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Juliet

T he lights hit me like heat, blinding and electric, but I smile anyway. That sugar-sweet, all-American grin they eat up like candy. I spin the pom-poms, kick high, and land into the rhythm of the song pulsing through the club like a second heartbeat.

This place is alive at night. Sweaty, hungry, thick with pheromones masked just enough by rules and tech and pretense. But I feel it. Always. It has become part of me.

During the day I am Juliet, a nineteen-year-old hidden omega, with tattoos from shoulder to hip bone. But right now, I’m The Cheerleader. One of the best burlesque dancers at Dark Side of the Moon.

Someone catcalls near the front of the stage, some beta with more alcohol in his body than sense. I flash him a wink but keep my distance. I never break character and I never get too close. I never let them know what or who I am behind the layers of makeup and cute outfits I wear on stage.

The patch behind my ear itches like hell.

My routine ends in a split, choreographed and precise.

The applause hits hard. All I am wearing is a bright orange thong with my pretty orange-and-blue pom-poms covering my naked breasts.

Rising, I blow a kiss, then strut off the stage like I own it.

Like I’m not terrified that someone might smell past the suppression patch someday and see the truth beneath all the glitter and attitude.

Backstage is chaos and neon. Corsets hang like skeletons on the wall hooks, and someone’s yelling about a broken heel. I keep my head down, make my way toward the dressing rooms, but...

“Juliet.”

His voice freezes me mid-step. Abel. My hot, older boss and the owner of Dark Side of the Moon.

He’s an Alpha. Built like a damn mountain, and all I want to do is climb on top of him and rub myself against his burly chest. Not that I would ever act on it.

He’s one of my father’s acquaintances and he’s pushing forty.

But the Goddess knows, I want to lick each and every tattoo he keeps barely hidden beneath his clothes. But he is also a complete asshole. Just as all Alphas are.

I wrap myself in a pure white silk kimono before I turn and meet his gaze. He leans against the hallway wall like he was born to stand there, arms crossed over his massive chest, thick forearms inked with something dark and indecipherable. He watches me like he’s sizing me up. Like he always does.

“Nice routine,” he says. His tone is dry, unimpressed.

“Thanks, Boss,” I say, all bubble and sugar. “I aim to please.”

He steps forward, slowly. I hold my ground, but my pulse spikes. Not from fear. From something worse. Something I will never act on.

His eyes narrow. “Are you sweating through that patch again?”

I shrug. “It’s a hundred degrees under those lights. It’s not my fault that the technology hasn’t caught up with our biology.”

He says nothing for a beat. Then he’s in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something dark and old and expensive.

My body reacts without permission. My omega instincts curl inward and watch him.

I can feel slick gathering between my thighs and pray the patch holds until he leaves and I can replace it.

“You know the rules,” he says. “Don’t make me regret letting you work here.”

“I know the rules,” I snap, my mask slipping for just a second. “Better than most.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. Something intense. But then it’s gone.

He nods once, turns, and walks away without another word.

I exhale. Slowly. My hands shake, but just a little.

Because for one second, just one, I thought he could smell me.

I push into the bathroom and slam the door behind me.

The mirror’s cracked. Again. Glitter is smeared across the counter, and someone’s fake lashes are stuck to the glass like dead spiders.

I peel off my stage underwear, toss it in the bin marked CHEERLEADER like a good little doll, and sit down hard.

The chair squeaks under me, tired of the weight I’m putting on it.

Me too, buddy . I rip open the compact cooler on my station and pull out a fresh suppression patch.

Peel. Press. Count to ten while it adheres to the skin just below my jawline.

It burns, a tiny reminder that I don’t get to be what I am.

Being an omega in a club full of Alphas and betas isn’t just risky, it’s suicidal. But I’m careful. I’ve been careful since day one. Abel made the rules for a reason. He doesn’t bend them. Ever. Which is the only reason I’m still here.

That, and because my dad used to run with him back in the old days.

I don’t know what they did together, and I don’t ask.

All I know is that when I showed up at eighteen with zero options, no pack, and an attitude problem, Abel didn’t slam the door in my face.

