Nowhere to Hide

Sloane forced her trembling body to stand upright. The adrenaline from her frantic escape down the hall still buzzed beneath her skin, making her hands shake. She could not afford to fall apart now. Swallowing the bitter taste of bile in her throat, she retrieved her cleaning cart from the corridor, gripping the plastic handle so hard her knuckles turned white. She leaned her weight against the heavy double doors of the Vortex Club's private VIP room and pushed them open.

The moment she stepped over the threshold, an oppressive weight pressed down on her lungs. The air inside was thick, choked with the cloying stench of sweet, cheap perfume mixed with the undeniable, heavy musk of powerful werewolves. Dim neon lights pulsed in time with the muffled bass of the club music, casting long, distorted shadows across the plush leather sofas. Wealthy male guests lounged in the center of the room, surrounded by giggling call girls draped carelessly over their laps.

Standing rigidly in the middle of the expensive carpet was Daphne. The young, naive human part-timer clutched a silver serving tray to her chest, her face pale and terrified. Daphne immediately locked eyes with Sloane the second the heavy door clicked shut behind the cart.

"Sloane, help me!" Daphne shouted, her voice breaking.

The sudden noise drew the piercing stares of the guests lounging on the leather seats. The dangerous aura radiating from the men spiked, slamming into Sloane’s fragile frame like a physical blow. Her breath hitched. Her muscles tensed by pure instinct. She knew the brutal, unforgiving rules of this world better than anyone, and surviving meant staying invisible.

Sloane opened her mouth, deliberately forcing air through her damaged, scarred vocal cords.

"I am here to clean."

Her voice came out as a harsh, grating croak, sounding more like a dying animal than a woman. The unpleasant noise worked instantly. The men sneered in disgust, losing all interest in the hunched, ruined cleaner, and turned their predatory attention back to the fresh-faced human girl in the center of the room.

Sloane lowered her gaze to the floor, her shoulders slumping. She grabbed her mop and a plastic bucket of water, keeping her head down as she shuffled toward the glass table near the sofas. She pointedly ignored Daphne’s silent, pleading looks. A cleaner who could barely feed herself had no power to save anyone, especially against a room full of high-ranking werewolves. Besides, Daphne was a human with parents to protect her; these men would not dare tear her apart the way they would a packless rogue wolf.

"Drink this glass of wine and you can go out." A burly man sitting on the sofa leaned forward, nudging a massive glass of strong, amber liquor across the glass table.

Daphne gritted her teeth. Her cheeks flushed with stubborn anger as she opened her mouth to refuse.

Seeing the danger escalating, Sloane covertly swung her mop against the edge of her bucket. A splash of dirty, soapy water flew through the air and landed squarely on the hem of Daphne’s uniform dress.

"Sorry," Sloane muttered, keeping her ruined voice low.

It was a clear, easy excuse to leave. Any smart girl would curse the clumsy cleaner, demand to go change her ruined dress, and escape the room before things got worse.

But the naive human stubbornly refused to take the hint. Daphne barely glanced at the wet stain on her skirt.

"It does not matter." Daphne lifted her chin and glared at the wealthy men. "I am only taking a part-time job here during the summer break. I am not a call girl. So, I will not accept your disgusting request."

Sloane froze, her fingers turning stiff around the wooden mop handle. She had tried to help, but the girl’s foolish pride was going to get them both destroyed. The guests of the Vortex Club were rich, powerful, and deeply connected. The employees here could not afford to offend werewolves of this status.

"Do you think you are Paris Hilton?" another man sneered, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, golden glint. "Since you are working here, you must do as we please. If you do not drink, I will have to talk to Roxanne and have you thrown out on the street."

The mere mention of the ruthless manager shattered Daphne’s bravado. The young girl began to tremble uncontrollably. Her father was drowning in debt, and she desperately needed this money to support her family. The defiance drained from her face, replaced by raw, humiliating fear.

"I will drink." Daphne reached her shaking hands toward the massive glass.

"Wait a minute."

The low, chillingly familiar voice echoed from the darkest corner of the expansive room. It was not loud, but it cut through the heavy air and the scent of liquor like a serrated blade.

Sloane’s lungs stopped working. The mop slipped from her numb fingers, clattering onto the carpet. Her back was turned to the shadow, but her fragile body began to shake with a terror so profound it turned her blood to solid ice.

"Turn around."

