by Elaina Jadin
A middle-aged couple, a man and a woman who look excited, but also a little nervous, have taken the vacated seats. They’re likely here to rev up their bedroom time with this voyeuristic foreplay. They’re adorable, the way they keep checking in with one another, reassuring each other that they’re having fun. I’ll give them a good show.
Letting my gaze skim across the room, my eyes land on a person entering the club—a man with broad shoulders and devastatingly good looks, the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. I only have a few seconds to drink him in, to observe his quiet, commanding presence, before my music starts. Still, my fingers itch with the need to record his face in my sketchbook.
I close my eyes and reach for the pole behind me. Showtime.
As I begin dancing, I let the club fall away.
The noise and movement of the dozens of bodies packed into the room disappear as I focus on the handsome stranger. It’s easier this way sometimes—to pretend you’re dancing for someone you care about. Someone you desire. It adds chemistry to your moves, and the audience rewards you for it.
My eyes are glued to him as he moves through the room with ease, the crowd parting for him. The chorus of the song kicks in and I begin my routine, climbing the pole, swinging around it on the way down. With every turn, I look for him again—and spot him settling in at a dimly lit booth towards the back. He’s the reason my head swims and my heart races, not the fast spins I perform on the pole.
He looks around, taking it all in as if he owns everything and everyone in sight, his arm lying casually along the back of the booth with a relaxed confidence. Even the way he holds his tumbler, sipping dark liquid with a calculated calmness, oozes power. Dominance. Control.
He looks at me once, watching for a brief moment as I slowly pull off the chemise. Then he dismisses me and turns away, engaging in a conversation with someone hidden in the shadows.
It pisses me off—being ignored. Who comes to a place like this and doesn’t watch the show?
My anger makes me try harder. I’m determined to get his attention. I’ll make him forget about whoever he’s talking to, and focus those savage, dark eyes only on me.
Dancing almost never turns me on anymore. It fed my exhibitionist fantasies a little the first few times, but the novelty quickly wore off. This time, I feel myself getting hot. I think about his eyes on me, his hands ghosting over my thighs, barely controlling himself to obey the club’s no touching policy. I want to make him break the rules.
I spin around, letting my bra slip off in a teasing way, coyly hiding my breasts behind my arms, and I glance over to him, and my heart stops.
My efforts have been successful. He’s watching me with such an intense focus that I almost forget to keep dancing. I expected to feel triumphant when I finally captured his attention, but instead, a spike of terror stabs through me.
This man is more than powerful.
I know he’s dangerous the same way a rabbit instinctively knows a wolf is dangerous.
But it’s not only fear coursing through me. The dread his gaze inflicts upon me sends a cold chill down my spine, but at the same time it heats me up from my core, turning my blood to fire.
He’s a predator, and I’m his prey. But here, like this, he can’t touch me. He’s aimed at me like a gun, loaded and dangerous—but the safety’s on, and the trigger can’t be pulled no matter how hard he squeezes, not here at the club. No matter how much I want him to explode.
The song winds to a close and I scoop up the money from the stage, knowing it’s much more than thirty dollars this time. Bryan wanted my best performance and he certainly got it. I got the crowd stirred up and needy.
If I go back out to work the floor, I bet even a few of the college kids might cough up the money for a private dance, something they rarely do. And I know that couple is waiting for me to come out, too. After doing this for so long, I can always tell. The wife wants to ask me for a lap dance so her husband can watch me grind on her, and later they’ll both think of me as they kiss and touch.
When I sit back down at my dressing table, a text from Bryan is waiting for me.
Good girl.
There’s no thank you for the show, no I’ll see you at home, no sweet sentiments of love. Just detached praise for his dancing monkey.
I really hope his short words of approval mean that if his business doesn’t work out, he won’t blame me. I did exactly what he asked of me, yet again.
Pushing thoughts of Bryan out of my mind, I retrieve my sketchbook. I need to draw the mysterious man’s face, to create a tangible image of him to go with the swirl of emotions he inspired inside me. All I have is a shitty ballpoint pen, but it’ll have to do. Harsh lines of black ink bleed into the thin paper, his face half covered in shadow.
It only takes a few minutes before I’m done, and his visage is staring at me. Somehow, I’ve captured his presence enough to make me uneasy.
I rip the page out of my sketchbook and fold it in half over and over until it’s a small square, as though each hard crease has the power to cut through the fear he provoked. The gesture does nothing to stop my hands from trembling, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away.
I consider going out to work the main room for a while and letting the middle-aged couple shyly approach me. I could take them by the hand and lead them to the private room where they’d hand over their credit card. I could spend an hour dancing for them, showing them every piece of my body while earning good money for it. The two of them would get so worked up while watching me that they’d be desperate for each other. They’d leave hand-in-hand, happy and full of lust, their marriage saved for another week or two.
Instead, I get dressed in my regular clothes and gather my things. I tuck the sketch into my pocket, and quietly slip out the rear exit, texting Mack that I’m done for the night. I know if I go back out there, I’ll be entering his territory—the beast sitting at the back of the room.
