Page 20 of Red Fury (The Dragon Tributes #8)

S hadow

The bass from inside Black Blood thrums through the sidewalk beneath my stilettos as I approach the club’s imposing entrance. There’s a long-ass queue stretching halfway around the damned block.

Crap!

I pause at the end of the queue, taking in the scene. At this rate, I’ll be here all night. In fact, I highly doubt I’d make it in there at all.

No way I’m waiting.

My little black dress clings to me as I stride toward the front of the line, ignoring the dirty looks and muttered complaints from the people I’m passing. The closer I get to the entrance, the more imposing the security becomes. Four bouncers stand guard at the door.

Damn, but they’re huge. I didn’t think humans got this big. They’re all suited up and sufficiently mean-looking to make me take pause.

Three women are pleading with the head bouncer, their voices shrill.

“Please, we drove all the way from Milwaukee,” one of them begs, her fake lashes fluttering. “We’ll do anything—”

“No,” the bouncer cuts her off. He has a Russian accent, but his English is impeccable. “Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow you will get lucky. Try to come a little earlier.”

The women start to protest, but two other bouncers step forward, their message clear. The trio slink away, defeat written across their perfectly made-up faces.

Double crap!

I sigh. I’m sure I’m about to meet the same fate, but I have to try.

As I step forward, another commotion erupts to my left. A guy in his twenties is being forcibly ejected from the club, his feet barely touching the ground as one of the bouncers carries him like a sack of potatoes.

“I was just looking for the bathroom!” the guy protests as he’s deposited unceremoniously on the sidewalk. “I wasn’t trying to sneak in! Please! Be reasonable.”

“Only patrons may use our facilities,” the bouncer growls before turning back toward the entrance.

Great. This is going well.

I didn’t come this far to be turned away by some overgrown humans in suits. I need to get inside that club. I need to find out what Fury is up to.

Straightening my shoulders, I approach the nearest bouncer, who is a mountain of a man with short-cropped hair and cold eyes that scan the crowd.

I’m not worried at all.

“Excuse me,” I say, injecting as much confidence into my voice as possible. I force a smile. “I’d like to be admitted, please.”

He turns his attention to me, and I immediately regret my decision to approach him. Perhaps I should have picked one of the others instead.

This close, I can see the sharp intelligence in his eyes, the way his gaze takes in every detail of my appearance. He doesn’t look impressed at all, which doesn’t bode well for me. But what hits me hardest is the assault on my enhanced senses.

Holy hell, how much cologne is this male wearing?

I have to work not to wrinkle my nose.

He leans in close. His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow.

Then he takes a breath. I know he’s about to tell me to get the hell out of there, but instead, his entire demeanor shifts.

The hardness in his eyes melts away, replaced by something that makes my skin crawl.

His gaze travels slowly down my body, lingering on my legs and then my breasts in a way that makes me want to shift into my dragon form and roast him alive.

But then he smiles; the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Of course, beautiful,” he says, his accent much less pronounced now. “Welcome to Black Blood.”

He steps aside, gesturing toward the entrance with a flourish.

The crowd behind me erupts in protest.

“What the hell?” someone shouts. “We’ve been waiting for hours!”

“This is bullshit!” another voice yells. “She just walked up! And they’re letting her in.”

I don’t stick around to hear the rest of their complaints.

Whatever just happened, whatever made this bouncer change his mind about letting me in, I’m not going to question it.

I stride through the entrance before he can reconsider, sending up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever gods watch over dragon shifters.

The moment I step inside, I’m hit by a wall of sound and sensation that nearly knocks me backward.

The music is thunderous. It’s a deep, pulsing bass that I feel in my bones, accompanied by electronic beats that seem designed to drive people into a frenzy.

The main floor stretches out before me like a vision, packed wall-to-wall with gyrating bodies moving in perfect rhythm to the deafening music.

But it’s not just the volume that overwhelms me. It’s the scents, too.

My enhanced senses are immediately assaulted by a mixture of perfumes, colognes, sweat, alcohol, stale cigarette smoke, and pheromones that creates a nauseating cocktail.

Hundreds of different scents layered on top of each other, creating a sensory overload that would have sent me into a panic spiral if I hadn’t shifted recently.

Thank god for that night in the park with Fury. My dragon is settled enough to handle it.

I force myself to focus, scanning the crowd for any sign of my targets. The dance floor is a sea of beautiful people.

I find no sign of Fury, Thompson, or Webb.

