“If she’s here again, she’s mine to deal with,” I tell them. “No one touches her. No one speaks to her unless I say so.”
A pause crackles back. “Copy that, Boss.”
Rowan—this trembling, defiant girl with hair like sunlight—just stepped inside my world, unaware what kind of darkness she’s walking toward.
I rest my hands on the railing, eyes tracking her as she edges toward the door, unaware that every step she takes draws her deeper into my orbit.
The factthat she’s made it this far—that her digging led her straight to the club, that she dared to trespass on my life—means one thing: I need to know everything about Rowan Hale. Every secret. Every motive. Every inch of what makes her tick.
Because it tells me two things about her.
One—she’s relentless.
And two—she’s not going anywhere.
The proof comes the very next night when the bouncers alert me she’s back.
For a second, I think I’ve misheard. After yesterday, I expected her to vanish—to run for the mountains and never look back. But no.
She’s here. In my club. Breathing my air. And I have no goddamn idea what to do with that.
“Let me handle this,” Marshall hums, slipping his silver mask into place. The light catches on it, sharp and cold, half-hiding a face that’s too handsome for his own good. Brown hair falls forward, brushing the edge of the mask, giving him that careless, devil-may-care look that makes women trust him when they shouldn’t.
“I’ll handle it,” I counter, because I always do.
We move side by side down the narrow walkway of the upper level. The sound of the crowd below rises and falls like the ocean—bass, laughter, sin. I roll up my sleeves as we walk, feeling the heat of the room crawl up my neck. Marshall’s gaze flicks to my forearms, where the new ink cuts clean and black across my skin.
“Dude,” he mutters, feigning offense. “You got another tattoo without me?”
It’s been our ritual since university—tattoos and bad decisions. Back then, it was the only constant between exams, hangovers, and chaos.
“This is from that time you were too busy fucking the twins to keep our appointment,” I say, smirking.
He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Whatever, man.”
But then his tone changes, drops lower. “What’s the deal with this girl, anyway? The one who keeps showing up?”
Marshall’s loyal to the bone, and he’s proved his alliance to Goliath time and time again. He’s been my shadow since wewere kids, the one I dragged into this mess because trust is a rare currency and he’s the only one I’d spend it on. If it came down to it, he’d take a bullet for me without blinking.
But even loyalty has its limits.
“Don’t worry about her,” I say. “She’s not Goliath business.”
Not yet, anyway.
The Slay Pen teaches people how to lie with their bodies.
It trains them to move like they belong in the dark—like they were born under red light and velvet rope, like anonymity is a luxury they can afford. Masks help. Masks always help. They blur intent. They soften consequences.
But Rowan Hale doesn’t move like she belongs here.
She moves like someone forcing herself to take up space she knows isn’t meant for her—like every step is a decision, not a reflex. Even when she does her best to blend in, there’s a tension to her, a restraint that doesn’t match the decadence of the room.
I see her the moment she clears the doorway.
Emerald-green satin clings to her body, skimming her curves before falling to her ankles. The choice isn’t accidental. It’s deliberate. Long enough to conceal. Long enough to hide the scar she carries like a secret the world doesn’t deserve. Her blonde hair is swept to one side, cascading over her shoulder, and a black mask encrusted with green jewels frames her face—ornate, defiant, a fragile shield against a room that feeds on exposure.
She’s beautiful. Unmistakably so.
