Chapter 3 #2
They did the moisture treatment next, wrapping my head in hot towels and leaving me to stew under the heater for what felt like hours.
I stared at the floor, at my own bare feet and the pink-painted toes.
Every little thing about this place was meant to make you feel like a princess.
Every little thing made me want to peel off my skin and start over.
When they finally unwrapped me, Aria took over. She did the cuticle trim with the same skill she used to mix drinks—quick, efficient, and barely looking at what she was doing. “Any special plans tonight?” She said, voice like a plastic smile.
“Just the usual. Maybe a couple of VIP sets.”
She made a face, just a flicker, then dug the trimmer a little deeper than necessary. I didn’t flinch. I’d learned better.
“You know,” she said, leaning in so close I could smell the sweet rot of her lipstick, “the other girls talk about you.”
I didn’t respond. I already knew what they said. Princess. Whore. The one who gets her own room because the boss can’t keep his hands off her. I’d heard every version.
“They think you’re better than them,” she went on, voice low. “But I know what it’s like having a man who owns you.”
She smiled, showing the edges of her teeth. I wondered what they’d look like if she ever let her wolf out. I wondered if mine even remembered how.
Aria finished the manicure in silence, then ordered me into a steam cabinet for “pores and relaxation.” She locked the wooden shell around my body, with only my head sticking out like a cartoon.
The heat pressed in, baking my skin, and for a second I almost understood why people liked this.
If you breathed deep enough, you could pretend it was just water and air, nothing else.
But my mind didn’t let me rest. It wandered, like it always did, back to the night my father called me into his office and told me about the debt.
He’d acted like he was doing me a favor, like giving me to Waylon was the only way to save what was left of our family.
I hadn’t even fought. Not really. I’d gone to the first meeting, let Waylon look me over like a cattle auctioneer, signed the “employment contract” without reading the fine print.
The worst part wasn’t the dancing. I could handle that, even liked it, sometimes, when the crowd went quiet and I could pretend I wasn’t naked.
The worst part was the extra duties, the “special performances” in the VIP rooms, the expectation that my body was just another part of the show.
I learned quick: when the Alpha said jump, you asked how high.
Waylon never forced me to mate him, not officially.
He didn’t want the mess that came with a bond.
He wanted me compliant, pretty, and empty.
He used alpha command sparingly, just enough to remind my wolf who owned her.
Sometimes he’d look at me across the room, narrow his eyes, and I’d feel a sick warmth bloom in my belly, my limbs turning to water.
I hated it. I hated how my body obeyed even when my mind screamed no.
I hated the way I’d started to crave it.
The steam timer dinged, and the cabinet opened.
Aria’s assistant handed me a robe and led me to the next station: blowout, makeup, and costume.
We passed the break room where the other dancers clustered around a table, all heads turning as I walked by.
Their eyes flickered with something mean and hungry, like hyenas watching a gazelle limp past. One of them, a tiny shifter with a scar down her cheek, muttered, “Here comes the Queen.” Another snickered. I didn’t dignify it with a look.
The makeup artist was a witch too, and she painted my face like she was prepping a mannequin: foundation, contour, lashes, lips.
Not a word passed between us, and when she was done, she spun my chair to face the mirror.
I didn’t recognize the girl who looked back—a doll with perfect skin, lips the color of ripe strawberries, eyes rimmed in blue glitter.
“Knock ‘em dead, honey,” the witch said, and spun me right back to the hallway.
I wanted to cry, but I’d lost the ability years ago. I hunched my shoulders, fixed my gaze on the floor, and padded barefoot back to my dressing room.
Inside, I found the costume for the night’s finale hanging on the door. Black mesh, studded with crystals, and a G-string so thin it might as well not exist. I changed in silence, fingers trembling as I adjusted the straps, then stood in front of the vanity and tried to remember how to smile.
For a second, I almost managed it.
I checked the clock. Thirty minutes until curtain. I sat at my vanity and stared at my reflection, searching for the girl I used to be. The one who dreamed of Paris and Broadway, who believed in mates and fate and happy endings.
She was gone.
All that was left was this: a body, perfected and prepared for auction, a voice that only mattered if it whispered “yes, Alpha.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth and tasted blood.
The wolf in me whimpered, but she stayed silent.
She knew better.
When it came time for the final set, I was so tired I thought my knees might buckle before I made it to the stage.
But you don’t get to be Waylon’s number one without learning how to fake it: how to move like your bones are made of champagne, how to arch your back just right so the crowd loses its mind, how to sell pleasure when all you want is oblivion.
I padded down the blue-lit hallway, mesh costume biting into my skin.
Every heel-click echoed off the tile like a countdown to something.
I reached the wings and stood waiting for my cue, listening to the DJ shout my stage name into the roar of a Friday night crowd.
It was packed—wall to wall bodies, sweat, and noise, the stink of beer mixing with perfume and old lust. The air hit my bare arms like a slap.
