Chapter 1: Welcome Wagon, Meet the President
The sun hammered down on the cul-de-sac like it had a personal grudge against asphalt. Xenia wiped a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and watched the moving truck groan as it backed into the driveway of the house she'd bought sight unseen.
Seven feet and change of her, and the truck still looked like it might not fit.
"Easy," she called out to the driver, her voice a low rumble that carried across the manicured lawns. "Left a little more. There's a mailbox that looks expensive."
The truck adjusted. Xenia planted her hands on her hips and surveyed her new kingdom. The house was a white colonial with black shutters, the kind of place that screamed we have a wine cellar and opinions about your lawn. The lawn in question was a perfect emerald rectangle. Not a single dandelion dared show its face.
She'd barely been here five minutes and she already felt like she was being watched.
Xenia turned slowly, her braid swinging heavy against her spine. Curtains twitched in the house directly across the street. A woman walking a Pomeranian stopped mid-stride, her mouth forming a perfect O. Two kids on bikes had frozen at the corner, their jaws somewhere around their handlebars.
"Afternoon," Xenia called out, raising a hand in a friendly wave.
The woman with the Pomeranian yanked her dog's leash and power-walked in the opposite direction. The kids pedaled away like they'd seen a ghost.
Xenia laughed, low and easy. She was used to it. Six-foot-something of bronze-skinned Amazon with shoulders that could block a doorway and a smile that could start a bar fight or end one, depending on her mood. Suburbs always did this at first. Give it a week. They'd either get used to her or they'd start leaving casseroles on her porch with passive-aggressive notes about property values.
The moving truck finally settled into place. Xenia was about to direct the crew when she heard it—the soft click of heels on concrete.
She turned.
The woman approaching was a study in controlled elegance. Honey-blonde waves bounced against her shoulders with each step, and her green eyes caught the sunlight like chips of sea glass. She wore a sundress that hugged generous curves without apologizing for them, and she carried a wicker basket that looked like it had been curated by a magazine editor.
"Welcome to Wisteria Lane," the woman said, her voice warm as bourbon. "I'm Priscilla Vandermeer. President of the homeowners association."
Xenia extended her hand, and Priscilla's fingers slid into her grip like they belonged there. The handshake lingered a beat too long.
"Xenia," she said. "No last name worth mentioning. Just Xenia."
"Just Xenia." Priscilla's smile widened, revealing teeth that were almost too perfect. "I like that. Mysterious. We don't get a lot of mysterious around here."
"I find that hard to believe." Xenia nodded toward the house across the street, where another curtain had just snapped shut. "Seems like there's plenty going on behind those windows."
Priscilla laughed, a musical sound that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, you have no idea." She thrust the basket forward. "Housewarming gift. Local honey, a bottle of wine from my personal cellar, and a copy of the community handbook."
Xenia took the basket and felt the weight of it. The wine bottle alone probably cost more than her first car.
"The handbook," Xenia repeated, flipping through the slim booklet nestled between the honey and a bundle of lavender. "Let me guess. No loud music after ten. No cars on blocks in the driveway. No—" She paused, reading a line. "No unauthorized gatherings of more than six unrelated adults?"
"The rules exist for a reason." Priscilla tilted her head, studying Xenia with an intensity that made the Amazon feel like she was being catalogued. "We're a very... close-knit community. We take care of each other here."
"I've never been great with rules."
"I had a feeling." Priscilla stepped closer, close enough that Xenia could smell her perfume—jasmine and something darker underneath, like leather and vanilla cream. "Which is why I wanted to come over personally. The standard welcome packet is a bit... dry. I prefer a more hands-on orientation."
Xenia's eyebrow arched. "Orientation?"
"Tonight. After the sun goes down." Priscilla reached out and brushed an invisible speck of dust from Xenia's shoulder. Her touch was feather-light but deliberate. "My house. I'll make dinner. We can go over the rules together. Discuss... exceptions."
The air between them thickened. Xenia felt her pulse kick up a notch.
"And if I'm not interested in exceptions?"
Priscilla smiled again, and this time it was a blade wrapped in silk. "Oh, I think you will be. You have the look of someone who enjoys a challenge." She stepped back, heels clicking against the concrete. "Seven o'clock. Don't be late. I hate waiting."
She turned and walked away, hips swaying in a rhythm that Xenia couldn't stop watching.
"Hey," Xenia called out.
Priscilla glanced back over her shoulder.
"What's the safe word?"
For a split second, Priscilla's composure cracked. Her eyes widened, and something hungry flickered behind them. Then the mask slid back into place.
"Safe word," she repeated slowly, tasting the words. "How delightfully forward-thinking of you."
"I like to establish boundaries before I break them."
Priscilla laughed again, and this time it sounded genuine. "I think I'm going to like you, Just Xenia. We'll discuss safe words tonight. Along with everything else."
