On that stage, I dictated the terms of engagement. Men could look but never touch. They could want but not have. For a woman who spent decades being touched without consent, that reversal of power felt like oxygen after drowning. There existed intoxicating freedom in controlling my own body after years of captivity, in choosing exactly how much of myself to reveal and to whom.
I adjusted my costume—black, minimal, designed to showcase strength rather than vulnerability. Someone approached from behind,and I tensed reflexively before recognizing the touch as non-threatening. Turning, I found a petite brunette with generous curves poured into a gorgeous sequined navy ensemble. She offered me a bottle of water, her smile genuine.
“You must be the new girl. I’m Erin.” She extended the water. “You made those transitions look absolutely seamless.”
Out of courtesy, I accepted the bottle despite having brought my own. Rowan’s first rule—don’t accept food or drinks from anybody in Oubliette—was one that made sense. “Thanks. It sounds like I’ll be helping out while Bri is gone.”
“Bri is phenomenal,” Erin said, “But you are a natural out there. And we are all just thrilled to have you on the squad!” She waved and departed, leaving me to my preparations.
Jules’s voice cut through the dressing room chatter. “One minute, Alexis!”
I threw the water bottle Erin had given me into the trash, rolled my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and stepped into character. The music shifted—something with a slow, hypnotic beat that crawled under skin and settled into my bones. My song. My signal.
Stage lights blinded me momentarily as I emerged from the wings, but I didn’t need to see. I knew exactly where to place each foot, each hand, each calculated movement. The pole felt cool against my palm as I made my first circuit, establishing dominance over the space.
As my eyes adjusted to the lights, I began distinguishing individual faces in the crowd. Businessmen with loosened ties and lazy smiles. Even a few college boys spending their fathers' money on fantasies they couldn’t afford themselves. A handful of women were watching me with either curious fascination or territorial hostility.
And Rowan. Always Rowan.
He sat in the same spot at the bar as he had the other night during my trial dance. His eyes reflected stage lights like a predator’s in the darkness.
I executed my routine, muscle memory carrying me through complex sequences while my mind floated somewhere between present and past. My body knew these movements intimately—the arch of my spine, the flex of my thighs, the controlled fall into gravity-defying holds. Each transition flowed into the next like water, like violence, like sex.
As I completed my final sequence—an inverted split that required core strength most people couldn’t fathom—I allowed myself to meet Rowan’s gaze directly. A challenge. Something electric and dangerous crackled between us across the crowded room.
His expression revealed nothing, but his posture shifted subtly, weight transferring forward like a fencer preparing to advance.
I smiled at him before dismounting, knowing he witnessed my very deliberate provocation.
Back in the dressing room, I wiped away sweat and changed into my street clothes. My body hummed with residual adrenaline and something else, something that had more to do with Rowan’s presence than the dance itself.
I reached into my bag, snagged my water bottle, and took a long swig to quench my parched throat. I was eager to leave, knowing Rowan would be at the bar nursing his sickly sweet fruit juice concoction.Where he will station himself every night from now on. Every single time I dance.
The thought should have irritated me. Instead, I smiled.
Reaching the hallway leading from backstage, I stumbled. My legs felt strange—disconnected, like they belonged to someone else. I tried moving forward, and my bag slipped from nerveless fingers, contents scattering across the polished floor.
What the fuck?
“Whoa there, easy now.” A feminine voice accompanied strong hands catching me as I pitched forward.
My vision blurred, edges going fuzzy and indistinct. Fear crystallized in my chest, sharp and immediate as a wave of heat blasted through me.
Have I been drugged?
“Please.” The word emerged slurred, my tongue thick and uncooperative. Fear threatened to take over, but the drug’s effects were quick, forcing me to accept my helplessness once more.
“Jules!” The woman holding me screamed, and suddenly the scent of cotton candy flooded my senses.
Jules. I can trust Jules. Can I trust Jules?
Thinking was becoming difficult. Fire erupted beneath my skin, consuming me from the inside. Too many sounds—the music pounding through walls, conversations bleeding together into incomprehensiblenoise. Too much light—every bulb felt like staring into the sun. Sensations burned through me as if my clothes had transformed into sandpaper, abrading flesh with every breath.
I squeezed my eyes shut and clamped my hands over my ears, but I still heard and felt the music throbbing through walls. Each bass note shot agony through my skull.
A hand touched my cheek, cool against my burning skin, and I looked to see who it was. Two pairs of eyes, one piercing blue and the other rich brown, stared back at me. The woman beside Jules possessed sharp, angular features that suggested Indigenous heritage, though her pixie-cut hair glowed neon blue beneath kohl-lined eyes that looked ripped from anime. She appeared like a manga character manifested in three dimensions, and the incongruity made my drugged brain stutter.
A glowing haze surrounded them both. Jules was bathed in pink warmth while her companion was haloed in a deep inky purple. What was I given?
