I head for my position near the front entrance, boots sticking to the floor where drinks have already been spilled. The club’s been open for an hour, and the crowd is building toward peak capacity. My spot is a corner between the door and the coat check,where I have a clear line of sight on both the new arrivals and the main floor.
Marcus catches sight of me before I reach my post, and he grins, teeth white in the strobing lights.
“Look who finally showed up.” He leans on the wall, arms crossed, and his security shirt stretches tight over his shoulders, the fabric straining at the seams. “Thought maybe you’d gotten delayed by your boyfriend.”
My jaw tightens. “Don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, sorry.” He holds up both hands in mock apology. “Your fanboy, then. Rich Alpha, who shows up every night just to stare at you? That guy?”
Rox joins us, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. She plants a hand on her hip, head tilted.
“Has he asked you out yet?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “I’ve got fifty on him doing it tonight. Marcus thinks he’s gonna wait until the end of the month.”
“The pot is at six hundred, so do me a solid and play hard to get,” Marcus adds.
I take up my position with my back to the wall, plant my feet shoulder-width apart, and cross my arms over my chest. “Not interested.”
“Bullshit.” Rox moves to stand beside me, her shoulder almost touching mine, and I shift away tomaintain distance. “Guy brings you gifts every week. Expensive ones. And you ignore him?”
“Yep.”
Marcus laughs, the sound lost in the music but visible in the shake of his shoulders.
He joins us, forming a loose triangle of security staff near the entrance. “That’s cold, Saint. If I had someone bringing me fancy gifts and shit, I’d at least let them blow me.”
My teeth clench, but I don’t respond. A group of young Alphas push through the entrance, and I check for the stamps on their wrists to show they paid at the door.
“He’s hot, too.” Rox elbows Marcus. “Did you see him last week? The jacket he was wearing cost more than my rent.”
“Pretty boys always have money,” Marcus agrees.
Their conversation fades into the background noise. I’ve learned silence ends these speculations faster than arguing ever could.
Once they get bored, they’ll move on.
The crowd ebbs around me under the pulsing lights as I scan for problems. A Beta at the bar is drinking too fast. Two Alphas near the dance floor are posturing, tension coiled tight. A cluster of Omegas near the VIP area are dressed to attract attention.
Sweat dampens my collar despite the industrial fans mounted near the ceiling. Bodies press close, heat pooling until the air turns as thick as a sauna. I fight the desire to roll up my sleeves, keeping the fabric anchored at my wrists while the scars beneath prickle and burn, a familiar irritation I’ve learned to dismiss.
When they finally give up, Marcus peels off toward the VIP section, his bulk parting the crowd. Rox does one last sweep of the entrance before leaving me alone at my post.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to check the screen and find a text from Rowan with an address. I save the information and slide the phone back into my pocket.
Gabriel arrives at six-thirty, and I spot him before he clears the entrance. Six-foot-two of lean muscle wrapped in confidence, with sharp cheekbones that could cut glass and hazel eyes that shift between green and blue under the club lights. When he moves, it's with the fluid grace of someone who’s never had to question whether he belongs anywhere.
Tonight, he wears designer jeans tailored to hug his slender legs and a leather jacket worn soft at the elbows. His brown hair, styled to appear messy andeffortless, catches the strobe lights as he moves, turning the golden strands neon.
He doesn’t wait in line. The doorman recognizes him as a frequent, rich patron and waves him through without checking his ID.
I turn my attention back to the crowd, tracking the drunk Beta who’s graduated from drinking too fast to stumbling into other patrons. My muscles tense, ready to intervene if needed.
I sense Gabriel’s approach as a prickle on my skin, an expensive whiff of cologne mixed with pheromones sliding into my lungs and making themselves at home as if he belongs there.
He stops in my peripheral vision, close enough not to be ignored but not so close as to be considered a threat. Even with his consideration, though, the air hums between us in a way that agitates me.
“Saint,” he calls over the music, warm and familiar, as if we’re friends.
We’re not friends.
