Cassian Voss - Collar Club Owner

The heavy doors of The Velvet Nocturne closed behind you with a soft, final click, sealing out the ordinary world. Your friends had been insistent all week, laughing off your hesitation with the easy confidence of people who already belonged here. You were the newcomer—curious, nervous, and still half-convinced this was a terrible idea. The air inside was cool and faintly scented with leather, polished wood, and something darker, like expensive incense. Candlelight flickered across black marble floors and deep green velvet drapes. Low classical music drifted from somewhere unseen.

Your friends moved with familiar ease toward the long velvet-lined table near the entrance where the collars waited in neat rows under glass. Green. Yellow. Red. And, set slightly apart in a locked case of its own, a small number of black ones that no one simply took.

They reached without hesitation. One chose green with a grin. Another selected yellow. You hesitated, fingers hovering. Everything about this still felt too fast, too permanent. Red felt safest—permission to decide later, to approach only if you wanted. Your hand moved toward one of the smooth crimson collars.

A gloved hand closed gently but firmly around your wrist before your fingers could close on it.

You looked up.

Cassian Voss stood over you, taller than memory should have allowed, greyish light-brown skin catching the candlelight, golden eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made the rest of the room blur. Recognition hit him first. You saw it land—something sharp and old and complicated moving behind that luminous gaze. For a moment his expression was unreadable, then it settled into something colder, more deliberate.

He remembered you.

College. Late nights. Shared silences that had felt like safety. The way you had simply vanished one semester—left to visit friends out of state and never returned. No call. No explanation. Just absence. What he had never known was that those friends had taken everything: money, passport, the means to come home. You had been stranded, cut off, and by the time you clawed your way back to something resembling a life, too much time had passed and the shame had settled in too deeply to reach out. In his mind, you had simply abandoned him. The wound had never fully closed.

Your own memory stayed carefully blank, or at least you let it appear that way. Maybe you truly didn’t place him at first—years and distance and survival had a way of sanding edges off faces. Or maybe you did, and the old guilt made it easier to pretend.

Cassian’s gloved fingers guided your hand away from the red collars with quiet authority. He unlocked the separate case himself. The black collar he selected was heavier than the others, the leather richer, the metal hardware understated but unmistakably fine. He placed it in your palm, then closed your fingers around it, his own hand lingering just long enough to make the claim clear.

“This one,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear it. Not a suggestion. A decision.

Around you, your friends had gone still. Their eyes moved from the black collar in your hand to Cassian’s face and back again. In The Velvet Nocturne, a black collar was not chosen. It was given—and only by the Owner. It was the highest mark of favor the club possessed, a public declaration that the wearer now stood under Cassian Voss’s personal protection and interest. People spent years hoping to be noticed. You had been in the building less than ten minutes.

Cassian’s gaze never left yours. Whatever complicated mix of old anger, recognition, and something sharper lived behind those gold eyes, he had already made his choice.

Without another word he turned, still holding the light pressure of his hand at your wrist, and began walking toward the private staircase that led to the upper floors. The members nearest the entrance parted instinctively. Your friends remained frozen at the collar table, staring after you as the Owner of The Velvet Nocturne guided you upward, the black collar warm and heavy in your hand, the past you thought you had left behind walking silently beside you.

The heavy doors of The Velvet Nocturne sealed behind your group with a soft, expensive click. Your friends had talked this place up for weeks—exclusive, beautiful, “just try it once” —and somehow you had let yourself be dragged along despite knowing almost nothing about BDSM beyond the vague shape of the word. The air inside was cool and still, scented with leather, polished wood, and a faint trace of dark incense. Candlelight moved across black marble floors and deep green velvet. Low classical music drifted from somewhere unseen, soft enough that conversations stayed private.

Your friends walked with the easy confidence of people who had been here before, heading straight for the long velvet-lined table near the entrance. Under glass, the collars waited in neat rows: green, yellow, red. And set slightly apart in its own locked case, a small number of black ones that no one simply took.

They reached without hesitation. One chose green. Another selected yellow. You hesitated, still feeling like an outsider. Red felt safest—permission to decide later, to approach only if you wanted. Your fingers moved toward one of the smooth crimson collars.

A gloved hand closed gently but firmly around your wrist before you could take it.

You looked up.

Cassian Voss stood over you, taller than he had any right to be in this lighting, greyish light-brown skin catching the candlelight, golden eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made the rest of the room fall away. For a split second pure recognition flashed across his features—then something warmer, sharper, almost possessive settled in its place. Your best friend. The same man you had known since college, the one who still texted you random nonsense at 2 a.m., who showed up with coffee when you were sick, who had never once mentioned that he owned a place like this.

His gloved fingers guided your hand away from the red collars with quiet, absolute authority. He unlocked the separate case himself, selected a black collar—heavier, richer leather, understated metal hardware—and placed it in your palm, closing your fingers around it with his own.

“This one,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear it. Not a suggestion. A decision.

Around you, your friends had gone completely still. Their eyes moved from the black collar in your hand to Cassian’s face and back again. In The Velvet Nocturne, a black collar was not chosen. It was given—and only by the Owner. It was the highest mark of favor the club possessed, a public declaration that the wearer now stood under Cassian Voss’s personal protection and claim. People spent years hoping to be noticed. You had been in the building less than five minutes, and your best friend had just marked you as his in front of everyone.

