NICHOLAS' POV
The club was mine before I ever signed the deeds.
Noir thrived on the kind of desperation that made people weak—liquor-loose lips, sweat-slick skin, souls begging to be owned. I watched from the shadows of the VIP, a king in a den of fools.
Then she walked in.
Miranda Coleman.
Even her name tasted like defiance.
She was trying too hard—black dress cutting into her curves, smile sharp enough to draw blood but wrong, like a cracked mirror. I'd seen that look before. On men before I broke them. On cornered animals.
Hurt.
The realization coiled hot in my gut.
Her friends swarmed her, all hollow laughter and pitying touches. She drank tequila like it was punishment, throat working with every swallow. Five shots. Amateur.
I shouldn't have cared.
But then she danced.
Hips rolling, head thrown back—fuck, she moved like she was trying to exorcise something. Or someone.
Derrick.
The name slithered into my mind, unwelcome. I'd had her file within an hour of Mason mentioning her. One year with a spineless banker who cheated because he couldn't stand being outsmarted.
Idiot.
She deserved better.
Or worse.
My fingers twitched around my glass. She'd caught me staring earlier—wide doe eyes, a flicker of fear. Good. Fear was honest.
Then some drunk fuck pawed at her, and something in me snapped.
I was across the room before I decided to move, my hand locking onto her waist. She spun, fury in her eyes, but it crumpled when she saw me.
"You're too smart to drink that much around wolves, little rabbit."
Her breath hitched. I felt it—the rabbit-quick pulse under my thumb.
Run, that pulse begged.
Never, my grip answered.
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