Chapter 12
Feral Devotion
After my first set, I leaned against the makeup table, trembling as Ulysses’ voice drifted over from behind thick velvet curtains, low and approving but edged with something sharp as broken glass.
“You did well,” he said quietly. “You commanded them.”
I flinched at his praise, unsure how much of it was real admiration and how much was merely satisfaction at having shaped me into exactly what he needed: a weaponized object of desire.
But even as his words settled over me like fresh snow, I kept thinking about Aiden standing in shadow; how, despite all odds, he didn’t look defeated or haunted anymore but somehow dangerous in an entirely new way.
And maybe that was why when Mike signaled for curtain call, instead of hiding backstage until everyone cleared out, I found myself drifting toward the VIP section where Aiden stood waiting for whatever would happen next.
The air between us practically sizzled as if invisible currents were licking along our skin.
I steadied myself on one glittered heel and gave him a crooked smile meant to say: “This isn’t over yet.”
Maybe it never will be.
The adrenaline hadn’t even begun to fade from my veins before hell broke loose again in the club.
I was still catching my breath, half slouched against an empty table in the VIP section and dabbing sweat from my upper lip with a trembling hand, when the first shouts erupted from the hallway connecting the main floor to the VIP lounge.
At first, I thought it was just another brawl, drunks got difficult this time of night, and Neon’s security usually squashed those flare-ups before anyone even noticed, but this sound carried an edge so pure and primal that it vibrated all the way through the walls.
A thunderous impact reverberated through the VIP section as someone slammed into the door, rattling it violently in its frame.
The sound was jarring, like a gunshot echoing through the dimly lit space.
Rita, behind the bar mixing drinks, let out a startled yelp, her hands fumbling as she dropped a glass that shattered against the polished floor, scattering shards like confetti of danger.
I instinctively crouched low behind a plush velvet couch, my heart racing as I strained to catch sight of what was happening beyond the opulent curtain.
The muffled chaos outside grew louder, shouts and scuffles blending into a cacophony that set my nerves on edge.
I peered cautiously over the armrest, my breath hitching at the sight of bodies moving erratically in the main room.
A sense of urgency surged within me; whatever was unfolding felt dangerously close to spiraling out of control.
That’s when I saw Aiden. He’d shed his usual detachment, barreling forward with an energy that made him look about twice as large as normal.
His eyes were lit up, not just metaphorically but literally, catching and reflecting every scrap of light in dazzling citrine flares as he shoved his way between a pack of shouting bouncers and a man so drunk his legs barely seemed attached to his torso.
The customer was a regular, a corporate type slumming it for the night, tie undone and shirtfront stained with a slurry of whiskey and bile.
He looked at me through bloodshot eyes like I was some prize he’d already bought and paid for.
“I wanna see her!” he yelled, voice grotesquely amplified by rage and humiliation. “Lemme back there! Who do you think you are?” The man aimed a wild swing at Aiden’s face, an insult more than a threat.
Aiden caught his fist with his left hand so fast I didn’t see it happen; the customer’s knuckles mashed flat against Aiden’s open palm, all momentum instantly neutralized. For one awful moment, there was almost silence. Then Aiden’s lips peeled back in a snarl that wasn’t human at all.
“Enough,” he growled in a voice so deep it rattled my teeth.
He flicked his wrist.
The drunk man flew backwards like he’d been attached to a bungee cord; he crashed headlong into the cinderblock wall near the door backstage with an impact so violent I heard skull meet concrete, and an ugly, wet crack echoed through the room.
He slumped to the floor immediately, limbs askew in angles that shouldn’t have been possible.
For several seconds, nobody moved or spoke or even breathed. It was as if we’d all been transported into some alternate physics where time only advanced once everyone agreed on what had just happened.
Then pandemonium: two security guys surged over to check on their now-unconscious patron, while someone else started barking orders into their phone, ambulance, yes, hurry, and the rest of us stood in frozen shock as Aiden calmly wiped imaginary dust from his knuckles like nothing at all out of the ordinary had transpired.
That was when I realized every single person in the VIP section, myself included, was looking at him with a new intensity.