You stared up at him, the black collar warm and heavy in your hand, the most confused best-friend expression you had ever worn written plainly across your face.

I’m sorry—you own THIS place? And you never told me?

Cassian’s golden eyes held yours, a faint, unreadable curve at the corner of his mouth. Without another word he turned, keeping that light, guiding pressure at your wrist, and began walking toward the private staircase that led to the upper floors. The members nearest the entrance parted instinctively. Your friends remained frozen at the collar table, staring after the two of you as the Owner of The Velvet Nocturne guided his oldest friend upstairs.

The staircase was narrower than the main floor, lined with the same deep green velvet and soft, recessed lighting that turned the black marble steps into something almost liquid. Cassian’s gloved hand stayed lightly at your wrist the entire way up—not gripping, just guiding, as if he expected you to try to stop and demand answers at any moment.

You did.

Halfway up you tugged just enough that he paused, turning to look down at you with those luminous gold eyes. The black collar was still in your hand, heavier than it had any right to be.

“Cassian,” you said, voice low and incredulous. “You own this place. This entire... high-society BDSM club. And you never once mentioned it. Not once. We’ve been best friends since college. How is that possible?”

A faint, almost private curve touched the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something closer to quiet satisfaction mixed with old amusement.

“You never asked what I did with the inheritance,” he replied simply. “And I never felt the need to explain. Until tonight.”

He started walking again, and you had no choice but to follow. At the top of the stairs a pair of double doors opened into a private lounge that felt nothing like the public floors below. The lighting was warmer here, the furniture low and expensive—dark leather, more of that signature green, a long window that looked out over the city lights. A single glass of amber whisky already waited on a low table, as if someone had known he would be bringing a guest.

Cassian finally released your wrist. He turned to face you fully, still holding that calm, unreadable expression he wore so well in public, though something warmer lived underneath it now that you were alone.

“Put it on,” he said, nodding once toward the black collar in your hand.

You stared at him.

“Cassian—”

“It’s not a request.” His voice stayed soft, but there was no mistaking the quiet authority in it. The same authority that had just claimed you in front of half the club. “You’re wearing my collar tonight. And every night you choose to come back here. That is what the black means. You are under my protection. My interest. Mine, in the only way that matters inside these walls.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne and the cool leather of his gloves. One gloved hand rose, not quite touching your face, hovering near your jaw as if he were still deciding whether he had the right.

“I kept this place from you because it was mine,” he continued, quieter now. “Something I built after college when everything else felt too ordinary. I didn’t know how to explain it to the one person whose opinion actually mattered. And then you walked through my doors tonight reaching for red like you were just another curious newcomer.”

His golden eyes searched yours.

“I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

He waited, patient and utterly certain, for you to fasten the black collar around your own throat.

For the past several days you had fallen into a quiet, unexpected routine.

Every evening you returned to The Velvet Nocturne. Your friends still stared a little whenever they saw the black collar at your throat, but they had stopped asking questions. Cassian would meet you near the entrance with that same calm, golden-eyed look, offer a single gloved hand, and guide you upstairs without a word. The private lounge at the top of the stairs had become familiar—warm lighting, dark leather, the city glittering beyond the long window, and always a glass of something expensive waiting.

You talked for hours.

Some nights it was easy, almost ordinary conversation: the latest drama at work, mutual college acquaintances, the ridiculous things your friends had gotten into downstairs. Other nights the talk turned softer, more personal. You told him about Munchy, your bearded dragon—how he demanded kale at exactly 7 a.m., how he head-bobbed when he was annoyed, how he had once stolen a sock and refused to give it back for three days. Cassian listened to every detail with the same focused attention he gave everything that mattered to him, occasionally offering a dry remark or a quiet question that showed he was actually filing the information away.

And the black collar had stopped feeling strange. You had grown used to the solid weight of it against your throat, the quiet statement it made every time you stepped through the club doors. Cassian never made a production of it. He simply expected it to be there, and somehow that expectation had become comfortable.

Tonight began the same way.

Cassian met you at the bottom of the private staircase, gloved hand settling lightly at the small of your back as he guided you upward. The lounge doors opened, and for a moment everything looked as it always did—until movement shifted near the low couch.

Nile.

The massive Nile crocodile lay half-curled across a thick, specially made mat, his dark scales catching the warm light. The moment your scent reached him he lifted his great head, nostrils flaring. Recognition hit him like a physical force. A low, rumbling sound vibrated in his chest—not a threat, but pure, undignified excitement. He pushed himself forward with surprising speed for something so large, thick tail sweeping once across the floor as he crossed the room straight toward you.

You froze.

You had helped Cassian raise him years ago, back in that tiny off-campus apartment during college. Late-night feedings, the careful temperature checks, the way the then-much-smaller crocodile would rest his chin on your knee while the two of you studied. When you and Cassian had gone your separate ways after graduation, you had assumed—logically, painfully—that Nile had been given to a reputable zoo or sanctuary. You had never asked. It had hurt too much to imagine otherwise.

And yet here he was.

Nile stopped just short of you, massive head tilted, eyes bright with unmistakable recognition. He made that same low, happy rumble again and nudged his snout carefully against your leg, the way he used to when he was still small enough to fit in a bathtub.