Chapter 3
The bass line from Foundation thrums through concrete and steel, vibrating up through the soles of my boots as I approach the service entrance.
Red neon bleeds across the pavement, wet from an afternoon drizzle, the club’s name spelled out in letters taller than I am. Cigarette smoke hangs in the rain-laden air, while the dumpsters lining the alley reek of a mixture of sweet alcohol and stale beer.
I punch my code into the staff door. The lock clicks, and I pull it open, stepping into the narrow hallway beyond.
Dim lights and floor-to-ceiling black paint hide the scuffs and stains left by years of abuse. The bass swells, no longer distant, but alive as it crawls into my chest and sets up residence beside my heartbeat.
In the security room, I pop open my locker, strip off my leather jacket, and hang it inside. The long-sleeved black shirt underneath clings to my skin, already damp with sweat from the ride over. I tug the cuffs down to cover my wrists, then slam the locker shut.
Grabbing a walkie-talkie and an earbud from the charging station, I gear up as I head out.
The dance floor opens beyond the security room, and I step through the doorway into the heart of Foundation. Purple and blue lights strobe across bodies packed shoulder to shoulder in a writhing mass.
Sweat, perfume, and the tang of alcohol stick to the back of my throat, while speakers mounted on every wall pump out electronic music that shakes the floor beneath my feet.
A bartender in a tank top pours shots in rapid succession, her movements efficient as she serves a crowd three deep at the bar.
I head for my position near the front entrance, boots sticking to the floor where drinks have already been spilled.
The club’s been open for an hour, and the crowd is building toward peak capacity.
My spot is a corner between the door and the coat check, where I have a clear line of sight on both the new arrivals and the main floor.
Marcus catches sight of me before I reach my post, and he grins, teeth white in the strobing lights.
“Look who finally showed up.” He leans on the wall, arms crossed, and his security shirt stretches tight over his shoulders, the fabric straining at the seams. “Thought maybe you’d gotten delayed by your boyfriend.”
My jaw tightens. “Don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, sorry.” He holds up both hands in mock apology. “Your fanboy, then. Rich Alpha, who shows up every night just to stare at you? That guy?”
Rox joins us, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. She plants a hand on her hip, head tilted.
“Has he asked you out yet?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “I’ve got fifty on him doing it tonight. Marcus thinks he’s gonna wait until the end of the month.”
“The pot is at six hundred, so do me a solid and play hard to get,” Marcus adds.
I take up my position with my back to the wall, plant my feet shoulder-width apart, and cross my arms over my chest. “Not interested.”
“Bullshit.” Rox moves to stand beside me, her shoulder almost touching mine, and I shift away to maintain distance. “Guy brings you gifts every week. Expensive ones. And you ignore him?”
“Yep.”
Marcus laughs, the sound lost in the music but visible in the shake of his shoulders.
He joins us, forming a loose triangle of security staff near the entrance. “That’s cold, Saint. If I had someone bringing me fancy gifts and shit, I’d at least let them blow me.”
My teeth clench, but I don’t respond. A group of young Alphas push through the entrance, and I check for the stamps on their wrists to show they paid at the door.
“He’s hot, too.” Rox elbows Marcus. “Did you see him last week? The jacket he was wearing cost more than my rent.”
“Pretty boys always have money,” Marcus agrees.
Their conversation fades into the background noise. I’ve learned silence ends these speculations faster than arguing ever could.
Once they get bored, they’ll move on.
The crowd ebbs around me under the pulsing lights as I scan for problems. A Beta at the bar is drinking too fast. Two Alphas near the dance floor are posturing, tension coiled tight. A cluster of Omegas near the VIP area are dressed to attract attention.
Sweat dampens my collar despite the industrial fans mounted near the ceiling.
Bodies press close, heat pooling until the air turns as thick as a sauna.
I fight the desire to roll up my sleeves, keeping the fabric anchored at my wrists while the scars beneath prickle and burn, a familiar irritation I’ve learned to dismiss.
When they finally give up, Marcus peels off toward the VIP section, his bulk parting the crowd. Rox does one last sweep of the entrance before leaving me alone at my post.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to check the screen and find a text from Rowan with an address. I save the information and slide the phone back into my pocket.
Gabriel arrives at six-thirty, and I spot him before he clears the entrance.
