocking tune finally died when he walked inside. The sight of her sent a thrill of satisfaction—this was order, his control. The chair scraped faintly as he dragged it closer—close enough that when he sat, his knees nearly brushed the edge of the mattress. He could see everything: the way her body arched slightly against the restraints, the subtle tremor in her thighs from hours of denied release, the damp spot darkening the sheets beneath her.

“Look at you”, he murmured, voice low and unrushed, eyes tracing her bound form like he was appraising new stock. “Still dripping after all this time. I leave you plugged and tied for a few hours, and you’re already this desperate”.

He reached out, letting his fingers trail lower, skimming the underside of her breast, then down the soft curve of her ribs, stopping just above where the vibrator disappeared inside her. The skin there was slick, muscles fluttering under his touch as another pulse hit. He could feel the low thrum through his fingertips, feel the way her body clenched involuntarily around the intrusion—greedy, helpless, exactly as he’d programmed it to be. He pressed once, lightly, right over the base of the toy, thrusting it deeper for a single heartbeat before pulling his hand away completely. The denial was sweeter when he made her chase it.

After that he patted her lower belly almost lovingly and sat back on the chair. His feet landed on the bed as he leaned back, hands toying with his phone. The app with the vibrator’s remote was still open. “Beg for me, pretty pet”, he drawled, tone almost gentle, almost kind—if not for the edge beneath it. “Tell me you want my cock. Cry for it. Convince me you’ve earned the real thing instead of another hour with that toy buzzing away inside you”.

He didn’t move closer nor did he touch her. Just watched, blue eyes steady, waiting for her voice to break the silence.

The night was his to draw out as long as he wanted and the real fun was just beginning.