The air crackled with an awareness that shattered any lingering doubts about his speed and strength; this wasn’t merely the product of adrenaline or hours spent in the gym, but something far more otherworldly and menacing.
Even Ulysses’ men shifted uneasily, their confidence wavering; one of them instinctively crossed himself, a gesture of disbelief mingled with fear.
I didn’t know whether to be afraid or grateful or both.
After several long seconds, Ulysses materialized from nowhere, surveying the scene with those predatory ice-blue eyes.
He took it all in, the blood pooling under the customer’s scalp, Aiden standing stock-still beside him, and then snapped into action with clinical efficiency: “Get him out,” he ordered two guards who understood right away he meant the customer, not Aiden.
To another pair: “Call an ambulance. Make sure there are no stories.”
He shot Aiden a glance colder than Siberian winter but didn’t say anything aloud until they were both sequestered behind heavy blackout curtains leading toward Ulysses’ private office-slash-interrogation chamber.
Rita tried to shepherd me away, “C’mon, honey, you don’t need to see this”, but I hung back anyway, curiosity or masochism or maybe just wanting to hear if they were going to blame me for any part of this disaster.
From my vantage behind the curtain, I caught only fragments of their snapping voices.
Ulysses’ hand clamped down on Aiden’s shoulder so fast I barely registered the motion before he had him pinned in the shadowy utility alcove behind Neon’s main bar, back slammed against dented metal shelves stacked with vodka crates and off-brand whiskey.
The force of it made an entire row of glass bottles shudder in their cartons, a trembling chorus that underscored every word spat between them.
How was that even possible? I had witnessed Aiden’s strength a week ago, when he faced a dozen rogue wolves all by himself. A feat that almost cost him his life. And now Ulysses held him pinned like it was nothing.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“What did I tell you?” Ulysses hissed, voice so cold it burned. The accent was muted, old-country vowels smoothed out by decades in New York but still sharp enough to slice. He leaned in, a study in predatory stillness, and glared at Aiden as if he could will obedience into his bones.
Aiden met the stare with a blankness that bordered on insolence. No fear, no apology; just those citrine eyes gone flat and unreadable. “She was in danger,” he said quietly.
“Not reason enough to break protocol,” Ulysses snapped back, each syllable a whip crack. “You want exposure? You want Council inquiries? Because that is how you get both.”
Aiden didn’t move. “Better them than kill her,” he said. The words landed like a dare, or maybe a confession, and for some reason, they made me shiver harder than standing naked on a January fire escape.
There was history here. I heard it in how Ulysses’ voice trembled at the edges, how Aiden’s jaw set just slightly tighter with every volley. They’d had this fight before, but never with me as its silent center of gravity.
In less than three minutes Ulysses orchestrated a cleanup so seamless it felt practiced down to the muscle memory: the unconscious customer was hustled out the back, expenses covered by a fund I hadn’t known existed but suddenly understood; blood slicks mopped up by janitorial staff who looked everywhere but at the body while moving with suspicious efficiency; witnesses corralled into corners for one-on-one debriefs where recollections would be altered by either cash or some kind of supernatural suggestion.
I was starting to lose track of which reality governed here.
Meanwhile, from my hidden post, I watched as Ulysses spun on his heel and stalked toward a battered steel door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY.” He said nothing further to Aiden, no threats, no warnings, but his gaze lingered long enough to make it clear this wasn’t over.
Inside that stare was something feral and proprietary: not just anger at protocol breached but genuine terror at whatever higher powers might audit tonight’s disaster.
The moment they disappeared into the dark corridor beyond the door, I staggered out from my hiding place, nerves ragged as shredded ribbon. My whole body felt rewired, each sense tuned to some private frequency where everything meant more than it should have.
Backstage was chaos pressed flat beneath forced normalcy: Michelle barking orders at new girls to “smile like your rent depends on it,” because it actually did; Rita and the other bartenders hustling through damage control drink specials; a bouncer methodically rearranging toppled chairs as though reestablishing order could erase what had transpired moments prior.
No one looked me directly in the eye, not even Rita when she patted my arm and said softly, “Good work tonight, kiddo,” before disappearing into the labyrinth of empty liquor storage.