EVANDER
── ? ──
The club doesn't have a name.
It doesn't need one.
If you know about it, you know where it is. If you don't, you're not supposed to.
It's buried three levels below a luxury hotel in the city—accessible only through a private elevator that requires a keycard and a face scan. The kind of place where the velvet ropes are just for show because the real filtering happens long before you reach the door.
The Whitcroft family owns it. Has for decades. Lucius's grandfather built it back when underground clubs were actually underground, before they became trendy. Now it's something else entirely. A playground for people who have too much money and too little supervision.
We're in the VIP section—a raised platform overlooking the main floor, separated by dark glass panels that let us see out but keep everyone else from seeing in. The music is loud enough to feel in your chest but muted enough up here that conversation is still possible.
I'm sitting in the corner booth, bourbon in hand, watching the crowd below move like a single organism. Bodies pressed together. Lights flashing in time with the bass. Everyone pretending they're having the time of their lives.
It's pathetic.
But it's Friday night, and Lucius insisted we needed to "decompress" after the first week back. By which he meant drink expensive liquor and watch people make fools of themselves.
Tristan is across from me, legs crossed, glass of scotch resting on his knee. He's not watching the crowd. He's watching me.
He does that sometimes. Studies people when he thinks they're not paying attention.
I let him.
Lucius is at the bar, flirting with the bartender—a woman in her mid-twenties with dark lipstick and a smile that says she's been doing this long enough to know exactly what he wants and exactly how much it's going to cost him.
Landon is beside me, sitting perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, looking like he's at a charity gala instead of an underground club. His blazer is still buttoned. His tie is still knotted. He hasn't touched his drink.
He never does.
Landon Ashford doesn't drink. Doesn't smoke. Doesn't do anything that might compromise the perfect image he's spent his entire life building.
I've known him since we were children. Watched him grow up in the same circles, attend the same schools, move through the same rooms. And I've never once seen him lose control.
Not once.
Most people think that makes him the safest one in our group. The saint. The golden boy who keeps the rest of us from going too far.
They're idiots.
"You've been quiet tonight," Tristan says, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
I take a sip of bourbon. "I'm always quiet."
"Quieter than usual."
I don't respond.
He's not wrong. I've been distracted all week. My mind keeps circling back to the same thing. The same person.
Aurora Lane.
It's been four days since the courtyard. Four days since she looked me in the eye and didn't flinch. Four days since she dropped my money in a donation box and walked away like it meant nothing.
Four days, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.
I've been watching. Of course I have. Tracking her movements through the campus security grid, cataloging her routines, learning her patterns.
She wakes early. Always before dawn. She eats breakfast alone in the scholarship dining hall—oatmeal, black coffee, nothing else. She attends every class. Sits in the front row. Takes notes by hand instead of on a laptop.
She doesn't socialize. Doesn't linger after lectures to talk to professors or other students. She just moves from one place to the next with that same quiet efficiency, like she's trying to take up as little space as possible.
Like she's trying to be invisible.
It won't work.
Not with me watching.
Lucius returns from the bar, a fresh drink in each hand. He slides one across the table to Tristan and drops into the seat beside him.
"Christ, it's dead tonight," he says, leaning back and draping one arm over the booth. "Where the fuck is everyone?"
"It's the first week," Landon says quietly. "Most people are still pretending they came here to study."
Lucius snorts. "Studying. Right. Because that's what people do at Ardencrest."
"Some of us take academics seriously," Landon replies, his tone perfectly even.
Lucius grins. "And some of us have trust funds large enough that we don't need to."
I ignore them. Let my eyes drift back to the crowd below.
That's when I hear it.
A sound that cuts through the music and the noise and the drunken laughter like a blade.
Sobbing.
Quiet. Muffled. Coming from somewhere beyond the VIP section.
I set my glass down.
Tristan notices immediately. "What is it?"
I don't answer. I'm already standing, already moving toward the sound.
The corridor beyond the VIP lounge is narrow and dark, lit only by dim red lights recessed into the walls. Private rooms line both sides—small, soundproofed spaces reserved for people who want privacy for whatever the fuck they're doing.
The sobbing is coming from the end of the hall.
I walk toward it. My footsteps are silent on the thick carpet.