It’s his domain tonight. If I let myself within reach, I know his fierce grip would close around my neck like a savage seeking a taste of my flesh, and there would be no sanctuary.
That’s exactly why I need to leave—because of how much I want that.
4
Draven
Lucky Devils isn’t one of my usual establishments, but Bryan suggested it for our meeting, and I need to keep our dealings out of sight of the rest of the pack, so I grudgingly agreed to the location. Bryan has really pissed off a few of my boys, and if he tried to set foot in our building, they’d likely kill him before he ever made it to my office.
Since he prefers his blood to stay in his veins, he wants to work out a deal.
I doubt he has much he can offer to pay off his substantial debt, but I’m willing to humor him, for now. If I don’t like the deal, I’ll let the boys hunt him down. No one gets away with losing a damn cent of our money without bleeding for it.
A dancer steps onto the stage as I walk past the bouncer. She’s gorgeous, but a distraction. A quick sniff of the stale air and I head toward the tables along the back wall—Bryan’s scent is obvious even in this den of soured sweat and alcohol. It’s a distinct scent of fear mixed with a layer of smug arrogance.
“Draven,” he greets me, sliding out of the booth and offering me his hand.
I ignore it and sit down, the fake leather of the seat creaking under me. Bryan’s confident smile falters for a moment before he waves his hand at the bar. By the time he slides back into the booth, a scantily clad waitress is at the table batting her eyelashes and asking for our drink preferences. She ignores Bryan in favor of me, smelling money like a bloodhound.
“Your best whiskey, straight up,” I say, drumming my fingers on the table. “Macallan, if you have it.”
Bryan orders a rum, hesitating before deciding to take it straight. I let out a quiet snort—the idiot wants to feel equal to me. That’s something that will never happen.
When the woman leaves, she ignores his irritated stare and brushes ag
ainst my arm with a coy look. I shoot her a warning glance and she pulls her hand away with a frown before disappearing behind the bar.
I scan the room again, my senses picking up the scents of the different patrons in the building, and my gaze locks onto the dancer on the stage again. Her eyes meet mine across the club and the world drops away. She has a stunning body and a beautiful face, but it’s the way she moves that keeps me looking.
She’s graceful, her body toned from the dancing, confident in those five-inch heels and scraps of black fabric that are supposed to pass for a thong and bra. And there’s a haunted look in her eyes that makes the wolf inside me snarl.
The hairs on my neck raise as I watch her.
She’s innocent, yet damaged—the perfect prey to single out and devour. I run my tongue across my bottom lip, already craving a taste of her. I need to know if she’s as delectable as she looks.
I rip my eyes away from her and listen to Bryan talking again, some inane shit that I don’t care about. Our drinks have arrived, and I watch Bryan try to play it cool while he takes a sip of the dark spiced rum. I can smell how cheap it is from across the table.
Who the fuck drinks spiced rum straight? The grimace he can’t hide when the potent liquid hits his tongue confirms my suspicion—that it must be like drinking lit gasoline.
“Let’s cut the shit, Bryan.” I time it just as he swallows, giving me the satisfaction of watching him nearly choke. “You owe the Barons fifty large. Money we loaned you for your little investments because you said they were sure bets. Now, do you have the money or am I taking the payment in blood?”
He winces as he swallows another sip of the god-awful rum and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. A second later, he squares his shoulders, trying to look confident again, like he’s got everything settled. Like he’s a big man and worth my time. I’m struggling to remember why the hell I’m entertaining this meeting.
Bryan’s a low-level hustler trying to pretend like he’s going places, but he’s a joke. We took a chance on him, but it’s become hideously clear that he’s got shitty ideas and even worse instincts when it comes to business. He’ll never be anything more than a shady bookie taking bets on underground fights.
His nose flares with nervousness as he works up the courage to make eye contact. “Actually, I’m asking for more money. Same as what you gave me before, but not as a loan this time.”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s trying to be funny or if he’s just the dumbest motherfucker to ever cross my path. Bryan breaks out in a sweat under my steely gaze and the stench of his anxiety permeates my senses.
A snarl forms on my lips. “Tell me why I shouldn’t rip your throat out right now.”
“Because I have a trade—I’ll give you Prudence.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”
“Her,” he says quickly, jerking his head toward the dancer on stage, “in exchange for the new funds and my old debt being cleared.”
A growl rises from my throat and he shifts nervously in his seat, his eyes going wide at the sound. “We don’t deal in human trafficking.”
He holds his hands up, placating me. “No, that’s not what I’m suggesting. She’s for you. And your guys.”
I can’t help the twisted amusement that curls my lips. This asshole is one delightful surprise after another. I’m going to enjoy killing him, nice and slow. “Do I look like I need to pay for goddamn strippers to warm my bed at night?”
“No, no, of course not. But…” Bryan glances at her again, then chews his lips as he looks back to me. “I know about your, uh… tastes. And her? She’d enjoy it. She’s fucked up, you see? I’m the only thing she has in this world, she’s that messed up. But she needs a rough hand—craves it in fact.”
My eyes slowly go back to the dancer and I finally take a sip of my drink. My nose wrinkles as the harsh burn of cheap whiskey coats my tongue. Not what I ordered. But this fucking club probably doesn’t know the difference between Macallan and cat piss.
