Chapter 34 Theo
THEO
The bass rattles my chest as I transition into the next track, fingers working the mixer while the crowd below me moves like a single organism. Eclipse is heaving tonight—bodies pressed together, the air thick with perfume, cologne, and sweat. Perfect. This is exactly what I need.
Three weeks, four days, and seventeen hours since I walked out of Grind House. Not that I’m counting.
I slide the fader up, letting the new beat build underneath the current track, watching the crowd respond instinctively to the shift in energy. Behind the decks is the one place where everything makes sense, where I’m in complete control.
My phone sits face up next to my equipment. I force my eyes away from it for the hundredth time tonight. Victor’s text from yesterday is still unanswered.
We need to talk. Please.
What’s left to say? Eight months of us, and he couldn’t even call me his... anything.
The transition hits perfectly, and the crowd roars as the new track takes over. I ride the high for exactly thirty-seven seconds before my eyes drift back to the silent phone.
Sloane appears at the edge of the DJ booth, signaling that my relief has arrived for my break. I nod, set up the last track to play through, and slip off my headphones.
“Killing it tonight,” she shouts over the music as I step down. “You okay?”
“Never better,” I lie, the words automatic now.
The VIP lounge offers a brief respite from the pounding music. I collapse onto one of the plush couches, suddenly exhausted. My fingers twitch toward my phone again. I slam it face down on the table instead.
“Theo Winters.”
I look up to find Marcus Reid standing over me, all six-foot-something of him filling the space with quiet confidence.
His dark skin gleams under the soft lighting, and his close-cropped hair accentuates the sharp angles of his face.
He’s wearing a fitted black button-up that stretches appealingly across his broad shoulders.
“Haven’t seen you since the Hunt.” His voice is deep, controlled—everything about him radiates composure.
“Marcus. Working tonight?” I notice the earpiece partially hidden by his collar.
“Just finished. Handing over to the night team.” He gestures to the empty space beside me. “Buy you a drink?”
I should say no. Marcus is uncomplicated in all the ways Victor is not. He knows what he wants and doesn’t hide who he is. That makes him dangerous right now.
“Yes,” I say anyway.
Two drinks later, Marcus’s hand finds mine. “Dance with me.”
It’s not a question, but there’s no demand in it either—just confident invitation. I let him lead me to the VIP dance floor, a smaller, more exclusive version of the main floor downstairs.
The track playing is one of mine—something with a deep, sensual beat designed to pull bodies closer together. Marcus moves with surprising grace for a man his size, his body finding the rhythm effortlessly. His hands rest lightly on my hips, respectful but unmistakably interested.
I close my eyes and try to lose myself in the moment. The music. The warmth of another body. The simplicity of attraction without the complications of shame that, frankly, neither of us should feel.
But my heart isn’t in it.
When I open my eyes, I scan the crowd reflexively, half-expecting to see Victor watching from the shadows with that possessive glare. Ridiculous. He’s never once stepped foot in Eclipse outside of my birthday. Why would he start now?
Marcus pulls me closer, his movements fluid and practiced. “You’re somewhere else tonight,” he murmurs against my ear.
I force a smile, placing my hands on his solid chest. “Just thinking about the next set.”
The lie comes easily. Too easily. Another dance, another partner. I need to prove to myself that I can do this—that Victor Kaine isn’t the only man in Ravenwood worth wanting. That the world didn’t start and end with his touch.
Marcus’s thumb traces a small circle at my hip, and I lean into him, trying to feel something—anything—other than the hollow ache that’s lived in my chest for weeks.
I’ve lost myself in someone who couldn’t even acknowledge me in public. Someone who kept me hidden away while I gave him everything—my body, my time, my heart.
Then I see him.
Victor, standing at the edge of the dance floor, looking completely out of place in this world of strobing lights and electronic beats.
He’s gone rigid, those broad shoulders tense under his black t-shirt.
He’s dressed simply—dark jeans, boots, a leather jacket he hasn’t bothered to check at the door despite the heat of the club.
Our eyes lock across the crowded space.
The jealousy on Victor’s face is unmistakable, all his usual control stripped away.
His jaw clenches, throat working as he swallows.
His fists are balled at his sides, knuckles white with the effort of restraint.