Unfazed, I continue my visual sweep, checking the various seating areas scattered around the perimeter of the main floor, the bars positioned at strategic points throughout the space, even the raised platforms where professional dancers perform.

Nothing.

Where the hell are they?

I realize that I must look completely out of place just standing here. I need to blend in. I also happen to need a drink while I figure out what to do next.

I make my way toward the nearest bar, weaving through the crowd of dancers, who seem completely lost in the music.

The bartender is everything I’d expect from a place like this, from his perfectly sculpted abs visible through his black mesh shirt to his arms covered in tattoos. The guy has a smile that could charm the panties off just about anyone.

“What can I get you?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

“Surprise me,” I say, not really caring what he serves as long as it looks like I’m enjoying myself.

He grins and starts mixing something that involves multiple bottles and a lot of theatrical flair. While he works, I turn back toward the crowd, continuing my search.

Still nothing. It’s like they’ve vanished into thin air.

I scan the opposite bar, the seating areas I couldn’t see from the entrance, even the darker corners, my dragon vision coming in handy.

“One Black Blood Special,” the bartender announces, sliding a dark red cocktail across the bar.

I’m about to reach for my credit card when a large hand appears beside mine, placing a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the bar.

“I’ve got this,” a deep voice says.

I turn to find myself face-to-face with a man who makes me want to take a step back.

He’s huge, almost matching Fury’s impressive height and build. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his suit clearly custom-tailored to show off his powerful frame. But it’s his eyes that capture my attention; they’re a pale, glacial blue. They’re lighter than Fury’s. His are…

Why the hell am I comparing him to Fury? That asshole made it clear where we stand.

“Thank you for the drink,” I say politely, taking a sip of the cocktail. It’s surprisingly good; sweet with a hint of something darker, more complex.

He leans against the bar beside me, close enough to brush up against me. Like the bouncer at the door, he’s wearing too much cologne, though his is more expensive and slightly less offensive.

Maybe it’s a human thing. Maybe their women find it attractive.

I don’t!

“What’s a beautiful woman like you doing alone in a place like this?” he asks.

I have to work not to roll my eyes.

Surely, he can do better than that? Then again, I’m sure human females fall over themselves for a male like this. He is a good specimen, for a human. He probably doesn’t have to work hard to pick someone up.

I take another sip of my drink, using the moment to study his face. He’s handsome, I’ll give him that. The kind of masculine good looks that belong on magazine covers. Several women in the crowd are staring at him with obvious interest.

“I’m meeting friends,” I lie smoothly. Although it isn’t a complete lie.

“Would you mind if I kept you company while you wait?” He gestures toward my drink. He clicks his fingers at the barman, who nods.

What the hell was that?

I lift my cocktail in a mock toast. “Thank you for this, but I’d prefer to wait alone.”

That’s when I look up and see them. I spot Webb’s familiar profile. Thompson is beside him, and even from this distance, I can make out Fury’s huge form.

They are on what appears to be an upper level and they’re seated at a prime table with an excellent view of the main floor.

The man beside me follows my gaze, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “That’s the VIP section.”

I do a quick scan of the area and realize that it’s only accessible by a private elevator.

I nod, noting the pair of massive bouncers flanking the elevator entrance. Getting up there is going to be a problem.

“Who gets admitted to that section?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Looks like it might be fun.” I give a shrug.

His smile widens, and something about his eyes seems to shift, becoming lighter somehow. “It’s by invitation only.”

“Oh…interesting. And how does one get such an invitation?”

Arghhhhh!

How the hell did they get so lucky?

I was hoping to observe them without giving my presence away. But…I need to get closer in order to do that.

He runs his hand over his lightly stubbled jaw. “The owner of the club needs to invite them up. It’s the only way.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug.

I take another sip of my drink, my mind racing.

“Crap,” I mutter, more to myself.

He chuckles, a rich sound that somehow makes me more nervous than I already am. “You’re in luck, though.”

I give him a skeptical look, expecting some cheesy pickup line about how he knows people or can pull strings.

“Why is that?” I frown.

He extends his hand toward me, and when he speaks, I catch the barest hint of an accent I hadn’t noticed before.

“Because I’m Roman Kozlov, and I own this club. If you tell me your name and agree to a drink, I might just extend an invitation.” He smiles.

Just then, the barman puts down a crystal tumbler with what looks like a double shot of whisky inside it. “There you go, Mr. Kozlov, sir.”