Resurrecting Raven

Zara

Don set the receiver down on its cradle. The sharp click echoed in the sudden silence of the office. His hand lingered on the plastic for a second before he folded his arms across his broad chest, leaning back in his leather chair. The fury in his face vanished, replaced by a cold, assessing stare.

"You still remember how to work the VIP rooms?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded slow and steady. My voice was trapped somewhere in my chest, blocked by a mix of raw relief and sheer terror. I remembered the VIP rooms all right. Those were the private suites. One-on-one performances for the wealthiest men in the city who wanted a private fantasy away from the main floor. The rules in those back rooms were infamous and unforgiving, burned into the brain of every dancer who walked through Donovan’s doors. Maintain distance. No crossing the proximity lines. No physical contact.

But the tips in VIP could wipe out months of debt in a single night. I had only worked those private sessions a handful of times before I walked out of this club eight months ago, but I had a reputation for ruling the room.

"I have a client arriving in thirty minutes." Don held my gaze, his tone flat and unyielding. "Very important client. A massive tipper. You mess this up, you are out. I will have you tossed onto the pavement myself. You do well, we can talk about a temporary arrangement. A few weeks, just like you asked."

My fingernails dug crescent moons into my palms. I forced myself to stand tall under his scrutiny. "I'll do it."

"This client requested our best. He is particular. He doesn't talk. He just watches the whole time, and he never touches. I heard he tips a minimum of five hundred a session if you are good. More if you follow the rules to the letter."

Five hundred dollars.

My pulse kicked against my ribs. If I could lock down this client, if I could book multiple sessions with him or pick up the overflow from the other VIP rooms, working every single shift, I could make the deposit. I could pay the hospital. I could save Lily.

"I'll be exceptional. I won't give you a single reason to regret this." I meant every syllable. I would become whatever fantasy this faceless man wanted if it meant dragging my sister away from death’s door.

Don offered a tight smile that never reached his eyes. "Get ready. Vanessa will show you the room."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the office. The deafening bass of the main floor slammed into me the second the door shut behind me, rattling my teeth. My hands shook so hard I had to ball them into fists to hide the tremors as I navigated the dark corridors toward the dressing room. I felt detached from my own flesh, floating somewhere near the neon-lit ceiling, watching myself march right back into the life I promised I would never touch again. Let Lily die to keep my pride? There was no choice at all.

Inside the dressing room, the air was thick with the scent of vanilla body spray, cheap hairspray, and sweat. A few girls in various states of undress paused their makeup routines. Their heads snapped toward me.

"Zara's back," a blonde by the door muttered.

I kept my chin up and ignored her.

Vanessa stood by a row of lockers in the back corner. She was a senior dancer, early thirties, possessing a sharp, ruthless beauty that commanded respect. She waved me over through the smog of hairspray.

"I heard Don is throwing you to the wolves tonight. You're in VIP Room Three. That’s Frost’s room." Vanessa tossed a small brass key in the air and caught it. She held it out to me.

A fresh shiver danced down my spine. "Frost?"

"That is what we call him." Vanessa leaned against the metal lockers. "He comes in maybe twice a month. Never smiles. Never says a word to us. He just sits in the leather chair and watches you like he is carved out of solid marble. He tips like a maniac, though. Your stuff is still in there, by the way. Don kept your locker. The bastard knew you would crawl back eventually."

I snatched the key from her hand, unsure if I wanted to scream or break down crying. I jammed it into the lock and twisted. The metal door groaned open. My stomach turned over on itself. Everything was exactly where I left it. My makeup kit, my stilettos, my stage outfits. It sat there waiting for me, mocking my eight months of desperate struggle in the real world.

I stripped off my street clothes and pulled a black lace set from the hook. The fabric was unforgiving, hugging my curves, putting plenty of skin on display while leaving just enough to the imagination. I sat at my vanity station. My hands moved on pure muscle memory. Heavy foundation. Sharp contour. Dramatic winged eyeliner. A coat of blood-red lipstick.

I stared into the mirror. The exhausted, desperate older sister was gone. Raven stared back. Raven was bulletproof. Raven radiated money, power, and sex.

Vanessa tapped on the vanity mirror twenty minutes later. "He is here. Room Three. You are up on the block."

I drew a long, shaky breath and stood. My eight-inch stilettos clicked a steady, lethal rhythm against the floorboards as I left the dressing room. I walked past the flashing strobes of the main stage, heading for the heavy double doors of the VIP corridor. The deafening club music faded into a muffled thud back here.

Room Three featured heavy mahogany doors with polished gold handles. I placed my bare palms against the cool metal. I closed my eyes and sent a frantic plea to the universe, to parents who were long dead, to whoever might be listening. Please. Let me be enough.

I pushed the door open.

The room was bathed in dim crimson and shadow. The air conditioning hummed, keeping the space cool and pristine. A massive, tufted leather armchair commanded the center of the far wall. The man sitting in it brought my stride to a dead halt.