She disappeared through the crimson archway of roses that bordered her property, leaving Xenia standing in her driveway with a basket full of secrets and a sudden, acute awareness that she might have just stepped into something far more interesting than a quiet suburban life.
The moving crew was waiting. The neighborhood was watching. And somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice whispered that this was exactly the kind of trouble she'd been looking for.
Xenia smiled and carried her basket inside.
---
The sun took its sweet time going down.
Xenia spent the afternoon unpacking boxes and pretending she couldn't feel eyes on her from every direction. She'd catch glimpses through her blinds—neighbors walking dogs that didn't need walking, men checking their mailboxes that had been empty all day, a teenager who'd parked his bike across the street and was very obviously pretending to text while staring at her house.
Friendly neighborhood. Real welcoming.
She showered at six-thirty, standing under water hot enough to steam the mirrors, and thought about Priscilla Vandermeer. The way she'd looked at Xenia. The way she'd touched her shoulder like she had every right to.
The way she'd said exceptions like it was a promise.
Xenia had met plenty of women like Priscilla before. Beautiful, powerful, used to getting what they wanted. They were fun for a night, sometimes a week. But there was something different about this one. Something underneath the polish that felt like a trap door.
She dressed simply—black jeans, a fitted henley, boots that added another inch to her already impossible height. Her braid hung over her shoulder, thick and dark as a rope. She checked herself in the mirror, rolled her shoulders, and decided she looked exactly like the kind of trouble a suburban HOA president might want to get into.
The walk to Priscilla's house took less than two minutes. The night air was warm and heavy with the smell of jasmine. Crickets sang somewhere in the perfectly manicured bushes.
The roses arched over Priscilla's walkway like a gateway to another world. Xenia paused beneath them, letting her fingers brush against a petal. The thorns caught the moonlight, sharp as needles.
She knocked.
The door swung open before her knuckles finished their second rap.
Priscilla stood in the doorway, transformed. Gone was the sundress and the polished smile. She wore a silk robe the color of blood, tied loosely at the waist. Her hair was down, waves cascading over her shoulders. Her feet were bare.
"Right on time," she said, stepping back to let Xenia enter. "I appreciate punctuality."
The house smelled like candles and something else—leather, maybe, and the faintest trace of vanilla cream. The living room was immaculate, all cream sofas and abstract art and a chandelier that looked like it had been shipped from a European castle.
But Xenia wasn't looking at the furniture.
She was looking at the hallway that branched to the left, where the light was dimmer and the air felt heavier. The hallway that led somewhere the real estate listing probably hadn't mentioned.
"Nice place," Xenia said, keeping her voice casual.
"It serves its purpose." Priscilla glided past her, close enough that her robe brushed Xenia's arm. "Wine?"
"Sure."
Priscilla disappeared into the kitchen. Xenia heard the pop of a cork, the clink of glasses. She wandered toward the hallway, drawn by the scent of leather that grew stronger with each step.
"Ah-ah."
Priscilla's voice stopped her cold. The woman appeared beside her, two glasses of red wine in hand, her smile sharp as the thorns outside.
"Patience," she said, pressing a glass into Xenia's palm. "We have all night."
Xenia took a sip. The wine was rich and dark, tasting like blackberries and secrets.
"So," she said, leaning against the wall. "What exactly happens at one of your... orientations?"
Priscilla swirled her wine, watching the liquid climb the glass. "That depends entirely on the guest." She looked up, those green eyes catching the candlelight. "Some people need rules. Structure. Discipline. They come here to be reminded of their place."
"And others?"
"Others come here to be reminded that they don't have one." Priscilla took a slow sip. "I have a feeling you fall into the second category. Though I've been wrong before."
"Doubt it."
Priscilla's smile widened. "Confident. I like that." She set her glass down on a side table and stepped closer, closing the distance between them. "But confidence can be... tested. Would you like to see the rest of the house?"
Xenia's heart hammered against her ribs. "Lead the way."
Priscilla took her hand—fingers cool and sure—and led her down the hallway.
The door at the end was heavy, reinforced, with a lock that looked like it belonged on a bank vault. Priscilla produced a key from somewhere in the folds of her robe and turned it with a click that echoed through the quiet house.
The door swung open.
Xenia's breath caught.
The room beyond was soundproofed, padded walls covered in dark leather. The lighting was low and warm, casting shadows that seemed to move. And the equipment—restraints of every kind, padded benches, chairs with strange attachments, a machine in the corner that looked like it belonged in a dairy barn and a medical facility simultaneously. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with toys and tools and things Xenia didn't have names for.
"Wow," she breathed.
Priscilla stepped inside, her bare feet silent on the padded floor. She turned in a slow circle, arms spread, like a queen surveying her kingdom.
"Welcome to my play room," she said. "Every suburb has its secrets. This is mine." She stopped, facing Xenia with that blade of a smile. "Now. Shall we discuss those safe words?"
Xenia stepped across the threshold, and the door clicked shut behind her.