Chapter 117: Chapter 117 - Drugged
She blinked, slow and deliberate, like she was trying to reset herself.
Why did I drink that?
The question came late, dulled at the edges, and that unsettled her more than the noise or the lights.
Trust, safety surfaced instinctively as an answer and was dismissed just as fast. She did not trust Cyborg. Not his smile. Not his generosity. Not this place that wrapped cruelty in comfort.
So why had she lifted the glass?
She turned her head and looked at Malcolm.
He had not touched his drink. The glass sat untouched in front of him, exactly where it had been placed.
His posture had not changed. His eyes continued their steady sweep of the room, counting guards, tracking movement, reading the space the way he always did. Controlled. Present. Untouched by whatever had shifted inside her.
The contrast made her throat tighten.
Something in her felt off. Not gone. Just loosened. Like a restraint she relied on had slipped a notch without her noticing. The music did not feel as loud anymore. The lights felt warmer. Her attention drifted instead of locking.
The dancers came down from the stage.
The women stepped onto poles built closer to the metal enclosures, small elevated stages placed deliberately just beyond arm’s reach, forcing the audience to watch from inches away while the dancers moved with easy confidence, controlled and unmistakably intentional.
Cyborg leaned in slightly, close enough that his voice carried over the music without effort, his tone proud in a way that made Iyisha’s jaw tighten.
"That’s Mirelle," he said, lifting his glass toward the stage like he was presenting a prized acquisition. "Our best one."
The way he said it made Iyisha bristle. Best. One. Like inventory. Like ownership.
It irritated her immediately, sharp and instinctive, but the irritation had nowhere easy to land because Mirelle did not look trapped.
Iyisha was close to the bar, close enough to see the details. The woman’s long black hair clung lightly to her back with sweat, her movements smooth and assured, her expression relaxed, almost pleased.
Her dark eyes swept the crowd with lazy confidence, not searching for approval, not flinching from the noise or the bars or the hunger pressing in from every direction.
She looked happy.
Alluring in a way that felt intentional rather than extracted.
That contradiction unsettled Iyisha more than if the woman had looked afraid.
Mirelle spun slowly, one hand high on the pole, the other sliding down her own arm like she was savoring the movement for herself, not the audience.
The spikes on her bra caught the light, flashing briefly as she arched, the choker at her throat making her look composed and in control, dominant without trying to sell it.
Iyisha realized she was holding her breath.
Cyborg nudged another drink toward the table, then another, setting them down with casual insistence. "Enjoy," he said lightly.
Iyisha did not reach for it this time.
She kept her hands on her lap, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as she watched Mirelle move closer, the small stage putting her just out of reach, close enough that the heat from her body felt real, close enough that the performance felt personal.
The men behind the bars grew louder. Hands slammed against metal. Voices rose.
Iyisha swallowed, unease settling deeper now, because whatever this place was doing, whatever it had turned people into, it was not just forcing compliance.
It was offering something.
And people were taking it.
The men behind the bars reacted immediately. Shouts tore through the music. Hands slammed into metal. Bodies surged forward until the bars rattled under the pressure, the sound raw and ugly.
Iyisha leaned forward before she realized she had moved.
Her breathing felt wrong. Too shallow. Too aware. The room seemed closer, tighter, like it had narrowed around her without asking. Her pulse thudded loud enough to drown out the piano.
Mirelle moved closer.
She stepped off the small stage and swayed along the bars, hips rolling with the beat, her confidence unbroken by the noise. Fabric slipped away piece by piece, dropped to the floor without ceremony, her movements slow and deliberate, never rushed.
She stopped near Iyisha’s section., dancing, seducing.
Close enough to feel intentional.
Mirelle reached between the metal bars and picked up one of the untouched cups, fingers curling around it with easy ownership. Her dark eyes locked onto Iyisha’s, a knowing smile forming as if she already understood what was happening better than Iyisha did.
"Drink," she said softly.
Iyisha’s thoughts lagged. Her body did not.
She leaned in, confused by her own movement, her mouth opening before she could stop herself. The liquid tipped, warm and steady, sliding down her throat, the taste barely registering before heat bloomed again, sharper this time.
Mirelle straightened and set the cup back down like it meant nothing.
The dancer’s gaze swept over their section and paused for a heartbeat too long before she spun away, hair flaring, body rolling with the music.
Iyisha swallowed, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.
Iyisha felt it then, the pull in her body that made no sense, heat pooling low, sharp and distracting. She swallowed hard, confused by it, unsettled by how immediate it was. This was not about the woman. She knew that. The realization came clear even as her body betrayed her.
