Aurora's POV
"I can't believe it… you actually got the job!"
Clara was practically bouncing behind the bar, far more excited than I was.
I drew in a slow breath, my chest tight. Excitement was the last thing I felt. I couldn't explain it, but there was something about the Lycan King that I couldn't pinpoint. It was just… there. A heavy, suffocating energy that felt like invisible fingers closing around my throat.
"You don't look excited… what is it?" Clara frowned, finally noticing my mood. She set down the glass she was polishing and leaned over the bar, her brow furrowed. "Aurora, this is the Alpha King. People would kill for this opportunity. You're going to be set for life."
"I know," I whispered, rubbing my arms as if I could wipe away the lingering sensation of his gaze. "It's just… he's intense, Clara. And the way he looked at me… it felt like he already knew me. Like he was looking right through my skin."
I didn't tell her how much he looked like the new masked Dom—or how my heart had nearly burst from my chest when he stood over me.
"He's a King, sweetie. They're all like that," Clara said, trying to reassure me. "Just keep your head down, do your work, and take that massive paycheck. Think about James."
James. That name was the only thing that kept my feet on the ground. For him, I would walk straight into the lion's den. For him, I would even serve a monster.
"You're right," I said, forcing a small, tight smile. "And the best part is the schedule. He told me I only have to report to the pack house three times a week. It's perfect."
Clara's eyes lit up. "Three times a week? Aurora, that's a dream! You'll finally have time to breathe."
"I won't be breathing just yet," I murmured, my mind already calculating the numbers. The King's pay was insane, but James's bills were a mountain that never stopped growing. I couldn't risk letting go of a single cent. "I need to go speak to the manager. I can't quit this job, Clara. I need all the money I can get. I'm going to see if Marcus can move me strictly to night shifts on the days I'm not at the pack house."
Clara looked worried. "You're going to burn yourself out, but… I get it. I hope he agrees."
I nodded and made my way through the dim, neon-lit halls of the club toward the back offices. I knocked on the heavy door, and a gruff voice barked for me to enter.
I walked into Marcus's office. He was a thick-set man with a permanent scowl, currently counting a stack of bills. He looked up, surprised. "Aurora? You're off today. Why are you here?"
I felt my stomach twist with nerves. He noticed my hesitation and let out a short, dry laugh. "Don't tell me you're here to ask for another advance on your pay. I told you, I can't do it until next month."
"No, it's not that," I said quickly. "Actually, I landed another job. A good one."
Marcus's eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening. "So, you're leaving me? After I helped you out with those hospital leads?"
"No," I replied, stepping closer to his desk. "I'm not leaving. But I need your help. I need to move my shifts strictly to nights. I still need this money, Marcus. You know how much I owe the hospital."
He went quiet, his fingers drumming against the mahogany desk as he stared at me. The silence stretched until I felt like my skin was itching. Finally, he leaned back, a predatory glint appearing in his eyes that I didn't like.
"I can do that," he said slowly. "I can keep you on the roster for nights. But… on one condition."
My heart sank. In this club, conditions were never just about paperwork. "What is it?"
"Dom Mike," Marcus said, naming one of our wealthiest and most aggressive regulars. "He's been breathing down my neck for weeks about you. He wants a lap dance. A private one."
"Marcus, you know Dom Mike doesn't just want a dance," I spat, my skin crawling at the memory of the man's oily stare. "He wants to fuck me."
"He knows the rules, Aurora," Marcus said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's just a dance. He's aware he won't be forcing himself on you—he just wants ten minutes of your time in a private room. You do that for him tonight, and I'll give you whatever schedule you want. Plus, he's a big tipper."
I gripped the straps of my bag so hard the edges crinkled. I loathed Dom Mike, but I was trapped.
"Just a dance?" I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.
"Just a dance," Marcus promised.
"Fine. I'll do it."
Hours later, I found myself stepping into one of the private lounges. The air in the private room was thick with the scent of stale cigars and expensive cologne. My stomach churned the moment I stepped inside. Marcus had lied. This wasn't a "private" room; two other men sat on the velvet couches, nursing drinks and watching me like I was a piece of meat on a platter.
Dom Mike sat in the center, his eyes raking over my body with a hunger that made me want to scrub my skin raw.
"You're late, Aurora," he purred, his voice like oil on water.
"Our ten minutes starts now," I snapped, my voice cold.
I stepped toward him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I straddled his lap, wrapping my arms loosely around his neck to keep some distance between our chests. He immediately smirked, his large, calloused hands gripping my ass with a bruising force.
I sucked in a sharp, jagged breath. I could feel his hardness pressing against my thigh, a disgusting reminder of exactly what he wanted from me. I forced myself to move, rolling my hips in a slow, practiced circle that felt like selling a piece of my soul.
Do it for James, I told myself. Just ten minutes.
But suddenly, the heavy door slammed open against the wall.
The music from the club leaked in for a split second before the room went deathly silent. I froze, my hips locked in place as I looked toward the entrance.
My blood turned to ice.
It was him. The new masked Dom. Even with the leather mask obscuring his face, I recognized the sheer power radiating off him—the broad shoulders, the lethal grace, and those eyes. Those green, piercing eyes that were currently burning with a dark, terrifying rage.
He stood in the doorway, his gaze locked onto mine. He didn't look at the other men. He didn't look at the luxury of the room. He looked at my hands wrapped around Dom Mike's neck. He looked at Mike's hands on my body.
A deep, guttural growl vibrated from his chest, a sound so primal it made the other men in the room jump to their feet. He didn't say a word, but the frown on his lips was enough to tell me I was in trouble.
"Who the hell are you?" Dom Mike, barked, tightening his grip on me as if to claim his prize. "This is a private session!"
The masked man stepped into the room, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. He moved toward us like a predator closing in on a kill.
"The session," he said, his voice a low, angry rumble that sent a shiver of recognition down my spine, "is over."
He yanked me off Dom Mike's lap and dragged me along with him.