“Showtime,” I whispered to myself, and stepped into the light.
The glare of the spotlights burned away the world for a second.
Then the crowd snapped into focus: dozens of faces, most of them leering or hungry, all of them trained on the body I was about to turn inside out for their entertainment.
I took my place by the pole, smiled like my life depended on it, and let the music take over.
First twirl: slow and easy, hair flying, one leg hooked high to show off the mesh and the glitter.
Money rained down almost immediately, dollar bills and twenties and even a couple of fifties, all of them just paper and sweat.
The DJ had picked something sultry, bass-thumping, the kind of song you could get lost in if you didn’t care who was watching.
I cared. Because tonight, someone was.
Halfway through my first rotation, I caught it: a flash of blue-black, a familiar silhouette in the far back corner, just outside the reach of the strobe. My heart lurched, and for a second I lost the beat. Jess. He was here, and every nerve ending in my body snapped to full alert.
Don’t fuck this up, I told myself. You get one chance.
I locked my eyes to the mirror behind the bar, used it to scan the crowd while I danced.
He hadn’t moved, but I could feel him watching—so intense it made the air crackle.
He wore a black t-shirt and jeans, nothing flashy, but he stood out like a wolf among sheep: still, patient, dangerous.
The men around him hollered and shouted, but he didn’t even twitch.
He just watched, and it made my skin burn.
I went through the motions—spin, split, drop, arch—every move a reminder that my body wasn’t really mine.
I let the routine take over. At the bridge; I pulled off the top with practiced grace, tossing it to the edge of the stage where it landed on a pile of money.
At the breakdown, I bent at the waist, hands flat on the floor, ass to the crowd.
The room lost its mind. A shower of bills hit my calves and thighs, sticking to the sweat there.
I reached back, grabbed my own flesh, gave it a squeeze.
I looked over my shoulder and caught Jess’s eyes, just for a heartbeat.
They glowed wolf-dark, full of something between anger and longing.
I wanted to run off the stage, wrap myself around him, beg him to take me away from all of this.
Instead, I finished the set. On the last count, I did my signature move: a slow, teasing look over my bare shoulder, then a kiss blown to the darkness.
The crowd howled, men pounding their drinks and girls throwing napkins and cash.
An usher ran to the stage, collecting all the cash.
I bolted for the wings, not daring to look back. My hands shook so hard I wrung them together to try to calm them. I took a detour through the service hallway, where Kenny the bouncer was waiting to walk me back to my room.
“You were on fire tonight, Harper,” he said, grinning his gap-toothed smile. “Waylon’s gonna be proud.”
I forced a smile back. “Thanks, Kenny.” He’d been nice to me, once, when I first started. I remembered how he used to bring me donuts during rehearsal, before Waylon got his hooks all the way in.
The usher moved around us and handed the cash to Kenny.
He walked me down the hall, money in hand, stopping only when we reached my dressing room.
“Darlene wants to see you,” he said, voice dropping. “She’s in the office. Probably about your take.”
“Okay,” I said, fighting the urge to collapse. “Just give me a minute.”
Kenny nodded and left. I closed the door and braced both hands on the vanity. My chest heaved, lungs fighting for air. I stared at the girl in the mirror and tried to remember how to feel anything other than terror and shame.
Jess was here. This time he’d seen everything. He’d watched me sell myself to a crowd of strangers, strip down to my skin and act like it didn’t matter. He got the entire show, saw what I was now—a whore in a pretty package, a wolf with her teeth filed down to nubs.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I pressed them to my face, breathed in the scent of sweat and stage makeup, and tried not to cry.
Someone knocked at the door. I straightened up, wiped my eyes, and put on my best “nothing to see here” face.
Darlene walked in, a stack of envelopes in her hand. She was one of the only humans who worked here, a fifty-something with hair dyed pink and a face like an old cartoon bird. She didn’t like me, but she kept it professional.
“You think if you ignored me I’d go away?” The scowl on her face made her even uglier. I just stared at her. “You’ve got a VIP tonight,” she said, not bothering to hide her disdain. “Big spender. Wants you in the champagne room at midnight. Don’t fuck it up.”
I nodded and gave her an emotionless answer. “Okay.”
She set an envelope on the table. “Waylon’s orders.”
“Is he back?”
Darlene snorted. “Not ‘til tomorrow. But he’ll know if you don’t deliver for the client.” She lingered a second, like she was waiting for me to break down or complain, then rolled her eyes and left.
I slumped in the chair and stared at the clock. Thirty minutes until I had to go out there again, sell myself one more time.
I wondered if Jess was still here. If he’d try to save me, or if he’d just laugh while I burned.
Either way, I had to get through tonight. I smoothed my costume, wiped the runny mascara from under my eyes, and made myself stand up.
The wolf inside me bared her teeth.
I had no choice in the matter. This was my life, my shame through no fault of my own. I’d take the stage like I did almost every night, and I’d own it.