Six-foot-two of lean muscle wrapped in confidence, with sharp cheekbones that could cut glass and hazel eyes that shift between green and blue under the club lights.
When he moves, it's with the fluid grace of someone who’s never had to question whether he belongs anywhere.
Tonight, he wears designer jeans tailored to hug his slender legs and a leather jacket worn soft at the elbows. His brown hair, styled to appear messy and effortless, catches the strobe lights as he moves, turning the golden strands neon.
He doesn’t wait in line. The doorman recognizes him as a frequent, rich patron and waves him through without checking his ID.
I turn my attention back to the crowd, tracking the drunk Beta who’s graduated from drinking too fast to stumbling into other patrons. My muscles tense, ready to intervene if needed.
I sense Gabriel’s approach as a prickle on my skin, an expensive whiff of cologne mixed with pheromones sliding into my lungs and making themselves at home as if he belongs there.
He stops in my peripheral vision, close enough not to be ignored but not so close as to be considered a threat. Even with his consideration, though, the air hums between us in a way that agitates me.
“Saint,” he calls over the music, warm and familiar, as if we’re friends.
We’re not friends.
I shift, angling my body away from him without moving my feet. The message should be clear.
I’m working. Not interested. Go away.
Gabriel doesn’t take the hint. He never does.
A box wrapped in silver tissue paper appears in his hand, small enough to fit in his palm. He extends it toward me, the gesture casual, as if offering me gifts is a normal part of my night. “I saw this and thought of you.”
The muscle in my jaw ticks, and I keep my attention on the crowd, watching the drunk Beta weave toward the bar again. “I don’t want it.”
The words come out flat, final. Most people would take the dismissal and retreat. Gabriel just stands there, the wrapped box still extended, patient as a statue.
His mouth curves up at one corner in amusement, as if he expected this response. “You haven’t even looked at it.”
No reason not to live up to his imagination. “Don’t care.”
A group of Omegas pushes past us, and one of them bumps Gabriel’s shoulder with a flirtatious giggle.
I expect his attention to follow, the way every other Alpha would when presented with a pretty Omega’s attention.
But he doesn’t even acknowledge them, the tissue paper crinkling as he adjusts his grip without lowering the box.
“It’s a watch.” He tips the box, the paper catching the light. “I noticed you don’t wear one.”
“Don’t need one,” I grunt. “That’s what cell phones are for. Stop wasting your money.”
“You keep saying that.” Gabriel lowers the box, tucking it into his jacket pocket. “But you haven’t told me what you are interested in.”
The music shifts, the bass dropping into a deeper register that vibrates through the floor. Purple lights sweep across Gabriel, the hazel of his eyes appearing lighter in the strobing colors.
He takes a half step closer, breaching the unspoken line into my personal space. My spine stiffens, every instinct screaming at me to back away, but I hold my ground. I won’t show weakness in front of this rich Alpha.
“Tell me what you like, then,” Gabriel says, his head tilting to the side.
The question punches the air from my lungs, my vision narrowing until only Gabriel remains, waiting for an answer I can’t give.
Tell me what you like.
After so many years, such a simple question shouldn’t cause this visceral reaction. But the moment the words leave Gabriel’s lips, the guard’s voice layers over it, and I’m back on that cement floor, his breath hot on my neck.
Tell me what you like, and I’ll make it good for you.
It had never been about what I wanted, just a way to make me complicit in what he did to me. When I gritted my teeth and stayed silent, he just made it worse, until choosing became the better of two evils.
My heart hammers, and sweat beads along my hairline. My skin grows tight, the scars hidden under my clothes itching.
Gabriel’s mouth is still moving, but I can’t hear the words over the roaring in my ears. The club fades, replaced by concrete walls and the buzz of fluorescent lights. Hands on my wrists, my ankles, holding me down.
Tell me what you like?
I turn and walk away. My boots carry me across the floor, weaving through dancers who scatter as I push through, my goal the back hallway and the emergency exit sign glowing red at the far end.
Air. I need air. The walls are closing in, the music too loud, the bodies too close. My shoulder clips someone’s arm, and they curse, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. If I stop, I’ll do something I’ll regret.
“Saint!” Marcus’s shout cuts through the fog. “Where are you going?”
I don’t answer. The hallway swallows me, the noise from the club muffled by the black-painted walls. My breath comes in short bursts, too fast, not enough oxygen reaching my brain.