The panic attack hit in slow waves now, less electrical and more like a fever creeping up my back. I gripped the countertop, tried to anchor myself in the here and now, in the low hum of the dressing room’s neon and the steady drip of the leaky sink. It had been years since I’d let my wolf get that close to the surface. I’d trained her to submit, to roll over and play dead, same way I had.
But that voice—MATE—was a fucking sledgehammer.
What the hell was Jess Regan doing in my club? Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe he hadn’t recognized me. After all, the last time he saw me I was wearing a cardigan and ballet flats, not a thong and stripper heels. Still, I doubted there was a universe where he could forget my face.
I tried to think of what to do if he showed up backstage. The last time I saw him in person, he’d told me he loved me. That he’d wait for me, no matter what. He was stubborn, obsessive, relentless—the good kind of relentless, if you could stand being loved like that. I’d wanted it if I could’ve kept my sister safe and have it too.
“Breathe,” I told myself, “just breathe.” I counted out the seconds, but my mind slipped away again, back to that day at home. Back to the way my father’s face looked when I told him I’d found my mate.
He’d gone red, then white, like all the blood in his body was trying to escape his own skin. He’d grabbed my wrist so hard I felt bone, and hissed, “Do you have any idea what you’re throwing away for a boy who’s not even worth a goddamn phone call?” Then he shoved me, hard, into the wall.
“You’re going to Julliard, and you’re never seeing him again,” he spat. “Or I’ll make sure you don’t dance another day in your life.”
I’d believed him.
He called the school, cut off my cards, arranged for me to be “escorted” to New York by one of his friends, a shifter with too many teeth and a wife who smiled like a barracuda. I never saw Jess after that. I don’t know if he tried to find me. I liked to think he did, but I liked to think a lot of things that weren’t true.
I remembered the call from my little sister Brie, the only person who still cared what happened to me. She’d whispered, “Dad’s losing it. He said if you ever try to come back, he’ll—” but she never finished the sentence. Brie was sixteen, soft as cream cheese and just as breakable. I’d promised her I wouldn’t make waves. I’d promised her I’d survive.
MATE.My wolf wasn’t letting it go.
Then I was at home on summer break after two years at Julliard. My father was on a rampage. He’d apparently been up to something illegal. A Ponzi scheme, from the sounds of things. I was so hopeful they would send his ass to prison and we’d be free of him. But apparently he’d found a money man in the form of the Morgantown Alpha, Waylon Steiner.
I had just come through the living room and come face to face with the Alpha. I knew from the look on his face that I was in trouble. An hour later, my father called me into his office. He told me he’d worked out a deal with Mr. Steiner. I was to leave Julliard immediately and go to work for the Alpha, dancing in his club. After three years, my father’s debt would be paid. I lost it, screamed at the men that I wouldnot. I was no whore. My father slapped me so hard my teeth rattled. Waylon grabbed my father and told him he’d never touch me again. What a joke. Like he was my savior. Then Waylon told me it would be me or mysister. And here I am three years later. I wish dancing were the only thing that were required of me.
I blinked, and time snapped back. My hands had stopped shaking, but the sick cold in my chest lingered. I put on fresh lipstick, adjusted the straps of my top, and braced myself for the inevitable. Either Jess would find me, or he wouldn’t. Either way, I was going to finish my shift and keep my head down.
Angel poked her head in again. “You sure you’re good? Waylon wants to see you after your next set.”
I swallowed the bile in my throat. “Yeah. I’m good.”
She closed the door, and I stared at my reflection, searching for any trace of the girl who used to have dreams. I found only the ghost of her. I tried to smile, but my eyes were still wrong.
On my way out, I forced myself to look at the crowd. Thank the Goddess, he was gone.
The dressing room was empty except for me and a pile of half-shed lingerie. I scrubbed my face in the little metal sink and fished out the old concealer stick from my purse, erasing what was left of my tears. No point in crying now. If Waylon saw I’d been upset, he’d have questions, and I never had answers he liked.
I didn’t hear the door open. I only smelled the cigarettes and the sharp, medicinal tang of Waylon’s aftershave, the one he ordered special from London and wore like a threat. By the time I looked up, he was inside, and the door clicked shut behind him, no knock, no warning.
That was always his move—walk in, never ask, never announce. Just appear and let you feel the gravity of his presence. His eyes found me in the mirror, and I dropped my gaze, reflexive as a kicked dog.
“You making me proud tonight?” he said, voice slick and dead at the center.
“Yes, sir,” I said, but it came out so thin I doubted he even heard it.
He stood behind me, so close I could see his reflection ghosting over my shoulder. He wore an Italian suit, the blue silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the anchor tattoo on his collarbone, his blonde hair twisted back like some fallen angel from a magazine ad. He ran his hand over my ass, slow, proprietary.
“You had a rough start, I hear,” he said, smile not touching his eyes. “You need to get your head right.”
I gripped the edge of the counter and nodded. “I’m sorry, sir.”
He pressed his lips to my ear, just hard enough to remind me of the teeth beneath. “You’re going to the VIP room. Right now.”
My body reacted before my mind did. I stood and straightened my skirt, but my vision whited out at the edges. The familiar numbness crept down my arms and legs—my brain’s way of padding me against the blow that always came after.
Waylon yanked open the door and watched as I slipped past, his hand low on my back, steering. I barely felt the club as I walked through it: neon streaking across the floor, music so loud it blurred into a single high scream, the mix of sweat and cleaning fluid and rotgut tequila.
Waylon led me through the heavy curtain into the back hallway, to the only private room with a real lock. He always kept it cold, and I shivered, goosebumps crawling over my bare arms and legs. The pole in the center gleamed under black light, the only bright thing in a cave of velvet and ruined dreams.
