“Don’t wait up,” I say as I head to the door. My sisters each call out their goodbyes, and I slip out of our house and point toward my destination.
I step out into the neon Las Vegas night, the Strip buzzing just two blocks away. The air hums with bass from a dozen clubs, costumed partiers weaving drunkenly between cabs. My boots click against the pavement as I head toward the party where my target waits.
The number of reports marking him a predator are insane. Travis Bell. Partner in one of the biggest law firms in Las Vegas. He’s a man who uses his position at work to harass, to corner, to manipulate women. There are a dozen HR complaints, all “handled internally.” Which is corporate-speak for “swept under the rug.”
The system ignores him.
But I won’t.
Tonight, justice is a black cat with a dagger in her boot and a knowing smile on her lips.
The club is pulsing before I even reach the doors. Bass thunders through the walls, rattling the windows, spilling out into the street along with costumed bodies clutching red Solo cups. Fake blood, angel wings, leather corsets, dollar-store devilhorns—Vegas does Halloween the way it does everything: loud, cheap, and trying too hard.
I sink into tonight’s role. I soften my eyes, I set a coy, mysterious smile on my lips, I let my hips sway just a little so my cheap tail swishes, drawing attention, because I have to get it for this plan to work. I blend right in here. Nobody questions a woman dressed like a cat on Halloween. Nobody questions much of anything, really—not if the music is loud enough and the tequila keeps flowing. It’s why tonight will be easy.
The scent hits me first when I step inside—beer, sweat, perfume, and something sharp, sour, like bad cologne clinging to someone who thinks it makes him powerful. I know that smell.
I hate that I know it so well.
Men like him all wear the same stink—expensive entitlement and rotting ego, masked by whatever brand they think makes them untouchable. The one I’m hunting tonight is no exception.
I squeeze through the throng, brushing past a vampire making out with a nurse, a cluster of frat boys in matching Ghostface masks, a girl in angel wings crying into her phone.
I’ve done my homework. I’ve read all the reports. I’ve stalked his work. I’ve watched him come and go. So, I know Travis Bell’s face well. I spot him near the back of a room. He’s wearing black slacks, a black button-up shirt. I’d almost think he hadn’t dressed up at all, except he’s wearing a crown. Of course. It matches the golden Rolex on his wrist. He’s leaning against the counter with a grin that makes my stomach twist. He’s leering at the bartender like she’s something he’d like to devour.
He’s done it before. Devoured. He’s touched. He’s cornered. He’s manipulated women into doing things they didn’t want to do. All because he had power over them. If they said anything, they would be fired. Or they were ignored. “He’s well respected in the company,” HR said. “Are you sure you’re notexaggerating?” Police filed it under “he said, she said.” Case closed. System intact. Predator protected.
And there are so many of them. Too many. Every party, every office, every bar—they’re everywhere. Men who smirk atnowhen it doesn’t suit their mood. Men who think power is an excuse to do whatever they want.
It makes my blood hum with something close to rage.
The dagger tucked into my boot feels heavier than usual, like it knows what’s coming. It’s the backup, not the preferred method, but it’s there for my safety.
I watch him for a moment. He leans in too close to the bartender, whispering something in her ear that makes her flinch. She pulls away, muttering an excuse, and slips down to the other end of the bar. His grin doesn’t falter. He thinks it’s a game. He thinks everyone is a pawn.
That ends tonight.
I step forward, hips swaying, tail swishing back and forth. My bodysuit is zipped low, my tits one sneeze away from making an appearance. His eyes find me exactly when I planned them to.
“Well, hello, Kitty,” he drawls, voice low with attempted seduction. “Looking for someone to scratch behind your ears?”
I resist the urge to gag. “Something like that.” My smile is sweet, my voice low. I let my hand trail across the counter, close enough for him to smell the sandalwood smoke still clinging to me.
His gaze follows me like he’s already won.
Idiot.
“You come here alone tonight?” I ask as I settle in at the bar beside him. I tilt my head in that way men find luring. My smile is measured, tempting.
“I am,” he says as he looks me up and down. The way his eyes darken, the way his lips turn up just a little more, tells me he likes what he sees. “Though I’d like to change that.”
I make an approving sound, looking him up and down as well. It looks like I’m checking him out, but really, I’m trying to evaluate if he has anything dangerous on him. He doesn’t, as far as I can tell. I go to move my hair, but really, I’m pulling the tiny vial from my bra. I lean against him, pretending to laugh at something he says. The music is too loud to make out all of his words, but I don’t need to. I’ve heard every line before. It’s all recycled trash.
When he looks away to check out a woman dressed as a devil, I lean in and tip the vial into his drink. It only takes a second. It’s nothing too serious, just sinister enough to loosen his grip on the world, not enough to make him collapse. I’m not looking for unconscious. I’m looking for pliant.
He takes a long sip, his eyes sliding back to me. “So, Kitty, what’s your game tonight? What are you looking for?”
“Oh, nothing complicated.” I tilt my head, let the light catch my smile. “Just… have a little devil on my shoulder that’s telling me to take care of some needs tonight, if you know what I mean. But this party’s a little loud, don’t you think?”
