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LIORA

T he bassline crawls under my skin like a living thing, low and hungry, thudding in time with the shadows that curl around my ankles. Lights strobe overhead—blood red, then violet—casting fractured halos over the floor as I move. The platform beneath my boots is slick with sweat and spilled drinks, but I don’t miss a step.

This club breathes sin, and I’ve learned to move like I belong to it.

The rhythm owns the room, but up here? I command the stage. It’s my job to.

“Dark goddess,” the regulars call me. Not that they know how close they are.

The glamor clings to my skin like oil and silk, shimmering faintly beneath the low light, hiding things it’s better they never see. Tattoos—living runes—shift slow and silent over my ribs and arms, whispering secrets to the air. The humans think they’re body paint. Art. Maybe a branding thing.

They think a lot of things.

But no one questions the girl with violet eyes when she’s dancing like sin incarnate.

That’s why I took this job in the first place—freedom in plain sight. Most people only see what they want to see when the music’s loud enough and their drinks are full.

And I keep it that way.

The floor below me sways with bodies—sweat-slicked, wide-eyed, and high on whatever they took to make the night feel endless. The energy feeds me. Not literally—dark fae don’t feed like that—but there’s something intoxicating about moving through their hunger without letting them touch you.

Except tonight… the air’s wrong.

Tight. Tense. Heavy.

I can feel it in the way my skin prickles under the lights. In the way my breath catches as I pivot, slow and sinuous, wrapping my arms above my head. Something sharp slices through the atmosphere.

Power.

Not the lusty, weak kind bleeding off the crowd. No, this is ancient. Clean and hard-edged, like steel drawn in the dark.

My stomach dips. My pulse stutters.

I force a smile, arch my back, twist into the next movement like nothing’s changed. Eyes still watching. Always watching. But not like this.

I sweep the room slowly, like I’m playing to the crowd, but really, I’m hunting the source.

And then I find him.

Up on the second-floor overlook, half-swallowed by shadow, is a man who doesn’t belong here. Tall, broad, dressed in black like he walked out of a war and didn’t bother to dust himself off.

And those eyes—ice-gray, sharp, focused —they lock on mine like a shot to the chest.

Shit.

I stumble—just barely. But I never stumble.

His mouth doesn’t move. No smile. No shock. Just quiet, lethal awareness. Like he already knows I’m not what I pretend to be.

I tear my gaze away and drop low into a spin, dragging the attention of the crowd back toward me with a flash of thigh and a slow, practiced arch. Someone whistles. Another throws a crumpled bill toward the edge of the stage.

I ignore them.

My focus is wrapped around the man on the balcony like a tether pulled tight.

What the hell is he?

He doesn’t move like a human. Doesn’t feel like one, either. Not PEACE, though he’s got the predator stance. Could be a rogue, a hunter, hell, maybe even a pissed-off guardian.

I risk another glance up.

He’s gone.

I spin again, faster this time, heart pounding against the cage of my ribs. The runes on my skin start to shimmer, agitated by whatever energy he brought with him. The lights flicker—just slightly, just enough to make the crowd murmur—but I know what it means.

I push glamour harder into my limbs, sweat slick on my back as I move into the final sequence of the set. The crowd is eating it up—none the wiser—but I feel like I’m dancing for my damn life.

As the music fades, I turn and drop to a crouch, spine curved, chin lifted. A final pose to close the show.

They clap. Some cheer. The regular in the leather vest throws up a heart with his fingers.

But I don’t feel victorious.

I feel hunted.

Backstage is just a hallway behind the stage curtain, more shadows than light, and it smells like hairspray, lavender oil, and warm metal. I grab my robe, yank it over my shoulders, and press a hand to my stomach.

The magic is stirring . Unhappy. Alert.

“Hey, Nightshade,” calls the manager, a human woman with way too much contour and not enough common sense. “You’ve got two more sets. Ten-minute break. Don’t disappear again, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, not turning. “Sure.”

I walk to the end of the hallway, toward the emergency exit—the one I’m not supposed to use. The door’s sealed, the lock runic. Mine. Just in case. I press two fingers to the sigil and exhale softly. The door clicks open.

The alley behind the club is dark and wet. Rain must’ve passed through while I was onstage. I lean against the brick, trying to calm my pulse.

The magic still whispers. Something’s not right.

A gust of wind rips through the alley—and then I smell it.

Wolfsbane. Iron. And dominance.

He’s close.

I don’t move.

“You’re not just a dancer.”

The voice is behind me, low and rough, the kind that drags across skin like grit. My fingers twitch toward the glamor. I turn slowly.

And there he is, standing at the end of the alley like he belongs to the night itself.

“Neither are you,” I say, voice sharper than I mean it to be.

His eyes narrow. He steps closer.

“Name?”

“Don’t need one,” I say, tugging the robe tighter. “You here to pay for a private set, or just to stalk me?”

“I saw what you did up there. You don’t cast a shadow like that by accident.”

His scent is smoke and pine laced with something that makes me more curious than I like. Alpha. Definitely.

I should run.

Instead, I tilt my head, flashing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “You want a dance that bad? Go book it like everyone else.”

“I’m not like everyone else.”

Yeah. No shit.

Before I can snap back, the air twists again.

Cold. Malicious. Familiar.

A whisper curls down my spine like a finger: Mine, little fae.

I flinch.

The guy’s head snaps around. His body moves on instinct, stepping between me and the darkness pooling at the alley’s mouth.

“What the hell is that?” he growls.

“Trouble,” I breathe, eyes wide before slipping back inside.