He didn’t exactly roll out a welcome mat, either.

A knock rattles the door. “What?” I snap.

“The Vixen needs her pasties back,” calls a voice from the hallway.

“Then she can come get them herself,” I snap in reply.

I hear laughter fading as whoever it is walks away. I rest my forehead against the cracked mirror.

The club’s alive outside this room. Bass thumping through the floorboards, shouts and howls from drunk shifters. It’s a show. A circus. And every night, I’m the goddamn ringmaster in a pleated skirt and knee-high socks shaking my pom-poms.

And yet ... part of me likes it. No, I don’t like it, I fucking love it.

Not the performing. Not the fakeness. But the power.

I may be an omega, but in here, I run the room, the entire damn world.

I make Alphas beg with one wink. I control the heat of their gaze with the curve of a hip.

They don't know what I am—they think I’m some beta with attitude—and that makes me feel safe.

Safer than I’ve felt in years. But it is making me complacent and I need to keep my wits about me.

I lean back and stretch. The door creaks open.

“What the hell?” I grab for my kimono but it’s too late.

Abel’s already in the doorway. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. His eyes drag down my body like they have every right to. The heat in his gaze sends desire spiraling through my system.

I pull the kimono tight around my frame and glare at him. “Do you mind?”

He steps in and closes the door behind him. Just like that. Like he owns the space. Well, technically, he does.

“You didn’t finish your shift notes,” he says, dropping a clipboard onto the counter. “Next time I have to chase you down, I’ll dock your pay.”

My heart slams in my chest, hard enough I think he might hear it.

“What are you even doing back here? The owner doesn’t usually slum it up with the dancers.” I avoid the issue at hand. I fucking hate paperwork. I’m here to dance, not write notes.

He shrugs, walking around the room like he’s casing the place. “Maybe I wanted to make sure The Cheerleader was keeping her panties on tonight.”

Heat shoots up my spine. Not from embarrassment, from rage. He has no right to speak to me that way and I am quickly getting tired of his bullshit.

“You’re disgusting,” I hiss.

He turns to me. “You’re in my club, Juliet. Don’t forget that, little girl.”

“You may be my boss, but you are not my Alpha. What I do in my private time has fuck all to do with you.” The words are out of my mouth before I can reconsider what I am saying.

His nostrils flare. For a split-second, something wild flashes across his face. It’s gone so fast I almost think I imagined it. Almost.

He takes a step closer, and my breath catches. My body wants to submit. I want to bare my throat, drop to my knees, and let him have his way with me. But I clench my fists and fight back against the urge.

“Watch your mouth,” he says lowly, glaring at me. “I don’t care who your father is.”

“You say that, but he’s the reason you gave me a job.” I smirk.

“I gave you a job because you were desperate, and I’m not a monster,” he counters.

He could’ve fooled me. We stare at each other. The air between us feels like a live wire, buzzing and sharp. Then he turns and walks out, just as fast as he came in. No apology. No explanation. He’s just gone.

I wait until I hear the door click shut before I let out the breath I’ve been holding. My pulse is still racing and my skin feels too tight. The new patch isn’t kicking in fast enough, and I feel wrong, like the room is too small and the walls are pressing in.

Something’s coming. I don’t know what it is yet. But I know it’s got Abel’s name all over it.

As I’m packing up my things, the hallway lights flicker, just once, like a warning.

I brush it off, but my skin prickles. Down the hall, I hear the click of boots.

Heavy. Measured. Abel walks past my dressing room without a word.

But he pauses. Just long enough to make sure I know he’s still there.

Just long enough to remind me who owns this place.

Just long enough to make my patch sting like it’s trying to peel itself off.

I press my fingers to the skin at my jaw, breathing slow. It’s fine.

I’m fine. Everything is fucking fine. I don’t care what kind of look he just gave me. I don’t care how deep his voice gets when he says my name. I don’t care that something in my blood reacts every time he’s close. Because he doesn’t know what I am. And if he ever finds out I’m screwed.

I may need to find a new job.