The music pulsed through the club like a living thing—low, slow, seductive. The scent of smoke, spilled whiskey, and sin lingered in the air like perfume. All eyes were on the center stage, where she moved like fire and silk.
Raven.
No last name. No past. Just her stage name and the steel in her spine.
Wearing nothing but thigh-high black stilettos, a blood-red thong, and glitter dusted over her bare shoulders, she twirled slowly around the pole, her body coiling like smoke, her long black hair flowing behind her like a curtain of night. Tips littered the floor, but she didn't even glance at them. She never danced for the crowd.
She danced for control.
And for survival.
A spotlight followed her every curve, but she could still feel his eyes—the ones hidden in the shadows of the private VIP booth above, where no one else was allowed to sit.
He never came down. He never spoke. But every time she danced, he watched.
Dante Moretti.
The Devil of the East Side. The man who ran the city's underworld with a glass of scotch in one hand and blood on the other.
The man who owned this club.
And now, maybe, the man who owned her.
Raven twirled down the pole with a practiced slowness, her back arching as her knees bent into a split that sent the crowd roaring. But even through the haze of lights, she could feel it—that burn, as if someone had placed a hand around her throat from a distance.
His gaze was like a brand.
He hadn't spoken a word to her in the three months since she'd started working at Inferno, his notorious club that doubled as a playground for the wealthy and the wicked. But every night, when she stepped on stage, he was there.
Watching.
Claiming without touching.
Commanding without speaking.
And it was starting to get under her skin.
She straightened slowly, her hips swaying as she reached for the velvet curtain. Her song was nearly over, and she never stayed longer than necessary. That was her rule. One she never broke.
Until tonight.
"Private show. Room 13," the stage manager whispered in her ear before she could step offstage. "He asked for you. Alone."
Her blood turned cold.
Room 13.
No dancer ever got invited there.
She turned her head slightly toward the VIP booth in the shadows. The red light was glowing.
That meant he was still watching.
Her throat tightened, but she nodded anyway, slipping backstage with her heart beating too loud in her ears. She didn't need to ask who had requested her.
Only one man could break the rules in this place.
And she had just become his.
Room 13 was at the far end of the hallway, away from the crowd, past the regular champagne rooms and private lounges. She'd never been there before, and the further she walked, the more the walls seemed to close in.
She hesitated at the heavy black door, marked only by a brass number: 13.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.
"Are you scared, little dancer?"
His voice slid through the darkness like velvet and glass. Deep. Rough. Dangerous.
She stepped into the room slowly.
He was seated on a leather chair, legs spread like a king on his throne, a crystal glass in his hand, ice clinking softly.
He wore black on black—suit, shirt, and tie. Not a single wrinkle. Not a single speck of emotion in his eyes.
"Should I be?" she asked, voice calm, even as her pulse raced like wildfire.
He tilted his head.
"That depends. Are you hiding anything from me?"
Her breath caught.
Did he know?
She swallowed hard, masking the flicker of panic behind a sultry sway of her hips.
"People come here to forget who they are," she said, stepping closer, trying not to let her legs buckle beneath his stare. "I thought that was the whole point of the club."
"I don't forget," he replied simply, standing slowly.
He was tall. Taller than she expected. And when he walked toward her, he didn't stop until the space between them crackled like static.
"You dance like you don't care who watches," he said, reaching up to trail a gloved finger down her bare arm. "But I've been watching. And you don't dance for the money, do you?"
She forced a smirk. "Maybe I like the attention."
"I don't share what's mine."
Her heart stumbled.
"I'm not yours," she whispered.
A slow smile curved his lips. But there was no warmth in it.
"You are now."