I could’ve told them my nails didn’t need it; I never bit them anymore. There were better ways to cope. I tucked my hands under my thighs and waited for Aria’s assistant—a redheaded shifter, not a witch—to lead me to the wash station. Every part of the process was designed for humiliation. You sat, they handled you; you kept your mouth shut. Most of the time the girls ignored me, but sometimes I’d catch them talking behind the rolling carts, eyes darting over to me like I was a specimen in a jar.
Today was worse than usual. The redhead started to massage shampoo into my scalp, and I flinched hard, pulling away before I realized what I was doing. Her hands paused mid-motion.
“You okay?” she said, softer than I expected.
“Fine,” I said, forcing myself to sit still. “Sorry. Sensitive today.”
She shrugged and finished the wash, but I saw the look she gave Aria—tiny, commiserating, as if to say, “See? Not so perfect after all.” I wanted to melt into the seat, disappear into the drain with the dirty water and hair dye.
They did the moisture treatment next, wrapping my head in hot towels and leaving me to stew under the heater for what felt like hours. I stared at the floor, at my own bare feet and the pink-painted toes. Every little thing about this place was meant to make you feel like a princess. Every little thing made me want to peel off my skin and start over.
When they finally unwrapped me, Aria took over. She did the cuticle trim with the same skill she used to mix drinks—quick, efficient, and barely looking at what she was doing. “Any special plans tonight?” She said, voice like a plastic smile.
“Just the usual. Maybe a couple of VIP sets.”
She made a face, just a flicker, then dug the trimmer a little deeper than necessary. I didn’t flinch. I’d learned better.
“You know,” she said, leaning in so close I could smell the sweet rot of her lipstick, “the other girls talk about you.”
I didn’t respond. I already knew what they said. Princess. Whore. The one who gets her own room because the boss can’t keep his hands off her. I’d heard every version.
“They think you’re better than them,” she went on, voice low. “But I know what it’s like having a man who owns you.”
She smiled, showing the edges of her teeth. I wondered what they’d look like if she ever let her wolf out. I wondered if mine even remembered how.
Aria finished the manicure in silence, then ordered me into a steam cabinet for “pores and relaxation.” She locked the wooden shell around my body, with only my head sticking out like a cartoon. The heat pressed in, baking my skin, and for a second I almost understood why people liked this. If you breathed deep enough, you could pretend it was just water and air, nothing else.
But my mind didn’t let me rest. It wandered, like it always did, back to the night my father called me into his office and told me about the debt. He’d acted like he was doing me a favor, like giving me to Waylon was the only way to save what was left of our family. I hadn’t even fought. Not really. I’d gone to the first meeting, let Waylon look me over like a cattle auctioneer, signed the “employment contract” without reading the fine print.
The worst part wasn’t the dancing. I could handle that, even liked it, sometimes, when the crowd went quiet and I could pretend I wasn’t naked. The worst part was the extra duties, the “special performances” in the VIP rooms, the expectation that my body was just another part of the show. I learned quick: when the Alpha said jump, you asked how high.
Waylon never forced me to mate him, not officially. He didn’t want the mess that came with a bond. He wanted me compliant, pretty, and empty. He used alpha command sparingly, just enough to remind my wolf who owned her. Sometimes he’d look at me across the room, narrow his eyes, and I’d feel a sick warmth bloom in my belly, my limbs turning to water. I hated it. I hated how my body obeyed even when my mind screamed no.
I hated the way I’d started to crave it.
The steam timer dinged, and the cabinet opened. Aria’s assistant handed me a robe and led me to the next station: blowout, makeup, and costume. We passed the break room where the other dancers clustered around a table, all heads turning as I walked by. Their eyes flickered with something mean and hungry, like hyenas watching a gazelle limp past. One of them, a tiny shifter with a scar down her cheek, muttered, “Here comes the Queen.” Another snickered. I didn’t dignify it with a look.
The makeup artist was a witch too, and she painted my face like she was prepping a mannequin: foundation, contour, lashes, lips. Not a word passed between us, and when she was done, she spun my chair to face the mirror. I didn’t recognize the girl who looked back—a doll with perfect skin, lips the color of ripe strawberries, eyes rimmed in blue glitter.
“Knock ‘em dead, honey,” the witch said, and spun me right back to the hallway.
I wanted to cry, but I’d lost the ability years ago. I hunched my shoulders, fixed my gaze on the floor, and padded barefoot back to my dressing room.
Inside, I found the costume for the night’s finale hanging on the door. Black mesh, studded with crystals, and a G-string so thin it might as well not exist. I changed in silence, fingerstrembling as I adjusted the straps, then stood in front of the vanity and tried to remember how to smile.
For a second, I almost managed it.
I checked the clock. Thirty minutes until curtain. I sat at my vanity and stared at my reflection, searching for the girl I used to be. The one who dreamed of Paris and Broadway, who believed in mates and fate and happy endings.
She was gone.
All that was left was this: a body, perfected and prepared for auction, a voice that only mattered if it whispered “yes, Alpha.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth and tasted blood.
The wolf in me whimpered, but she stayed silent.
She knew better.