Behind me, I hear Tristan, Lucius, and Landon following. They don't ask questions. They don't need to.
We've been doing this long enough to know when something is wrong.
The door at the end of the hall is cracked open. Light spills through the gap. And the sobbing is louder now—broken, desperate, the kind of sound that makes something cold and sharp twist in my chest.
I push the door open.
And I see her.
A girl—young, maybe nineteen, wearing a short dress that's been shoved up past her thighs. She's backed into the corner, tears streaming down her face, mascara running in black streaks. Her hands are pressed against the wall behind her like she's trying to disappear into it.
In front of her, three guys.
I recognize the one in the center immediately. Elite Tier. His family runs a pharmaceutical company. I've seen him at campus events, always with a drink in his hand and a smirk on his face that makes me want to break his jaw.
He's holding the girl's wrist. Tight enough that I can see the red marks forming on her skin.
The other two are standing behind him, watching. Waiting.
"Come on, baby," the first guy is saying, his voice low and coaxing. "Don't be difficult. You knew what tonight was about."
The girl shakes her head. Her voice is barely a whisper. "I want to leave."
"You're not leaving." His grip tightens. "We had a deal."
"I didn't—" She chokes on a sob. "I didn't agree to this. You said it was just us. You said—"
"Plans changed." He leans in closer. "Now stop crying and get in the fucking room."
I don't think.
I just move.
I cross the space in three strides, grab the back of his blazer, and yank him away from her so hard he stumbles backward into his friends.
He whirls around, furious. "What the fuck—"
He sees me.
And his face goes white.
"Laurent," he stammers. "I didn't—this isn't—"
I don't let him finish.
I drive my fist into his stomach. Hard. He doubles over, gasping, and I grab a fistful of his hair and slam his face into the wall.
The crack is loud.
Satisfying.
Behind me, Tristan and Lucius move.
No hesitation. No questions.
Tristan grabs one of the other guys by the collar and drives his knee into the man's ribs. Lucius takes the third, slamming him against the doorframe with enough force to rattle the walls.
The girl is still in the corner, sobbing harder now, her hands over her mouth.
I let go of the first guy. He collapses to the floor, blood pouring from his nose, groaning.
I turn to the girl.
She flinches.
I don't move closer. Don't touch her. I just pull out my phone, type a quick message, and hit send.
A moment later, a waitress appears in the doorway. She sees the scene—the blood, the crying girl, the three men on the floor—and her expression doesn't change. She's worked here long enough to know better than to ask questions.
I pull a stack of cash from my wallet and hand it to her. "Get her in a cab. Make sure she gets home safe."
The waitress nods. Takes the money. Walks over to the girl and speaks to her softly, gently, helping her to her feet and guiding her out of the room.
The girl doesn't look back.
Good.
She shouldn't.
I turn back to the three men.
They're trying to get up. Trying to scramble to their feet and leave before this gets worse.
Lucius kicks the first one back down. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"
The guy looks up at him, eyes wide with fear. "We're sorry. We didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to corner a girl and try to rape her?" Tristan's voice is flat. Clinical. Like he's observing an insect. "That's fascinating."
"We weren't—"
"Shut up," I say quietly.
He shuts up.
I look at Lucius. "Back room."
Lucius grins. "Thought you'd never ask."
The back room is exactly what it sounds like.
Soundproof. Windowless. Stocked with tools that most people would find disturbing and we find useful.
Lucius's family built this club. They know what kind of people come here. What kind of things happen in the shadows.
They planned accordingly.
We drag the three men inside and lock the door behind us.
The first guy—the one who was holding the girl—is still bleeding from his nose. He's trying to talk, trying to explain, trying to beg.
Lucius doesn't let him.
He grabs the guy's hand, spreads his fingers flat against the metal table in the center of the room, and drives his fist down onto the man's pinky finger.
The crack is sharp. Clean.
The scream is louder.
"That's one," Lucius says calmly. "You've got nine more. Want to see how many it takes before you shut the fuck up?"
The guy is sobbing now. Clutching his broken finger. Begging.
Lucius ignores him.
He moves to the next finger.
I lean against the wall and light a cigarette. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling, dissipating into the dim red light.
Tristan is on the other side of the room, working on the second guy. Not physically. Psychologically.