Chapter 003 Eyes in the Crowd
I sat on the cracked vinyl stool in the dressing room, legs crossed, robe pulled tight around me like it could hide anything. The cleaning crew had already come and gone, leaving the air thick with bleach and stale smoke. Morning light leaked through the high, barred window, thin and gray. Three days since that man in the military uniform walked in, asked for a private dance, and then just… left. No lap dance. No grope. No cash rain. Just those eyes on me, dark and unreadable, and a scent that hit me like a fist to the sternum—chocolate, bergamot, cayenne. Warm, sharp, alive.
My wolf had gone still inside me. Not submissive-still. Not scared-still. Just… waiting.
MATE.
The word still sat in my chest like a live coal. I hadn’t slept much since. Every time I closed my eyes I felt his gaze again, felt the way the air changed when he was near. I hated it. Hated that my body responded to him at all. Hated that after three years of Waylon’s hands, Waylon’s teeth, Waylon’s voice in my head, some stranger could walk in and make my wolf sit up and pant.
Waylon had been gone two days. Some pack business up north. No “special requests.” No late-night summons to his penthouse. My shoulders weren’t locked up for once. My knee only throbbed instead of screamed. I could almost pretend I was a person again.
Almost.
I touched the bruise on my thigh—yellow now, fading. Waylon’s fingerprints. Always fingerprints. My wolf whined, low and pathetic. She hated them too, but she’d learned the same lesson I had: fight and it gets worse.
The door opened without a knock. A witch—clipboard, bored eyes, dark hair pulled back so tight her face looked stretched—stood there.
“Sloane. Spa. Now.”
I stood. The robe slipped a little; I yanked it closed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re not special, Sloane,” she said, same line they all used. “Remember that.”
I followed her down the hall, bare feet cold on the concrete. For one stupid second I pictured bolting—hitting the emergency exit, running into the parking lot, just keeping going until the city swallowed me. My wolf perked up, ears forward. Then I remembered the tracker spell Darlene had whispered into my skin two years ago. I remembered the last girl who tried. They found her in pieces outside Lubbock.
Freedom wasn’t a door. It was a grave.
The spa rooms smelled like eucalyptus and chemicals. Clinical. Cold. Aria was already waiting, red nails tapping the counter. Junior witch, maybe twenty-two, pretty in a sharp way. She hated me most days. Today looked like one of those.
“On the table,” she said.
I dropped the robe and lay face-up on the padded bench. Naked. Always naked here. The redheaded shifter assistant—quiet one, freckles—handed Aria the trimmer without meeting my eyes.
Aria started between my legs, none too gentle. The buzz was loud in the quiet room. She pressed harder than she needed to.
“Hold still.”
I stared at the ceiling tile with the water stain shaped like a wolf’s head. Focused on breathing. In, out. Don’t flinch. Don’t give her the satisfaction.
“Girls upstairs are pissed,” Aria said conversationally. “You get the big tips on finale night. You get the private requests. Some of us have to work the floor like regular whores.”
I didn’t answer. Answering never helped.
She switched to the moisture treatment—cold gel spread everywhere, clinical fingers probing. My skin crawled. My wolf curled tight, tail over nose.
“But I get it,” Aria went on. “I know what it’s like having a man who owns you.”
Her voice softened, just a hair. The redhead glanced up, then away fast. I didn’t know if Aria meant Waylon or someone else. Didn’t matter. Ownership was ownership.
Steam room next. I sat alone on the cedar bench, sweat rolling down my spine, knee throbbing in the heat. The air tasted metallic. My mind drifted back to Juilliard—wood floors, rosin, the ache in my arches that used to feel earned. Not this ache. Not the one that never went away because Waylon had stomped on my knee until the ligaments snapped like old guitar strings.
Classical ballet was gone forever. This was what I had instead.
Blowout. Makeup. The makeup witch painted me like a doll—smoky eyes, red mouth, contour sharp enough to cut. My hair fell in dark waves down my back. When they finished I looked expensive. Polished. Breakable.
Back in the dressing room I pulled on the finale costume: black lace bralette, matching thong, thigh-high stockings with the seam up the back. Heels I could barely walk in, let alone dance. I stood in front of the full-length mirror.
The girl looking back wasn’t Sloane Lawson anymore. She was Krueger’s favorite. His pet. His investment.
I touched the glass. My reflection didn’t touch back.
Showtime.
The wings smelled like fog machine and desperation. The DJ—Kenny’s cousin—cued my music: slow, grinding bass, heavy synth. Friday night finale. The house was packed. I could hear them through the curtain—drunk, loud, money ready.
I stepped out.
Lights hit me hot and white. The pole was cool under my palms. I started slow—hips rolling, back arched, hair swinging. Crowd noise rose. Bills started raining early. I hooked a leg around the pole, spun, dropped low. My knee protested but held.
I scanned faces out of habit. Looking for Waylon’s blond hair, his shark smile. He wasn’t here. Good.
Then I saw him.
Back row, shadows, arms folded. Tall. Broad. Same dark eyes. Same scent cutting through the smoke and sweat and cheap cologne—chocolate, bergamot, cayenne. Strong enough that my wolf surged forward, claws scrabbling inside my ribs.
MATE.
He was watching me. Not leering. Not cheering. Just… watching. Intense. Like he was memorizing every move.
My hands shook on the pole. I almost missed the next spin.
Don’t fuck this up. You get one chance.
I reached behind my back and unhooked the bralette. Let it fall. The crowd roared. More bills. I dropped to my knees—careful, slow, pain shooting up my left leg—and crawled forward on the stage, back arched, breasts swaying. I cupped them, squeezed, thumbs brushing nipples, eyes locked on him the whole time.
His eyes flared gold for a split second. Wolf eyes. Then back to brown. His jaw was tight. Hands clenched on his biceps.
I bent at the waist, ass to the crowd, face toward him. Spread my knees wider. Ran my hands down my thighs, up again, fingers teasing the edge of the thong. The bass throbbed in my bones. My heart hammered harder.
He didn’t blink.
The song crested. I climbed the pole one last time, inverted, legs split, hair hanging. Dropped into a final split that made my knee scream. The lights cut to strobes. Money carpeted the stage.
I stood, chest heaving, and met his eyes again across the room. Just for a second. Long enough.
Then the lights went black.
Backstage hallway was cooler. Kenny was waiting, big arms folded, envelope thick with cash in one hand.
“Good take tonight, princess.”
I took the envelope without counting. My legs shook. Not from the dance.
Darlene appeared from the office doorway, cigarette dangling unlit. Human. Older. Tired eyes.
“Midnight,” she said. “Champagne room. Big spender. Waylon booked it personal.”
My stomach dropped.
“He’s still out of town,” I said. Voice small.
Darlene shrugged. “He’ll know if you don’t deliver. You know how he is.”
I nodded. Swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
Kenny started walking me toward the dressing room. I followed on autopilot, envelope clutched to my chest like armor.
Inside, I shut the door and leaned against it.
My wolf paced now. Not whining. Not hiding.
Teeth bared.
For the first time in three years, she looked ready to bite.