Veil of Secrets (Crimson Crowns #3)

Prologue – Elara

The bass doesn’t stop. It pounds like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the cage floor and into the soles of my boots. Sweat beads at my spine, trailing down in lines I’ve stopped wiping off hours ago. Smoke coils from cheap cigars, cologne chokes what’s left of breathable space, and the crowd underneath boils with drunken noise.

It smells like a locker room and a lie. I’m used to it.

Up here, above the chaos, I keep moving. I shift with the rhythm—not graceful, not seductive, not for them. My body does what it needs to, because if I stop, I’ll think. And thinking leads places I don’t want to go.

Some nights, I forget this cage is real metal. But tonight, the rust is flaking off the bars like old scabs, and the chain holding me up from the ceiling creaks with every turn I make.

They call this place The Cage because they think it’s clever. They think the irony is fun. What they don’t get is, I’m not trapped. I work the cage because it’s the only place I’m not pretending. Up here, no one touches me. I get to move without someone trying to own me.

Below, men bark and laugh, spilling beer and slapping backs. One of them throws a folded twenty at the bars. It misses, lands on the floor near another guy’s boot.

“Hey sweetheart!” he shouts. “Show us what you’re hiding!”

I stop. Turn just enough to see him. He’s in a jersey two sizes too tight, his belly fighting for air. His face is red, drunk red, the kind that comes with too much ego and not enough shame.

I lean forward slightly, mutter low enough for the mic not to catch.

“A bad attitude and a solid right hook. Want a closer look?”

His friends howl. He doesn’t laugh. Just narrows his eyes and lifts his middle finger.

I spin back around, grab the pole behind me, and keep moving. The cage swings a little, and I shift with it, a familiar rhythm.

These people don’t come here for talent. They want bodies. Something to drool over while their wives are home asleep. I’ve seen the same hands reach out every night, the same mouths stretch into open-mouthed grins like it’s the first pair of legs they’ve ever seen.

They don’t remember my face. Just my thighs. That’s fine. Makes it easier when I picture kicking them in the teeth.

But then—something shifts.

I don’t hear him come in. No shout, no whistle, no sloppy swagger. Just presence. Like a needle dragging across vinyl.

I scan the floor again, just a beat longer this time.

There. Near the edge of the crowd, but not in it. Leaning against a support beam like he’s part of the structure. Arms crossed. No drink. No phone. Just watching.

Black shirt. Dark eyes. Clean jawline. Still.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

I keep going, but my stomach tugs. It’s not nerves. It’s not fear either. It’s… assessment. That kind of stillness? It doesn’t belong in here.

He’s not drunk. And he’s not looking at my ass. He’s looking at me.

My hands shift slower on the pole. Not on purpose. Just enough for my brain to start cataloging exits again. He hasn’t done anything. But he doesn’t need to.

Guys like that don’t yell. They don’t need to throw twenties or threats. They walk into rooms and the heat rearranges itself.

That kind of attention? That’s the kind that follows you home.

But I don’t stop. I never stop. Not when it gets weird, not when it gets hard. That’s when you lean in, because quitting tells people exactly where your cracks are.

My body slides along the bar, thighs tight, back arched just enough to make the drunk ones whistle. I don’t move for them. I move because it’s the only time I don’t feel like I’m being chased.

The cage groans when I shift weight again. I plant a boot against one of the lower bars and push myself up to stand on the beam. The higher I go, the less they can see, and the more I can think.

The guy’s still down there. Watching. No drink. No lean. Just there.

He’s not crowd. He’s not casino trash. He’s someone who doesn’t wait in line.

And that’s a problem.

My chest tightens in warning. Not panic. Not yet. But my eyes trace the way back down—the angle I’ll drop if I have to jump, the muscle groups I’ll need if someone tries to unhook the chain holding this box in the sky.

I’ve danced through worse. I’ve danced while bruises bloomed and blood soaked through tights. Tonight isn’t special. But that guy down there?

He just made it feel like it is.

And I hate that.

I twist down into a crouch, muscles burning as I slide, then hook the bar with my arm. Let the cage sway again. The rust scrapes against my palm.

That cage might be rusted, but it’s still mine. I don’t care who’s watching.

Except maybe I do.

The song ends without warning. Not a clean fade—just a messy cut and a burst of static that crackles through the speakers before the next track stumbles in. Typical for this dump. The crowd howls for more, some chant my name. Others just yell words they wouldn’t say to their sisters.

I grip the bars, breath coming fast, heartbeat slowing but not settling. The chain above grinds as the cage jerks downward, lowering me like a prize on a hook. Sweat cools against my skin, and I resist the urge to wipe it off my chest. Let them see it. Let them remember I don’t sparkle—I drip.

The cage hits the floor with a heavy thud. My boots clang against the metal. The bouncer nearby doesn’t even look up. He knows better than to offer a hand.

I step out. The crowd doesn’t part for me, but they shift enough. Just enough to remind me they’re always watching.

I pass the bar. No one touches me. They know not to.

I pull the towel from my waistband and swipe it over my shoulders, then down my cleavage. Glitter smears. Sweat sticks. I tug the chain around my neck—an old padlock dangling at the center, rusted and long since broken. It’s not jewelry. It’s not fashion. It’s a reminder. Of what got locked up and what didn’t survive.

My fingers tighten around it.

Tommy’s voice echoes in the back of my head. Not loud, not booming—just there.

“Don’t act like you’re better than me. You dance because I made you worth watching.”

His hands come next. Rough. Controlling. Always right where I didn’t want them. I remember the bruise he left under my ribs the last time I tried to quit. I still can’t stretch too far on my left side without feeling it pinch.

I suck in a breath and drop the towel behind the bar.

Then I look up.

He’s still there.

Same place. Same posture. Not threatening. Not lazy either. Just… patient.

That stare. It’s not about lust. I’ve had men stare at me like I was dinner. His stare isn’t like that.

It’s worse.

He’s trying to figure something out.

And that? That’s dangerous.

The last guy who looked at me like I was his answer broke two of my ribs and said it was love. I don’t need another savior with fists.

I look away.

Keep walking.

Own the ground the way I own the cage.

But his stare clings to my back like wet fabric, dragging against every step. I push through the narrow hallway leading toward the back lounge, past a couple of newbies giggling near the dressing curtain. One of them is missing a heel and trying to hop on one foot. I don’t stop to help.

“Ricci,” a voice calls. Not loud.

I glance over. It’s Carter, the bartender. Bald, tatted, mean to everyone but the girls.

He’s talking to that guy.

“That’s Elara Ricci,” Carter says, polishing a glass. “Survived Tommy Lucetti. Been dancing here ever since.”

I don’t stop moving, but I hear that guy’s answer clear as day.

“She’s tougher than she looks.”

No reaction from Carter. He knows it’s true.

I reach the curtain and yank it aside. Halfway through, I pause. Something prickles down my spine. Not fear. Not nerves. Just that sense again—that stillness doesn’t belong in this place.

I turn around.

He hasn’t moved. Still staring.

I march back two steps, just far enough to let him hear me.

“You planning to buy a drink,” I say, “or just keep staring like a creep?”

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t smirk.

Just nods once.

Like he’s decided something.

Whatever it is, it’s not my problem.

But something about him feels like the beginning of a problem.

And I’ve had enough of those.