There was a time when I was good at being alive. When I wanted things and reached for them without flinching. I wanted a bond. I wanted a pack. I wanted to crawl into bed with an Alpha and offer up every fragile, hungry part of myself because submission felt like breathing when it was done right. The weight of someone's hand on my neck, pushing me down, pulling me apart, putting me back together after. I craved it the way some people crave sugar. It was the most honest thing about me.
But my ex... he found that need, named it, made me believe he was the answer to it, and then he spent the next three yearsturning it into something I couldn't look at anymore. The first time he pinned me down and I said no and his hand stayed where it was, something inside me cracked. By the time I understood what had broken, I was already so deep inside our bond that I couldn't tell the difference between his desires and my own.
He was good at that, making the cage look like a house.
I drain the rest of the whiskey and set the glass down a little harder than necessary. The couple in the next booth glances over and I stare back until they look away. I'm not in the mood to perform politeness for strangers. I'm not in the mood for much of anything except sitting in this dark corner and letting the bass shake the memories loose from whatever wall I've stacked them behind so I can look at them from a safe enough distance that they can't grab me.
Most nights, the distance holds.
Some nights, it doesn't. Those are the ones where I wake up with my pulse hammering in my throat and my hand pressed against the scar on my neck like I'm trying to hold the wound closed even though it healed over a long time ago.
Those are the nights where the room smells like the ghost of Sebastian no matter how many windows I open, where my body is braced for a weight that isn't there anymore, and where the worst part isn't the fear but the grief that sits beneath everything. Because I'm not just dreaming about the man who hurt me. I'm dreaming about the version of myself who walked into that bond willingly, arms open, throat bared, so fucking eager to belong to someone that I didn't notice the teeth were sharper than they should have been.
I miss that version of me sometimes.The one who believed.I also want to punch him in the face for being so goddamn stupid.
The waitress circles back, offering me another glass even as I shake my head. Two is usually the limit on a Thursday. Anymore and I'll end up stumbling home instead of walking, and the walk is part of the ritual. Fifteen minutes of cold air and empty sidewalks between here and my apartment, just enough to convince myself that tomorrow will be different even though it never is.
Then again, I don’t have a shift tomorrow, so who cares? I nod, the waitress chuckling as she slides a glass off her tray.
I reach for my phone to check the time, already calculating how long I need to sit here before it's socially acceptable to leave a club after 10 PM, when someone slides into the booth across from me.
"Hi."
I glance up as hazel-green eyes stare back at me. The Omega’s dark hair is tousled in every direction like he just rolled out of bed or stuck his head out a car window, a wide smile spread across his lips. He's wearing a loose linen shirt that hangs open at the collar, nearly blending into his pale skin, glitter spread on his cheekbones. It’s not even remotely subtle, some part of me leaning toward him because the low light makes his face look like something out of a fever dream.
His scent hits me a half-second later, something warm and sweet, rich in a way that reminds me of something baked and golden. Apple pie, my brain supplies without permission, my cock stiffening against my thigh so fast that I have to shift in my seat to keep the pressure from becoming a problem.
Of course, my first reaction is to distrust the encounter. I frown at him. "Can I help you?"
He grins wider, which I didn't think was possible. "I've been watching you."
My hand tightens around my glass. He must see something shift in my expression because his hands come up fast, waving in front of his chest like he's trying to physically redirect the sentence he just fired at a stranger in a dark club. "No, notcreepy or anything, I promise. I just—fuck, you're gorgeous, and Lorenzo wouldn't let me come talk to you, so I waited until he got busy." The grin turns sheepish, his cheeks flushing pink beneath the glitter. "He'll come snatch me up in a minute."
I stare at him. "What?"
His grin takes over his entire face as he thrusts a hand across the table. "I'm Oliver Hendrix."
I stare at the hand for a beat too long before taking it. His grip is warm, his fingers slim against mine, and that scent curls tighter in my chest as I process the name. "Hendrix," I repeat slowly. "Doesn't that mean you own the club?"
"Guilty." His smile doesn't falter. "And before you ask—yes, I know this is weird. But you've been sitting here alone for the past hour, and you're way too pretty to be drinking by yourself." He pauses, tilts his head, scours the nearby area like he's checking for someone I might be waiting for, then looks back at me. A single earring catches the light on his left ear. "Unless you're not alone? Fuck, I'm trying to proposition you."
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. I'm still trying to figure out if this is real when a shadow falls over the table.
2
Oliver
Five Minutes Ago
Lorenzo is going to kill me.
He's going to give me that look, the one where his jaw goes tight and his eyes narrow just enough that I know I've pushed past the boundary he set, and now I'm going to hear about it for the rest of the night. The look that's worse than being pinned against the office door, because at least when he pins me against the office door, I get something out of it.
He told me to leave the Beta alone.Three separate times.The first was a murmur against my ear while I was restocking the bar, his hand sliding down my back, inches from where I needed it. The second was a flat look across the room when he caught me staring again. The third was his fingers around my wrist, pulling me into the hallway behind the DJ booth with his scent sharpening enough to make my knees want to buckle.
"Oliver. That man came here to be left alone. Let him be."
And I tried. I really did. For almost an entire hour, I kept myself busy, checking inventory, chatting with regulars, and refilling the ice bins that didn't need refilling. But my attention kept drifting back to the booth in the corner where the most gorgeous person I've ever seen in my life was sitting in the dark like he was trying to melt into the leather.
