After Jess left, I didn’t move for a full minute. I sat on the couch, dress loose around my body, hair hanging in my face like a shroud. My mouth tasted like him, and tears pooled at the bottom of my throat, but my eyes stayed dry. The wolf inside me howled against the inside of my chest, scraping for the door he’d just closed behind him.
The blue mood light of the VIP room faded from electric to ice as the minutes passed. My knees throbbed from where they’d been on the carpet, and my hands stayed clenched, nails digging little half-moons into my palms. I didn’t let myself stand. It was easier to stay small, not give the cameras a better angle. I didn’tdoubt for a second that they’d be back on by now; I could almost sense the hum as the little red light rekindled in the corner of the ceiling, drinking in every second of my humiliation.
I’d barely managed to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before Darlene came in. She didn’t bother to knock, just shouldered the door and surveyed the scene with flat-eyed disappointment.
“Don’t tell me you’re falling apart now,” she said. No “sweetie,” no “hun.” I guess I’d lost even that sliver of camaraderie.
I pulled myself together, dress up, hair behind my ears, and let her look at me. She didn’t miss the red in my eyes or the roughness in my voice, but she didn’t care, either.
“Get changed and wait by the staff entrance. Rage’ll drive you home.” She turned, but not before giving me one last once-over, like I was a steak she was sure had gone bad in the fridge. “And clean up before you go. Boss wants you looking presentable even for the bouncers.”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
My voice sounded like sandpaper, and she didn’t respond.
The minute she was gone, I gave myself twenty seconds to break. Just twenty. I buried my face in my hands and pressed until my skull felt like it would split, until the roaring of my pulse covered every other noise in the world. I let myself remember Jess’s hands, his voice, the way he’d said my name in the dark, the promise of “I’ll get you out.” It was the first real hope I’d felt since my father gave me away, and it was dangerous, like holding a match to a leaking gas line.
Twenty seconds. Then I walked to the tiny washroom and splashed cold water over my face until the sting replaced the ache. I toweled off, smoothed my hair, and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the memory of him locked up tight inside.
I moved through the backstage area like a ghost. The other girls were long gone, the rooms stripped of noise and perfume, leaving only the scent of cleaning chemicals and the static of old arguments. I checked my locker, but there was nothing inside except the club uniform. I knew the witches monitored everything, kept a file on even the most innocent interaction. If I so much as glanced at a forbidden name, they’d have me in Waylon’s office before sunrise.
At the exit, Rage waited in the idling Mercedes. He was the only one of Waylon’s crew who ever bothered with a real suit—black tie, white shirt, shoes that probably cost more than most people spent on a month’s worth of groceries. He didn’t look at me as I slid into the back seat, didn’t comment on the swelling around my eyes or the way my hands trembled. He just adjusted the rearview mirror, watched me for a second in the glass, and then pulled away from the curb.
The ride to my apartment was fifteen minutes, but Rage made it in nine, never missing a red light or a speed trap. I pressed my forehead to the cold glass and watched the city scroll by. Houston at night was all taillights and shadows, a city made up of secrets you were never quite privy to. The sky was dotted with clouds, and the headlights carved tunnels out of the wet air. I tried not to think about what waited for me at home, or how I’d find a way to sleep tonight. My body was still electric with Jess’s touch, but the rest of me was already crawling back into the hole it had spent the last three years digging.
Rage pulled up to the high-rise, didn’t bother with small talk, just held the door as I stepped out.
“Walk straight in, ma’am. Cameras are live.”
He said it quiet, almost apologetic. I gave him a nod; didn’t bother with a smile. I doubted he’d know what to do with one if he saw it.
The lobby was marble and mirrored glass, the kind of place meant to look expensive but instead just made you feel like you were being watched from every angle. The doorman was a shifter, but not wolf; his ears twitched under his cap as I passed, and he gave me a nod so small it could have been a tic. The elevators were already called and waiting, the gold panel buttons reflecting the blue-white of the security lights. There was a camera in the elevator, too. I stood perfectly still, hands folded, face composed. A few years ago I would’ve made a face at the lens, stuck out my tongue, dared the witches to do something about it. Now I just pretended it wasn’t there. I’d learned the lesson quick: every gesture was ammunition for someone else’s gun.
