“Get dressed,” he says, rising from his stool before I can argue. “I’ll show you the place after Lena leaves for school.”
Forty minutes later, we pull up to a building that doesn’t match the name. No neon signs, no line of people waiting to enter. Just a three-story brickstructure with tasteful exterior lighting and unmarked doors. Morning sunlight catches on brass fixtures gleaming against the weathered brick.
“Most people think we only open at night,” Rowan explains as he parks in a reserved spot behind the building. “But there’s business conducted during daylight hours, too.”
My fingers tingle with anticipation as we approach a steel door with no visible handle. Rowan holds his palm over a scanner disguised as a decorative panel, and the door clicks open.
The front room welcomes us inside with polished wood floors and dim lighting, even with no customers present. A long bar stretches along one wall, bottles arranged by height and color behind it. Leather booths line the opposite wall, positioned to form pockets of privacy without blind spots.
My skin prickles as I catalog each lock, each camera, and each keypad we pass. Standard commercial grade at the public entrances, increasing in sophistication as we move deeper into the building.
“The public never goes past the first room,” Rowan explains, leading me through a door marked ‘Private’ that requires both a key card and a numeric code. “The real business happens back here.”
The back rooms transition from polished wood toindustrial concrete, and I reach out to trace the edge of a door frame reinforced with metal plates, the hinges oiled but showing wear patterns that suggest frequent use.
The room we enter appears to be some kind of changing room, with metal lockers lining one wall and an industrial sink tucked in next to a corner shower.
“You’re in early.”
I turn as a man rises from a table off to the side, tucking a phone into his pocket.
His black hair falls in tousled waves, and a thin white scar traces his jawline. When his dark eyes lock onto mine, they assess me in seconds. His T-shirt stretches across his shoulders and does nothing to hide the scars on his arms as he straightens, his presence filling the space with unmistakable Alpha energy.
“Saint.” Rowan’s hand settles on my shoulder. “This is Ash. The locksmith I mentioned.”
Saint’s stare returns to me. “He doesn’t fit the usual profile of your hires.”
“That’s the point.” Rowan’s hand slips down to settle at the small of my back. “He knows security systems better than anyone in Ashford Heights.”
Saint strides forward, his movements fluid with the control of a predator. He stops close enough for me to catch a whiff of his pheromones, along with another layer of pheromones, also Alpha.
“I brought him to meet Ghost,” Rowan continues. “Where’s he hiding?”
Saint jerks his chin toward a door at the end of the hallway. “He’s doing inventory.”
We follow Saint through the door into what appears to be an office. A man stands with his back to us, counting bottles on a shelf. When he turns, I’m struck by his eyes first, one warm brown, one pale blue, both focused on me with unnerving stillness.
“Ghost, this is Ash.” Rowan makes the introduction. “Ash, this is Eli, but everyone calls him Ghost. He runs the front of the house.”
Ghost moves around the desk with unconscious grace. Unlike Saint’s obvious Alpha presence, a distinct lack of scent comes from Ghost, speaking of heavy suppressant use, far outside the recommended daily dosage. Interesting.
“You have experience with security systems?” Ghost asks, the quiet delivery forcing everyone to listen.
“Yes.” I resist the urge to elaborate.
Ghost sets his inventory sheet on the shelf. “We’ve had issues with the back entrance. The keypad gets stuck.”
My professional interest overrides my caution. “Show me.”
Rowan motions for him to do so and takes a seat at the table Saint abandoned earlier, Saint joining him.
As Ghost leads me through the building, I take in our surroundings, attention sliding from décor to function. I clock the extra exits first, then the doors reinforced beneath decorative trim, and the way sound drops off too fast once we leave the main room, the air swallowing footsteps before they can travel.
My attention tracks hardware instead of décor. Panic buttons set flush into tabletops and locks appearing standard at first glance but revealing custom modifications to anyone who knows where to search.
This is no simple bar. It’s a fortress, and Rowan owns all of it.
I’ve spent years patching together small pockets of safety, but walking through here, I understand the difference money can make, and what unsettles meisn’t the scale of it. It’s how easy it would be to stop struggling alone.