In all our months together, I’ve never seen him this close to losing control entirely, this exposed.
My body reacts before my mind catches up—heart rate accelerating, breath catching. Marcus’s hands are still on my hips, his body still moving against mine, but I’ve gone completely still.
Victor’s eyes drop to those hands, then move back to my face. The muscle in his jaw jumps. There’s something else in his expression too—something beyond the jealousy. Pain. And behind that, a desperation I recognize from the rare moments when he’s allowed his walls to crumble entirely.
“Theo?” Marcus’s voice sounds distant, underwater. “Something wrong?”
I can’t answer. Can’t look away from Victor. Can’t process that he’s actually here, in my club, surrounded by everything he’s been afraid to be associated with.
Standing there. Watching. Making no effort to hide what he’s feeling.
The club continues pulsing around us, hundreds of people dancing, drinking, laughing—oblivious to the silent earthquake happening between Victor and me. Three weeks of emptiness, anger, and hurt converge into this single moment of eye contact.
Victor takes one step forward. Then another. His gaze never leaves mine.
I feel a sudden surge of satisfaction. Spiteful—possibly.
Vindictive—absolutely. The look on Victor’s face—that unguarded pain—mirrors exactly what I’ve been feeling for months.
Now he knows how it feels to watch someone you want with someone else.
Now he understands what it’s like to be on the outside looking in.
Now you know how it feels to be invisible when it matters.
The music pulses around us as Victor takes another step forward. His eyes never leave mine, pleading silently across the crowded dance floor. I deliberately lean closer to Marcus, pressing my body against his solid frame. My lips brush against his ear.
“You know what would really make this night perfect?” I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear me over the music.
Marcus’s eyebrow raises questioningly. I say something ridiculous about expanding Eclipse to include an underwater DJ booth where we could broadcast to passing sharks.
It’s nonsense, but Marcus throws his head back and laughs, his hand sliding from my hip to the small of my back in a gesture of casual intimacy.
Victor’s reaction is immediate and visceral.
His hands clench into tight fists at his sides, the tendons standing out along his forearms. The muscle in his jaw twitches violently.
For a wild second, I think he might actually cross the floor and tear Marcus’s hands off me—claim me publicly the way he’s refused to for eight months.
A group of dancers moves between us, blocking my view. I strain to see past them, my heart in my throat.
The crowd shifts again, laughter and bodies flowing around the space where Victor stood.
He’s gone.
After everything, he still couldn’t stay. Couldn’t fight. Couldn’t face the reality of us in public.
I’d wanted him to hurt, but his absence still feels like losing something essential.
The satisfaction evaporates instantly, leaving only a bitter taste in my mouth. What am I doing? Using Marcus—a decent guy who deserves better—to make Victor jealous? This isn’t me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back from Marcus, creating space between us. “I can’t do this.”
A flash of confusion crosses his face, quickly replaced with understanding. “It’s him, isn’t it? The guy who was watching us.”
“I’m really sorry.” The words feel inadequate. “You deserve someone who’s actually present.”
Marcus nods, no anger in his expression—just resignation. “When you’re ready for someone who isn’t afraid to be seen with you, let me know.”
His words hit harder than any accusation could have. I watch him walk away, disappearing into the crowd with dignified grace.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a message from Sloane about getting back to my set.
Instead, it’s Victor: My place. Now. We need to talk.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keys. The rational part of my brain screams that this is exactly how the cycle continues—Victor demanding, me acquiescing. We’ve been here before. Nothing will change.
Yet my heart races at the message. Is this different? He came to Eclipse. He stood there, exposed in a way I’ve never seen before. But he still left.
I should tell him no. I should demand he come back here, face me in my world if he wants to talk. I should make him work for it after months of being relegated to the shadows.
I should move on.
On my way.
I type instead, pressing send before I can change my mind.
I find Sloane near the bar, explain there’s an emergency, and ask her to cover the rest of my set. Her eyes narrow with suspicion, but she doesn’t press me when she sees my expression.
As I slip through the crowd toward the exit, I know this is probably a mistake. Victor hasn’t changed. I’m walking right back into the same pain I’ve been trying to escape for three weeks.
I go anyway.