My apartment was on the twenty-fourth floor, one below Waylon’s penthouse. It wasn’t a bad place—two bedrooms, open living space, little kitchen with granite counters and an oven I’d never used. But it felt more like a hotel suite than a home. Everything was uniform, pre-furnished, the art on the walls generic and soulless. There were no pictures, no souvenirs, not a single book that hadn’t been checked by the pack’s security team. The only personal item I had was a snow globe from Paris, a tourist trap from my first and only trip outside Texas, and I kept it hidden in a vent behind the washer.
I walked the perimeter, checking every window, every lock, just as I’d been trained. The surveillance panel above the TV flickered on as soon as I entered, scrolling through feeds of the building’s hallways, the lobby, the garage. My own apartment was on constant view, every corner visible to whoever watched from the club’s office. I pretended not to notice, but every step inside was a performance for someone else’s eyes.
I set my bag down, shucked off the dress, and folded it neatly on the coffee table. I pulled on a ratty t-shirt and sweats, then stood by the window, looking down at the city below.It was almost 2:00 a.m. The traffic was thinning, but a few cars streaked along the freeway, taillights red and unhurried. Somewhere in the building, someone was playing classical music—Tchaikovsky, I thought, but I could’ve been wrong. The melody was warped by distance and the hum of the air conditioning. I let it fill the silence, just for a minute.
The apartment was supposed to be a reward for loyalty, a sign that Waylon “valued” me. But I knew the truth: it was a cell, padded and perfumed, but a cell all the same. The trackers in the walls, the locks on the bedroom door, the guard at the end of the hall. I was a trophy, nothing more.
I thought about Jess. How he’d looked at me in the VIP room, how he’d touched me like I was precious instead of ruined. It had been so long since anyone had seen me and not the mask I wore, the club’s property. My wolf whimpered, remembering the feel of his hands on my skin, the sound of his promise: I’ll get you out.
The hope of it scared me more than anything else.
I flicked off the surveillance panel and headed for the bathroom. I needed to wash Jess’s scent off of me before Steiner had a chance to notice it. I stepped under the shower and the water hit me scalding and perfect, burning away the last traces of cold from the ride home. I braced my hands on the tile and let my head fall forward, eyes closed, and let the water hammer my skull until I couldn’t tell where the pain stopped and the relief started.
I scrubbed hard, as if I could dig out every memory the club had left on my skin. I used the abrasive side of the washcloth, dragging it along my arms, my collarbones, the swell of my breasts. I left the inside of my thighs for last, working until the skin was pink and raw.
I didn’t want to wash him away. But I had to.
The water turned cold, and I shut it off, letting the spray trail down until it was just a shiver. I wrapped myself in a towel and sat on the closed toilet, dripping, heart beating against the bones of my chest like it wanted out. I pressed my knees together, pulled my legs up, and let the towel fall open so I could look at what was left of me.
My left knee was a mess. The scar was barely visible—a white line along the side of the cap, faint but noticeable if you knew to look. The club doctor had wrapped my knee in a thin web of silver to slow the healing and to ensure it wouldn’t heal exactly right. I ran my finger down the scar and tried not to remember the night they’d given it to me.
My first week at the Eyrie, I thought I could do it. I told myself it was just dancing, just performance, just three years and then I was free. I practiced my routines at night, learning the poles and the steps, the way the floor vibrated with bass and the way the spotlights could blind you if you didn’t know how to move with them. I got it down fast. I quickly started earning more money than all the other dancers.
But a month in, I’d been cornered in my dressing room. Two men. Their only agenda was to damage my knee. They pulled me off my feet. I fought. My wolf fought harder. But one of them had silver knuckles, and he caught me on the knee with a punch so hard I heard the bone crack. I bit one of them, nearly took off his finger. But they just laughed, called me “freak,” “bitch,” “meat,” and left me bleeding on the floor.
