But it’s not any other night, and my attention keeps drifting to the VIP section.
I force myself to focus on my job, on the new arrivals stepping past the pay counter, on the bartenders signaling when a customer gets cut off. But my awareness of Gabriel remains, a low-level current humming in my blood.
An hour into my shift, Rox brings me a water bottle, condensation dripping over her fingers. She passes it to me. “You look like shit.” Her eyebrows waggle. “Late night?”
The bottle cools my sweaty palm. “I’m not in the mood, Rox.”
“I bet that’s not what you said last night.” She tilts her head toward VIP. “How’d he finally bag you?”
I twist the cap off the bottle and drink half in one go, the cold shocking my system, and ignore her.
Rox snorts and turns away. “Fine, keep your secrets. But I’m going to collect that pot. Don’t even pretend you didn’t do the deed with him.”
As the night progresses, the crowd thickens. Bodies pack the dance floor, heat radiating from their movements. Sweat dampens the back of my shirt, and I roll my shoulders to ease the tension gathering there. I continue to scan the club, returning to the VIP area more often than I want to admit.
Gabriel sits with his back to the wall, much as I do. He’s nursed the same drink for almost two hours, and while Omegas and Betas approach him with interest, drawn to his obvious wealth, he dismisses them with polite indifference.
Three hours into my shift, a patron at the bar snags my attention, sending all my instincts on high alert.
The man is of average height with close-cropped brown hair and the rigid posture of someone who’smilitary-trained. His drink sits untouched before him, his attention fixed on the VIP section.
On Gabriel.
My hand drops to the radio at my belt, fingers tightening around plastic. The man’s focus never wavers, his body angled for optimal viewing despite the crowd.
I push off from the wall, weaving through bodies with single-minded purpose. People step aside, sensing my mood in the set of my shoulders and the stiffness in my stride.
Gabriel’s head turns as I close the distance, alertness tightening his frame.
“We’ve got company,” I tell him, bending close enough to be heard over the music.
His pheromones fill my lungs, mingling with the subtle scent of my soap on his skin from an earlier shower. No more cologne to muddle his scent, and my stomach tightens in response.
I push the reaction down. “Bar, two o’clock. Brown hair, black shirt, military stance.”
Gabriel shifts without turning his head, subtle enough not to alert his observer, and recognition flashes. “That’s Darrow.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps the screen twice, bringing up an image of the sameman, in a suit, photographed from surveillance footage.
I turn to check again, and my blood runs cold. Darrow has abandoned all pretense of subtlety. His phone is raised, lens pointed at our table, capturing images with open disregard for discretion.
Our eyes lock across the crowd, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a sneer. He adjusts his angle, taking another photo, cataloging not just Gabriel but me beside him.
Rage floods my system, rising so fast my vision tunnels. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to spring across the club and slam that smug face into the bar until it breaks.
“Saint,” Gabriel says, cutting through the red haze of my anger. “Don’t.”
But it’s too late.
People scatter as I cut through the dance floor, their faces blurring into streaks of color and shock. Darrow spots me approaching, and his stance widens in anticipation, phone still raised between us.
Behind me, I hear Gabriel curse, the sound swallowed by the music.
My hand finds Darrow’s collar before he can step away, bunching the expensive fabric in my fist as I slam him back against the bar counter. Glass bottlesrattle, and someone behind us gasps. His body absorbs the impact without flinching, his calm driving my rage higher.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, crowding him until there’s nowhere to retreat.
Darrow assesses me with detachment, and his phone clicks again, capturing my snarl from point-blank range. “Taking some pictures for my employer. He likes to know who’s interfering with his business.”
