Scarlett’s POV

​I walked up to a man who looked like he was in charge of the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I’d like to be one of the dancers tonight," I said, pitching my voice lower.

​He looked me up and down, his eyes scanning my silhouette beneath the hoodie. "Can you dance?"

​"Yes," I replied, with a confidence I didn’t truly feel but needed to project.

​"Well, lucky me," he grunted, checking his watch. "One of the girls called in sick ten minutes ago, and the headliner is about to go on. Go to the back. There’s a bin of masks and outfits. Pick something and be on stage in five."

​I couldn’t believe it was that easy. I hurried to the changing room, the air thick with the smell of hairspray and cheap perfume. I stripped off my clothes, my hands shaking. Zoe, I called out to my wolf, I need you to go deep. Subdue yourself completely. He can’t sense a single drop of our power.

​I understand, Scarlett, she whispered, her presence fading into a tiny, cold spark at the back of my mind.

​I looked in the mirror after I finished changing. I had chosen a sheer, shimmering wrap that caught the light and a silver feathered mask that covered the top half of my face. I even wore a red wig...

​What I was doing was incredibly risky—Leonard was an Alpha, his senses were sharp—but I couldn’t help it. I had spent the afternoon in Leo’s arms, but the sight of Leonard sitting there, so broken and alone, had pulled at a string in my heart I thought had snapped long ago. I just wanted to touch him. Just once.

​The music shifted to a heavy, pulsing beat. I was called out, and I stepped onto the stage.

​Dancing had always been a talent I had effortlessly, a way to move when words failed. I took to the pole, my body curving and swaying with a grace that made the men in the front row whistle and shout. But my eyes were only on one person.

​Leonard.

​But he wasn’t looking at the stage. He was staring into his glass, his shoulders slumped, his entire aura radiating a grief so heavy it felt like it was suffocating the air around his table. I danced and I danced, performing moves that were daring and fluid, praying to get his attention. I wanted him to look up. I wanted to see those sharp, intelligent eyes, even if they were filled with hate.

​But nothing. He remained lost in his thoughts, a man drowning on dry land.

​Finally, the stage set ended. It was time for personal dances if the girls wanted the extra tips. Men were calling out to me, waving bills, but I ignored them all. I stepped off the stage and walked straight toward Leonard’s corner.

​I reached his table and cleared my throat, forcing my voice into a husky, breathless tone that sounded nothing like the girl he grew up with. "Sir? Do you care for a lap dance?"

​"No," he said instantly, his voice cold and flat.

​But then, he paused. He slowly lifted his eyes to me.

​The moment our gazes met, my heart broke. His eyes weren’t just tired; they were bloodshot and raw. He looked like he was on the very edge of tears, his jaw tight as if he were physically holding himself together.

​We both froze. The air between us turned electric, and for a terrifying second, I thought he knew. My breath hitched in my throat. Zoe, stay down, I pleaded.

​I composed myself, forcing a small, teasing smile onto my lips. "A dance? It might help clear your head."

​He remained silent, his eyes searching the silver feathers of my mask, drifting down to the line of my throat. My heart raced. Damn... this was a bad idea. What was I thinking? Being this close to him, smelling the whiskey and the forest-scented musk that was so uniquely him... it was torture.

​"Sorry," I whispered, my voice wavering. "I see you are in a bad mood."

​I turned to leave, my chest aching with the need to just run back to my room.

​"Wait," he said.

​I stopped in my tracks, my back still turned to him. My skin prickled as I felt his gaze burning into me, tracing the line of my spine and the curve of my waist. My heart raced faster in my chest, hammering against my ribs so hard I feared he might hear it over the thudding bass of the club music.

​I slowly turned back to face him. Up close, the damage was even worse. The shadows under Leonard’s eyes were deep, and there was a tremor in his hand as he reached for his glass. He didn’t look like the Alpha... he looked like a man who had been hollowed out from the inside.

​"You..." he started, raising a suspicious brow at me. He cleared his throat, trying to regain that Alpha iron, but it was brittle. "Why me? There are a dozen men in here throwing money at your feet. Why me?"

​I let out a soft, melodic laugh—a sound I had practiced in Nigeria to sound nothing like the girl he used to know. I leaned against the edge of his table, the silver feathers of my mask shimmering under the strobe lights.

​"Maybe I prefer the men who don’t shout," I whispered, my voice a smoky, fabricated husk. "There is a specific kind of sexiness in silence, Sir."

​Leonard’s eyes narrowed, his pupils dilating as he studied me. For a terrifying second, I thought he saw through the mask, through the suppressed scent, straight into my soul. He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the sheer fabric at my hip before he pulled back, as if burned.

​"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the chair across from him.

​I didn’t take the chair. Instead, I stepped into the small space between his knees, my heart jumping into my throat as I felt the heat radiating from his body. I could smell him now—the sharp smell of expensive whiskey mixed with the deep dark chocolate musk and burnt wood that had always belonged to Leonard. It was so familiar it hurt.

​"I didn’t come here to sit," I breathed, placing my hands lightly on his shoulders.

​He stiffened, his muscles turning hard beneath my palms. He should have pushed me away. He should have snapped at me to leave him alone. But he didn’t. He let out a long, sharp exhale, his head tilting back as he looked up at me.

​"Just a dance," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "No talking. Just... move."