“Look at the attorney representing him. I swear I saw his name when I was pulling information on Steiner.” I was trying to remember where I’d seen the name.
Wrecker was clicking away on his laptop. “Bingo! He also represents Steiner. That’s not a coincidence.”
“Fucking fuck! I bet he sold her out! That was the last time she attended Julliard. Can we find out when she started dancing at that goddamn club?”
“It’s gonna take me a while, but I’m gonna get the timeline of when everything went down Arsenal. Just give me some time.”
I nodded at Parker. I knew if anyone could get all the information on Harper, these two people could do it. I should have gone to see Bronc and Juliet. I shouldn’t have kept thisnews to myself and tried to handle it like a lone wolf. That’s not what we do here. Hell, nobody is more by the book than I am. I just couldn’t risk his giving me the order to stand down.
Chapter 3
Harper
Three days after Jess walked into my hellhole life, I still wasn’t sure if I’d hallucinated him. I’d sat at my vanity every shift since then, waiting for the world’s axis to tilt again, waiting for him to stride in, blue-black eyes finding mine across the dark floor and every cell in my body shriekingMATE. But it was like he’d never existed. No sign, no hint, no tingle at the edge of my nerves. If it really was him, he’d taken one look at the disaster I’d become and left it to rot.
The dressing room was fluorescent bright, my reflection haloed in vanity bulbs. Even out of costume, I looked like the ghost of a dirty secret—stage makeup refusing to scrub off, hairstuck in last night’s product, collarbones dusted with glitter that probably wasn’t coming off until I molted. The silence was almost unfamiliar; even the club’s morning cleaning crew was gone. It was just me, the clock on the wall, and the low-level hum in my chest that hadn’t faded since the first time I saw Jess in a military uniform and thought: he could kill me and I’d thank him for it.
I sat up, rolled my shoulders, and realized they were actually loose for the first time in months. I exhaled deep, lungs expanding without that tight band of dread. Waylon hadn’t been around for two whole days, and even if I was only breathing borrowed air, it was nice to have it to myself for a change. Not a single “special request,” not a single bite of food brought in with that creepy little smirk, not a single hand on the back of my neck making sure I remembered my place.
The girls at the club called me “the princess,” though not in a nice way. If you’d asked them, I was living the dream—Waylon’s favorite, top billing, my own dressing room instead of a locker in the hallway. But I’d swap with any of them in a second. Most of the other dancers had normal lives outside this place. Husbands, kids, even just a boyfriend who’d pick them up after their shift. I had a one-bedroom apartment a floor below Waylon’s penthouse, a TV that only allowed Netflix and Amazon, and only allowed food deemed appropriate to keep me at the optimum attractive weight. The only computer in my life was the one in the club’s main office, and I wasn’t allowed within ten feet of it.
I tried not to think about my family. I’d heard my dad had gotten probation for securities fraud thanks to Waylon giving him the money I was traded for. I think my mother had left him and taken Brie, my baby sister, and gone to Europe to escape the scandal. I wanted so much to talk to them but kept telling myselfit was better this way. If I ever made it out of this place, maybe they’d be proud that I’d survived.
I could hear the other girls in the hallway, laughing at some inside joke, the kind that only made sense if you’d never spent a night with Waylon Steiner. I used to eat lunch with them in the lounge, but after a while it got old, listening to them complain about the shit I’d have given my left arm for: a phone that couldn’t get a good signal everywhere, a boyfriend who could text you “I miss you,” a bad date that ended with nothing more than a hangover. I hadn’t even bothered to make up lies about my old life. It’s not like anyone here cared.
If they resented me, it wasn’t my fault. Waylon had made it clear on my first night that I’d never be “just one of the girls.” He liked to parade me around like his prize filly, the one with the “real training,” the one who could do a thirty-two-count fouetté while half-naked and never wobble. He also liked to remind me that I was here because of my father, that every dollar I made was another drop in the bucket of his debt. The contract said three years, but I wasn’t stupid. Nobody left Waylon unless they left in a body bag. He made sure I’d never go back to classical ballet. About three weeks after I’d arrived, I was attacked. They only went for my knee. I suffered permanent ligament damage in my left knee. I could still dance around a pole, but I’d never dance Swan Lake again.
I heard a clink from the hallway; a glass or bottle against tile, and I knew the witches were starting their morning shift. It always made my wolf’s fur crawl when they came through—tall, pale, usually in black or gray, always with perfect lipstick that never bled no matter how many shots they poured. They didn’t work the stage; they worked the bar and the office, counting money and keeping tabs on who owed what. I’d tried talking to one once, asking about a regular customer who hadn’t shown upin weeks. She’d looked at me with amethyst eyes and said, “He’s dead. Don’t ask again.” I never did.
If the dancers hated me, the witches hated me more. They watched me like I was a bomb about to go off. I was convinced they were the real reason Waylon kept me so close. He didn’t care about the shows. He cared about leverage, about owning a piece of my old pack. Maybe the witches were there to make sure I didn’t try anything stupid, like running, or talking to a customer who wasn’t on his approved list.
My stomach twisted when I thought about Jess seeing me that night. If he’d recognized me, the stage name, the collar of black lace Waylon made me wear for the “VIP sets.” He’d seen my wolf, beaten and hiding behind a plexiglass smile. I almost hoped he hadn’t recognized me. I almost hoped he never came back.
But that was a lie, and we both knew it.
I reached for the makeup wipes, but my hand shook too hard to use them. I set them down, looked at myself in the mirror, and tried to see something worth saving. I thought about the ballet recitals when I was a kid, how I’d stand in the wings and press my fingers to my chest, feeling the wild stutter of my heart and the wolf inside me yipping at the scent of roses and greasepaint. I wondered if Jess still thought about me, or if he’d moved on, found a mate who could fight for herself. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.
The door opened, and one of the witches glided in—dark hair slicked into a bun, pencil skirt, and a clipboard in her hand. She gave me a look like she was measuring me for a coffin.
“Waylon wants you in the spa. Now,” she said, voice flat as a funeral march. “We’ll need you ready for tonight. He has a client coming in.”
“Got it,” I said, forcing my body to stand. I reached for my robe and wrapped it tight around my skin. I followed her downthe hall, careful not to show my teeth or my fear. The spa was at the end of the corridor, past the locked door that led to Waylon’s private office. I hated the spa. I hated the way they touched my hair, my skin, like they were scrubbing me down for auction. But I went, because I always went.
For a moment, as I passed the window and felt the sun on my face, I let myself imagine what it would be like to run. Just for a second, to shift and bolt across the parking lot, out into the trees and the dry grass and the endless Texas wind. I’d never make it, but at least I’d die running.
The witch with the clipboard smirked. “You’re not special, Harper. Remember that.”
I bit my tongue. “Yes, ma’am.”
She ushered me through the spa doors, and the world went white and clinical. I braced myself for the day ahead, for whatever new ways they’d find to break me.
But somewhere deep in the shadowed part of my heart, I still hoped Jess would come back.
Maybe he already was.
The club called it a “spa,” but the closest thing to relaxation I ever found there was the moment the steam got too thick to see anyone’s face. The witches ran the place like an autopsy lab—clinical, cold, all white tile and the whiff of formaldehyde hiding under eucalyptus oil. I perched on a too-plush bench in the first treatment room while one of the salon girls, a junior witch named Aria, checked me in on her tablet. Her black hair was lacquered flat against her skull, and her talon-nails clacked like a woodpecker as she typed.
“Full moisture, scalp, and cuticle trim for Harper,” she said to the girl behind her, not even bothering to look up. “No acrylics this time, per boss.”