He was in his early thirties. Impeccably styled dark hair. A jawline carved from granite. He wore a tailored suit that defied any price tag my brain could comprehend. But it was his face that demanded attention. It was striking, mercilessly handsome, and devoid of any human warmth. He locked onto me the second the door moved. His eyes were a freezing, fathomless blue. Looking into them felt like staring into the dead of winter.

They called him Frost. I understood why in a heartbeat.

He didn't twitch. He didn't offer a polite smile. He just stared through me, freezing me in place, yet managing to make me feel stripped bare under the dim red lights. I had thirty minutes to entertain a living statue. Thirty minutes to secure five hundred dollars.

I stepped fully into the room and let the heavy door click shut behind me. "Hi. I'm Raven."

Silence. The blue eyes remained locked on my face.

This was going to be a nightmare. I walked over to the digital panel embedded in the wall and tapped the screen. I scrolled past the tracklist and chose a slow, grinding beat characterized by heavy bass. It pulsed through the surround-sound speakers, filling the suffocating silence in the room.

I took my place in the center of the floor, standing on the patterned rug several feet away from his chair. I maintained the club's mandated distance. I started my routine. I rolled my hips to the slow rhythm, dragging my hands up my own thighs, letting my fingers trace over the smooth skin of my waist. I arched my back and ran my hands through my dark hair, letting the music dictate the sway of my chest.

I watched his face for a reaction. Nothing. Not a flinch.

I pushed the tempo of my body, dropping lower to the floor. I crawled, flexing my calves, turning to look at him over my bare shoulder. My muscles fired under the strain. I poured raw seduction into the movements, making eye contact, offering him every angles I had. He sat there like a corpse in a designer suit. His expression remained a blank, rigid mask.

Think of Lily, I commanded myself. Lily needs five hundred dollars.

Sweat beaded at my hairline as the second song started. My thighs burned. Midway through the track, Frost finally moved. He reached up with deliberate, agonizing slowness and unbuttoned his suit jacket. He shrugged the expensive fabric off his broad shoulders and draped it over the armrest. He never blinked. He rolled the cuffs of his crisp white shirt up to his elbows, exposing thick, corded forearms. The mundane action felt heavy.

I gritted my teeth and threw more energy into the dance. I popped my hips, grinding against the empty air. Frost leaned sideways, picking up a crystal tumbler from a side table. He lifted the amber liquid to his mouth and took a long, slow sip. His icy blue gaze stayed anchored to my body.

Song three came and went. My calves screamed in protest. My chest heaved with every breath, begging for oxygen. I refused to stop. I refused to show weakness.

The digital chime on the wall panel rang out in a soft, bright tone. Thirty minutes. Zero seconds.

I stopped dancing instantly. I stood up straight, planting my hands on my hips as my lungs fought to catch up. I offered him a professional, breathless smile. "Thank you. I hope you enjoyed the performance."

I pivoted on my heel and stepped toward the door.

"Continue."

The single word hit my spine like a physical blow. It was deep. Smooth as aged velvet. Stripped of any readable emotion. I froze in my tracks and looked over my shoulder.

"The session time is up already." I turned around to face him. "I can't dance anymore. That will cost extra."

"I want more time."

He did not phrase it as a request. He reached down to the floor beside his chair, hoisting up a small leather duffel bag. He unzipped it, thrust his hand inside, and pulled out a thick bundle of cash wrapped in a bank band. He tossed it onto the glass table. Then he pulled out another. And another.

The stacks hit the glass with heavy thuds. At least five thousand dollars sat there in plain view.

My brain short-circuited. Five thousand dollars. Five grand for thirty more minutes. My feet moved before my rational mind could issue an objection. I marched back to the center of the rug, the music still throbbing from the speakers. I threw my exhausted body back into the routine. I swayed. I dropped to my knees. I ran my hands over my chest and stomach, closing my eyes to block out the burn in my thighs. I danced until my body felt like it was breaking apart. Two full songs passed in a blur of sweat and grinding bass.

The music shifted to a slower tempo.

"Move closer."

I stopped mid-motion. I dropped my arms to my sides, my chest rising and falling violently as I sucked in air. I shook my head.

"That is against the rules. I can't get too close to the clients. It is a strict policy."

Frost didn't argue. He didn't even blink. He reached straight back into the open leather bag, retrieved two more massive bundles of cash, and dropped them onto the table next to the others.

Ten thousand dollars.

Ten freaking thousand.

It was a literal fortune. It was more than half of Lily’s surgical deposit sitting right there in front of me, wrapped in neat paper bands.

I stared at the green paper, my pulse hammering in my ears. The strict rules of the club flashed in my mind. No physical contact. Maintain distance. But Don had warned me this client was special. And I promised I would be whatever I needed to be to save my sister.

I dragged my gaze up from the money and met his eyes. The frozen winter wasteland was gone. A dark, vicious hunger swam in that blue depths now.

My hands trembled. I took a step forward. The distance shrank. I took another step, my heels sinking into the plush rug. I shattered the invisible barrier, walking right up to his leather chair until I was standing between his knees. The heat rolling off his chest hit my bare skin. The expensive scent of oud wood drifted into my nose, tangled violently with the sharp, intoxicating bite of whiskey lingering on his breath.

I looked down at his handsome face. "How close?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.