“She’ll want it,” he promises. “And she’s good, too. Loves to take whatever you can give her. She can’t even get off unless I’m hurting her. I’m telling you, she’s worth it.”
I raise an eyebrow at that. This man is fucking vile. He has no honor or morals. He’s trying to sell me some unfortunate soul because he thinks I like to slap women around?
I wonder if he’d be as willing to offer her if he knew how depraved I really am. Something tells me that he’d be eager to trade his own mother if it’d save his throat from being slashed.
His grin is hideous, as though he’s a goddamn genius for coming up with this idea, and I want to rip it from his face. Fuck, I hate dealing with men like this. But Bishop suggested I hear Bryan out, and only an idiot ignores Bishop.
I move my gaze back to the stage, bringing the tumbler of cheap whiskey to my mouth once more. She’s looking at me again as she rolls her spine, her slender body curling through the air, teasing me. It’s as if she’s putting on this dance just for me, as though there isn’t an entire room between my table and the stage. As though there aren’t people sitting between us, throwing money at her.
Her dark hair falls down around her shoulders, framing her innocent face and those haunting eyes in a way that’s too damn tempting. She’s teasing me, not knowing the danger she’s inviting into her life.
She slides her bra off, turning her back to me, hiding the view of her bare breasts. Then she slowly saunters around the stage, drawing it out, making my body react to her. When she leans against the pole and slides down to the floor, her arms hugging her chest, she captures my eyes again.
With a sensual roll of her shoulders, she lifts her hands away from her breasts, letting me have a good look. Then she does a slow, sexy crawl onto all fours and tosses her hair wildly before sitting on the stage, scissoring her legs gracefully into the air, her gaze fixed on me as though no one else exists. As though I’m the only one who can see her, and fuck—I can smell her excitement at having my eyes on her, and my body instinctively responds, the front of my slacks becoming tight.
The song comes to its end, and with a few more teasing sways of her hips, she finishes her dance. I watch her collect the money she’s earned, her eyes still darting to mine with every stray bill she picks up. And then, she’s gone, slipping through the heavy black curtain at the rear of the stage, like a black void has swallowed her whole.
With her exit goes my patience for being in this club. I turn back to Bryan. He’s noticed my interest and has a smug look plastered on his face. A surge of annoyance bristles through me, but I keep it at bay.
“She has to consent to the agreement,” I tell him.
My gaze bores into him as I drive the words home, trying to resist the urge to end him right here. It would be so satisfying to feel the life drain from his body. No one would miss him. I bet not even the beautiful, damaged soul he’s selling me in exchange for mercy would care if he didn’t make it home tonight.
He nods eagerly. “Of course.”
“And you have to bring her to the building yourself.”
“Done.” He holds out his hand again, eager to confirm the deal with a zealous shake.
Once again, I ignore him. I down the whiskey in one gulp and toss a fifty on the table. “Tomorrow,” I tell him as I stand, ready to have his pathetic face out of my sight.
Kade will be waiting for me out front with the car. This isn’t the only business I have to conduct this evening, and I need to get the fuck out of this club before I hunt her down and start the trade tonight.
For once, Bryan seems to have the good sense not to say anything, and raises his rum in a salute before knocking it back with another grimace.
I retrace my steps back to the entrance and pause before stepping past the bouncer. He’s a big man with an imposing frame, but he’s also fully human. He eyes me as if he doesn’t trust me. He’s smart not to, but he can rest easy on this visit. It looks like I don’t need to spill
any blood here tonight. I glance back at the empty stage and pull out a crisp hundred and a twenty.
“Make sure this gets to Prudence,” I tell him. “Keep the twenty for your assistance.”
He takes it from me, his expression still suspicious. I stare back at him calmly, meeting his gaze for the challenge it is. I didn’t make it to the top of the Baron wolf pack on kind words and good deeds—I would kick this bouncer’s ass without breaking a sweat.
The primordial part of his brain seems to finally kick in as he realizes I’m not someone he wants to fuck with. He gives me a nod and pockets the twenty, stepping back to let me pass.
Kade’s already got the black BMW pulled up and waiting, as expected. I slide into the front seat, slamming the door, and he peels out of the parking lot, the red neon light of the Lucky Devils’ sign flickering in the side mirror as we make our exit.
“So?” My second-in-command asks even before we’re out of the parking lot.
Kade isn’t patient like Bishop. Then again, Kade isn’t a sociopath. Kade is fury incarnate, a berserker. He has no time for hesitation, for waiting, for calculation. He takes exactly what he wants, and the more bodies that fall on the way to his desire, the better.
I run my tongue over my sharp canines, considering how to answer. “He offered a trade, and I was inclined to accept.”
The leather of the steering wheel creaks under Kade’s grip, and he glances at me before looking back at the road.
“A trade worth fifty g’s?” He sounds skeptical, and I don’t blame him.
“Now it’s double. A hundred grand.”
His voice goes up two octaves and without even looking at him, I can tell Kade’s eyebrows are about to shoot right off his forehead. “What the fuck could a street level hustler offer us worth that much?”