The command was laced with the overwhelming aura of a dominant Alpha. The immense pressure seized Sloane’s central nervous system in an iron grip. It crushed her physical resistance in a heartbeat. She tried to fight it, to run toward the door, but her spine locked rigidly into place. Her heavy work boots pivoted slowly, agonizingly dragging her to face her worst nightmare.

He sat deep in the shadows of the room. Darius Rousseau. He rested against the armrest of the sofa, holding a glass of amber liquid with the regal, predatory posture of an emperor surveying his conquered lands.

Pure panic flooded Sloane’s veins. Her mind ripped backward to the three agonizing years locked in the dark, subterranean werewolf prison. The endless torture, the damp stone walls, and the suffocating scent of wolfsbane had shattered her mind and body. The torment had permanently severed her biological connection to her inner wolf, destroying the mystical mate bond she once desperately shared with the man now sitting just feet away from her.

Darius tilted his head. Beneath the sharp gleam of his gold-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes locked directly onto her fragile, scarred frame. He stared at her like a starving beast spotting bleeding prey.

"Long time no see. Aren't you going to say hello to me?" Darius sneered coldly, his tone vibrating with dark malice.

Sloane’s knees buckled slightly under the crushing weight of his presence. She forced the words through her ruined throat.

"Mr. Rousseau." Her voice trembled uncontrollably, unable to mask her sheer terror.

Darius narrowed his eyes. He sized up the pathetic, hunched cleaner before him. The drastic, horrifying physical transformation from the proud daughter of an Alpha to this broken shell was staggering. He could easily read the silent, screaming plea in her wide, panicked eyes. She was begging him not to expose her criminal imprisonment and her ruined werewolf status to the room full of strangers.

A cruel, merciless smile formed on his handsome lips. He slowly pointed a long finger toward the heavy bottle of vodka still resting on the table near Daphne’s trembling hands.

"I know what you want to say. How about this? If you drink this bottle of wine, I will agree to your request."

Sloane’s heavily scarred face drained of all remaining color, turning the shade of ash. Her stomach was a ruined mess, destroyed by the relentless doses of wolf poison and years of starvation in the damp cells. Downing a full bottle of hard liquor would trigger excruciating, lethal internal bleeding. She would not survive the night.

But she had to live. She had a lingering, sacred promise made to a dead girl in the prison, a girl who had died in her arms to protect her. To survive and honor that promise, Sloane ruthlessly abandoned whatever tiny fraction remained of her Alpha pride.

Slowly, agonizingly, her knees hit the sticky carpet. She dropped to her hands and knees, ignoring the stinging pain radiating up her shins. She crawled across the floor like a dog, her ragged clothes dragging against the ground, until she was groveling at his expensive leather shoes.

"Mr. Rousseau, please spare me. I beg you, please let me go. I will do anything except drink wine." She forced the words out, her hoarse voice cracking with raw desperation.

Darius leaned forward. He stared down at her submissive form with a cold, emotionless mask. The sight of the broken woman crawling at his feet brought a twisted satisfaction to his features. He openly mocked the destruction of the once-proud daughter of the Crystal Creek Pack Alpha.

"It was just a bottle of wine, and you knelt just to not drink it. Sloane, where are your pride and dignity?"

A microscopic hint of bitter, agonizing mockery flashed in Sloane's traumatized mind. Her forehead hovered inches from the toe of his shoe. Dignity? Dignity could not keep her warm in the freezing dark. Dignity could not stop the beatings. Dignity could not keep her alive in a cell. She knelt on this dirty floor not to avoid a drink, but to breathe another day.

She looked up, her eyes hollow and dead, and weakly shook her head.

"Mr. Rousseau, I can do anything except drink."

Darius paused. He let her pathetic words hang in the heavy air, savoring the taste of her utter defeat.

"Anything?" he asked, his smile deepening faintly.

Without taking his eyes off her kneeling form, he casually snapped his fingers.

The sharp sound cracked like a whip in the silent room. From the dimmed, shadowed corner behind the sofas, a massive, heavily muscled pack guard stepped into the light. The man was clad in black combat gear, his expression stoic and dangerous.

Darius leaned back into the plush leather, resting his chin on the back of his hand. He pointed directly to the burly guard, delivering his twisted, humiliating ultimatum.

"Kiss him, then, I will not tell others about you."

Sloane’s eyes widened in sheer horror. Her breath caught in her ruined throat, her mind unable to process the cruel command.

"So? Can you not do that?" Darius smirked, relishing the crushing terror radiating from his former mate. "Kiss him, or drink the wine."