My body reacted on instinct, snatching my hand away before I’d even looked at the speaker. I turned to see a well-dressed man staring at me with a pair of heterochromic eyes—one blue, the other brown. I recognized him from a few nights ago; the memory of how he’d hungrily studied me from his shadowed booth was still fresh in my mind.
Revolted—partly from how possessive his touch felt, partly from how he looked at me—I said, “I don’t do private dances.”
He smiled, shrugged, and opened his mouth to say something, but I’d already turned my back to him and kept walking.Pretentious and presumptuous prick, I thought as I weaved my way through other patrons.
In my first life, I didn’t have the luxury of choosing who could touch me or when.But I sure as shit do now, and I plan to enjoy that simple privilege.
Jules greeted me just beyond the velvet curtains that separated the public space from the dancers' domain. She nodded towards the bar and said, “Your friend is very protective of you.” Her statement carried hidden meaning, a question wrapped in observation.
She’s worried he’s going to be a problem. Shit, I’m worried about that myself.“With the school’s recent death, he has been somewhat. . . intense.” I hoped she would accept that excuse, that she would not see Rowan as a liability.
My lips still burned from his kiss. I couldn’t identify any logical reasonwhyI was comfortable with him getting away with a stunt like that.
You know why, a dark voice whispered in my mind.
I shoved it away.
Jules led me down a different corridor than before, this one lined with velvet walls in deep burgundy and doors that looked suspiciously soundproof. We stopped before a door marked with a simple brass plaque:Office. It opened at her touch, revealing the most ostentatious room I had ever laid eyes on.
Sleek black furniture dominated the space—glossy finishes and clean lines creating a sharp, contemporary aesthetic that screamed money and power. A wrap-around mahogany desk occupied the far corner, its surface gleaming beneath recessed lighting. The room smelled like expensive leather and something floral I could not quite identify. Jules stepped behind the desk and pulled out a thick stack of papers, the pages crisp and official-looking.
“Here is the employment paperwork. Standard contract, tax forms, the usual bureaucracy.” She tapped perfectly manicured nails—white with pink accents—against the documents. “You can have a seat here and fill these out while I make a copy of your license.”
My anxiety spiked, sharp and immediate. Panic clawed at my throat before I could suppress it.Easy, Violet. Standard procedure. They cannot steal your identity with just a driver’s license, right?
I clutched my small purse, realizing how ridiculous my paranoia was, before producing my license for her inspection. “Of course. Here you go.”
She walked towards a door I had not noticed—presumably leading to a copy room—leaving a trail of cotton candy perfume in her wake. I sat in one of the low chairs at the desk and began filling out the paperwork, scanning clauses about conduct and compensation, when the sound of the door clicking made me look up.
“That was fast—"
The words died in my throat.
A man filled the doorway, andfilledwas the only appropriate descriptor. His olive skin possessed an almost supernatural polish, gleaming like burnished umber beneath the office’s warm lighting despite the ivory white suit he wore. Gold finishes and thread highlighted features that seemed carved rather than born—sharp cheekbones and square jaw, lips that promised either salvation or damnation depending on his mood. His presence expanded to fill every corner of the room, reminding me of a certain someone who left me perpetually breathless.
Why is everyone in Oubliette so devastatingly attractive?
“Oh, hello,” I managed. “I am. . . I’m sorry, but Jules stepped out momentarily.”
He smiled then, revealing perfectly white teeth. His canines seemed oddly sharp, catching the light in a way that made my pulse kick up.
“Thank you. I am aware of everything that transpires within this club.” His voice was liquid smoke, rich and warm, with an accent I could not quite place yet similar to my family’s. Spanish, perhaps, but older somehow. Refined.
That is an oddly specific statement, I thought, uncertain how to respond to such a declaration.
“Oh. Well, then you know she will return soon.” I offered weakly.
He crossed the room with predatory grace, each step deliberate and silent despite what looked like expensive dress shoes. Sitting on the desk’s edge, he looked down as if studying me. I noted his footwear—the same reptilian leather as Andy’s boots, though these were iridescent black that shifted to deep green in certain light. Actual crocodile, I guessed. . . and obscenely expensive.
He towered over me even while seated, much taller than I was accustomed to—taller it seemed than even Rowan, which seemed impossible. Or perhaps it was simply how low the chairs sat, designed to make visitors feel small and vulnerable. Either way, his presence sent butterflies rioting through my stomach as I fought the flush threatening to stain my cheeks.
He offered me his hand, palm up in invitation. “I am Damien, the proprietor of this establishment.”
I really was terrible at first impressions.
“Oh, I am so sorry for not realizing.” I placed my hand in his, expecting a handshake.
Instead, he pulled my knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss against my skin that lingered just long enough to cross from polite to provocative. His lips were warm, soft, and I felt that touch reverberate through my entire body like a struck tuning fork.