Something else was doing this. Her eyes glued to the cup as the burn in her throat made her hate herself.
Her gaze snapped to the side and froze.
Marybeth had her hands on Brix’s face, kissing him hard, careless, like the room had erased everything awkward and unsure between them. Brix leaned into it, fingers tangled in her hair, their bodies pressed together like they had always wanted this.
Iyisha blinked.
Once. Then again.
That was wrong. They barely know each other. They were always stiff, uncomfortable, avoiding contact. And now this. Here.
Her stomach tightened.
She looked past them.
Other sections were worse.
Men slammed their hands against the bars, shouting, voices hoarse and desperate. Some pressed forward so hard their bodies shook the metal.
Others stayed back in shadow, shapes hunched and moving in ways she did not want to name, hands disappearing below the edge of the light as they stared at the stage.
The bars rattled again.
Iyisha’s breath came shallow. She pulled back instinctively, pressing closer to Malcolm, her shoulder tight against his arm like she needed the contact to remind herself where she was.
This was not excitement.
It was escalation.
Whatever the Route had unleashed was moving faster than she could process, stripping restraint away piece by piece, and she knew with a sudden, cold clarity that the metal bars were not there to protect the dancers.
They were there to keep what was inside from spilling out.
Iyisha felt it too, the pull in her body that made no sense. She swallowed hard, confused by it, unsettled by how immediate it was.
She turned to Malcolm, the question already forming, what’s wrong with me, but it never made it to her mouth.
Instead, she saw him.
Really saw him.
The way his shoulders filled the black polo, the way muscle shifted beneath fabric every time he adjusted his stance. The calm in his face, sharp and unmoved despite the chaos around them. The contrast hit her hard. Solid. Controlled. Untouched. It made everything else in the room feel unstable by comparison.
Ungodly hot, the thought came unbidden, intrusive, and it startled her with its intensity.
Her breath caught.
She stood before she decided to.
Malcolm’s eyes tracked her immediately, following the movement without turning his head at first, attention narrowing in a way she recognized instinctively. He did not stop her. He did not move to meet her.
Iyisha stepped closer and turned, lowering herself into his lap like gravity had pulled her there instead of choice. Her dress shifted, stones flashing briefly under the lights as she settled against him.
Iyisha leaned in before she could stop herself.
Her forehead brushed his jaw, her breath warm against his skin as she tried to steady herself, hands resting on his shoulders like they belonged there. Her body fit too easily against his, familiarity amplifying everything she was already struggling to control.
Malcolm’s hands stayed still.
His jaw tightened, a single visible sign of strain, but his expression stayed flat, eyes already flicking past her shoulder, scanning the room again, calculating.
She swallowed, suddenly aware of how close she was, how far she had gone without meaning to.
Her face brushed his neck, breath uneven, her forehead pressing there like she was trying to anchor herself.
"Malcolm," she murmured, the sound slipping out raw and confused, like she was trying to call herself back through him.
Her body betrayed her anyway, shifting, pressing closer, searching without knowing for what.
Malcolm stilled completely.
He reached for his glass, lifted it, and sniffed once. His jaw set hard. He set it down with a sharp sound and looked past her toward Cyborg.
"The drink," he said flatly.
Cyborg was watching the room with open enjoyment, the chaos behind the bars escalating, dancers moving, men shouting. He glanced back at Malcolm and chuckled. "Is it just hitting you now?"
Iyisha felt Malcolm tense beneath her, felt the unmistakable change in him, solid and undeniable, and it sent another wave through her that made her breath hitch as she moved instinctively against him, trying and failing to stop herself.
Cyborg laughed softly, genuinely amused. "Langley training made you immune?" he asked, tilting his head. "Or did it work after all?"
Malcolm didn’t answer him.
"We’re going," he said instead, voice low and final.
Cyborg’s smile widened. He lifted his glass in a lazy salute and signaled with two fingers.
The metal bars around their section lifted.
Malcolm moved instantly.
He wrapped an arm around Iyisha and stood, lifting her with controlled force, grounding her against him as she clung, hands everywhere, unfocused, breath hot against his neck. He grabbed Marybeth and Brix by their arms with the other hand, hauling them up without ceremony.
"Move," he said once.
They scrambled through the opening as the music swelled again behind them, guards shifting, the crowd roaring louder as the barriers rose elsewhere.
Iyisha barely registered any of it.
Her world narrowed to Malcolm’s grip, his steady movement, the way he kept her close and contained even as her body fought him, confused and wanting and overwhelmed.
Behind them, the club closed back in.
Ahead of them, Malcolm didn’t slow.
Not once.
