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The Doghouse Strip Club was as raunchy as it sounded.

Rows of chairs and tables surrounded a long stage that stretched from one side of the building to the other, the glossy floor alit with swampy green lights. The air was oiled with Boneweed smoke, sweat-soaked bodies, cheaply cooked Blood Potions, and sex. Lots of sex. The stink of the potions was barely diluted by the alcohol the takers mixed them with, a salty and pungent odor that reminded Darien of moldy towels. A few people in the club shot up right in plain sight, not bothering to conceal their drug-use by blending them into drinks. Most of those people were the same ones who fucked strangers in the booths lining the room, everything on full display for others to watch.

But as filthy as its employees and patrons may be, the Doghouse was one of the best places to go in the city if you were horny and looking for a quick fuck, or bored and broke and sniffing out cheap drugs.

The club was located below ground on Dirge Avenue. Tunnels linked the business to the other strip clubs, bars, and erotic massage parlors on the block, forming a subterranean network of sin that catered to a vast and diverse clientele.

Darien had been here a few times in his life, most of those times now nothing but bleary memories soaked in drugs and alcohol. The only reason he and Maximus were here tonight, seated at one of the tables in the front row, was to meet with Channary. Channary, who was—

“Late,” Max said, checking his watch as he set down his third empty glass of beer. “She’s late.”

“Would you relax and enjoy the show?” Darien said, sipping his own beer—lukewarm and watered down. Not surprising, considering the shithole they were in. “I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.”

Max eyed him. “Why are you telling me to watch the show when you’re not even watching?”

“Because I didn’t come here to ogle some stripper’s tits. Those days are behind me.”

The corners of Max’s mouth tipped up. “Think you’ll be on one knee any time soon?”

Darien smirked. “I’m not husband material.” He threw back the last of his beer, that word he’d uttered curdling on his tongue like sour milk.

No, he wasn’t husband material. Shit, he was barely even boyfriend material. But the gods knew Loren deserved to have a ring on her finger.

Days had passed since he’d seen her, days since he’d heard her sweet voice. The distance was eating at him, chewing through his chest and into his heart, but he buried it carefully. Buried it under flimsy excuses, telling himself that he would see her again soon, and that this, like anything in life, would pass.

He hoped he was right. Besides, it was better that she wasn’t around while he dealt with the mess his father had left behind. What a glorious inheritance indeed.

Max studied him with the kind of concern and scrutiny that only a best friend could have. “She talking to you yet?”

“No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Max sighed through his nose. “I’m here if you change your mind.”

Darien watched the stage, looking but not seeing. “I know.” He paused. “How’s it going with you and Red?”

Now, it was Max’s turn to sit in uncomfortable silence. “About the same,” he muttered. “Whenever I try to get in deeper with her, she distracts me with sex.”

Darien smirked. “That’s a bad thing?”

Humor put a slight quirk in his mouth. “It wouldn’t be if it were anyone else.” His shoulders rose with a deep breath, and then fell with another long sigh blown out through his nose. “But I want more. I’ve always wanted more from her.”

“I hear you.”

Max’s attention strayed to the far corner of the club. His eyes widened, and he tipped his head back with a groan. “Seriously?”

Darien followed his line of sight.

A female, her physique willowy, was heading this way. Her black hair was poker-straight, the ends dipped in cherry-red. Silver-blue eyes were stark against milk-white skin, her slender but strong form nearly swallowed up by a fur coat that fell to her knees. The coat was the heaviest piece of clothing on her body; beneath was fishnets, a short leather skirt, and a top that flaunted her pierced and inked midriff.

“That Lumen?” Darien asked, setting his glass on the table. The hair color was new, and with the screen of smoke masking the room he nearly didn’t recognize her. But his question was answered when he spotted Umbrielle, another of Channary’s daughters, watching near the tunnel that led to Tantalize. Umbrielle’s fox Familiar was curled up on her shoulders, bushy tail draped around her neck, the color nearly blending in with the thickest head of jet-black hair Darien had ever seen.

“I should duck out,” Max mumbled, pushing up out of his seat.

Darien gripped him by the shoulder of his brown leather jacket and yanked him back down. “No, you’re staying right here. Besides, she probably doesn’t even remember.”