It was foul—burnt citrus, spoiled honey, and something metallic underneath. I gagged, tried to pull back, but the words Darlene hissed next—soft and in some language that sounded like broken glass—made my hands tip the cup further, until I had to swallow or choke.
The tea seared down my throat, blooming cold and hot at the same time, and I could feel it spreading through me: a shiver, then a numbness, then a faintly pleasant fuzziness at the edge of my brain.
Darlene watched, arms folded, smug as hell. “You can try to resist my orders, you little shit. But you’ll always do what I say. And you think that drink was bad?” She leaned in, her perfume a sickly wall of gardenia and nicotine. “Just wait until you see what’s waiting in that VIP room.”
She laughed, not like a person, but like someone auditioning for a horror movie. Then she yanked open the costume rack and pulled out a dress I’d never seen before. It was black leather, so tight it looked spray-painted, with a neckline that plunged to my navel and a hem that barely covered my ass.
“Put it on,” Darlene said.
I started to protest, but the words caught in my throat, sticky and foreign. My hands moved on their own, stripping off my stage gear and sliding into the dress. It fit like a second skin—if your skin was made of latex and hopelessness.
Darlene tossed a pair of stilettos at my feet. “He wants you in these. Walk careful, wouldn’t want you to break anything important.”
I slipped them on, each step a little more unsteady than the last. The tea’s warmth had settled in my chest, dulling the fear and replacing it with a strange, syrupy calm. I knew I shouldbe panicking, or at least running, but my body just kept moving forward, obedient and empty.
Darlene checked me over with a critical eye, then grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the hallway, past the mirrored walls and the still-humming green room. The other girls barely looked up as we passed; they’d seen this before, and nobody wanted to catch the curse by accident.
At the end of the corridor was the elevator—real, not the decorative fake one in the lobby. Darlene punched a code into the keypad and the doors slid open with a hiss. I stepped inside, the world tilting slightly as the floor rose beneath me.
We went until we stopped on the second floor. The doors opened onto a short hallway lined with black marble and gold-framed mirrors. The air was cooler up here, thinner, and every surface gleamed like it had just been cleaned for a funeral.
Darlene pushed me out of the elevator, towards the door her grip iron on my arm. She put the code in another door and left me in the room. “Good luck, princess,” she whispered, then turned on her heel and left me standing in Steiner’s private VIP room.
I tried to steel myself, but the tea made it hard to care.
The door closed behind me with the click of an electronic lock, but I wasn’t alone.
The suite looked like a murder fantasy designed by a luxury architect—black marble floors, oil paintings that oozed sexual violence, a chandelier dripping with smoky quartz. The curtains were drawn, but even with them shut, the parking lot light’s glow found its way in, crawling over the surface of the bar and the low velvet couches.
Waylon Steiner stood in front of the minibar, swirling something brown in a glass. His suit was navy, his shirt open just far enough to show off the fresh tattoo on his collarbone—Greekletters, I guessed, but I couldn’t read them. He didn’t bother to turn as I entered. His attention was on the other guest.
The man—no, the creature—standing beside him was nearly seven feet tall. He wore a Tom Ford suit that looked tailored for a pro wrestler, and his skin was the shade of old slate, smooth and matte. His face was sharp angles and shadow: high cheekbones, black hair razored close on the sides with a braid running to mid-back, and a nose like a blade, ridges from bridge to nostrils pierced with three gold rings. His eyes glowed red, but not like a wolf’s; the irises were vertical, a cat’s eye that shimmered and narrowed when it caught the light. His mouth was wide and full of fangs, the canines more saber-toothed than human. His hands were massive, with fingers tipped with black, lacquered claws.
I’d seen monsters before. This one was bored.
“About fucking time,” Steiner said, setting his drink on the bar. “Slave, get over here.”
The tea was still in my system, dulling the panic, but not enough to override the fresh spike of fear. I forced my body to move, stepping forward on the too-high heels. The demon (because what else could it be) watched with the air of a food critic sent to review a McDonald’s.
Steiner walked around me, eyeing the leather dress and my bare legs. “You look like a dime-store fuckdoll,” he said. “Perfect.”
The demon’s gaze raked over me, assessing, then flicked to Steiner. “Is this the one?”
“That’s the girl I told you about. Strong as hell, but she’ll fold if you put the right screws to her.” Steiner grinned. “She’s the best piece of ass in this place.”
The demon inclined his head, polite. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Steiner pressed a hand to my lower back, right above the tailbone, and forced me to stand still. “Strip.”
He didn’t say it with any emotion, just as a statement of fact. The magic in my blood thrummed. My hands moved to the zipper without waiting for my permission. I peeled the leather dress off, folding it over a chair, then stood there naked except for the shoes. My skin broke out in gooseflesh from the sudden chill.
Steiner made a show of looking me over, then turned to the demon. “You want a drink, Maltraz?”
So that was his name. I’d heard it whispered in the club before. Maltraz, the business partner. The one even the witches were afraid of.
Maltraz waved a hand. “Later. Have her dance.”
Steiner grinned, teeth showing. “You heard the man, slave. Put on a show.”
