Chapter 1 The Price of a Debt

The lemonade slides cool down my throat, acrid and sharp against the bass vibrating through the floorboards. I keep my fingers wrapped around the glass, condensation beading against my palm, and let my gaze sweep the club like I'm counting exits. I always count exits.

The bartender avoids my eyes. Good. He knows what I am before I open my mouth.

Tina's a blur of blonde hair and bare skin on the dance floor, laughing too loud, spinning too free. She doesn't know what kind of places her father's protection buys her entry to. She never has to know.

I taste the lemon again. Sour. Sharp. Grounding.

They're watching from the balcony. I felt it before I saw it—that weight of attention that pins you in place like a gun barrel against your temple. Two of them. The older one hasn't blinked since I sat down. His eyes are black from here. Coal black. And they haven't left me once.

The younger one grins when our gazes meet. That's worse. The grin means he's already playing.

I don't look away. I never look away.

---

Roman slides onto the barstool beside me like he owns it. Expensive cologne. Cigarette smoke embedded in the fabric of his jacket. His hand lands on my lower back before he speaks, calloused and warm, too familiar.

"You here alone, pretty thing?"

"No. I'm here with my bsf."

His gaze slides toward Tina, slow and lazy, and he hums like she's a meal he's already tasting. "Good." His fingers press harder into my spine. "Then you two can come join my brother and me. He's been dying to meet you."

"Why."

The grin sharpens. His hand presses deeper, a reminder of who he is, what he carries beneath that jacket. He nods toward the balcony, and I follow the gesture.

The older one hasn't moved. Just sits there in the shadows, watching me like I'm already his.

"Because he never waits for what he wants," Roman says, low and amused. "And what he wants right now is you."

"No." I set the glass down. "You could ask my bsf if she wants to. Then I decide."

Roman barks a laugh, loud enough that heads turn on the dance floor. He whistles sharp, two fingers to his lips, and Tina's head snaps up like a dog called to heel. His hand stays on my back, possessive and light.

"Already handling it. She's coming either way. You think I'd leave her out?"

"Tina. Come here."

She stumbles off the dance floor, cheeks flushed, sweat beading at her hairline. She blinks at Roman's hand on me, then at his face, her lips parting with that familiar surprise that means she's already curious.

"What's going on?"

"This person is asking us to join them."

Roman's arm slides off my back and wraps around Tina's waist before she can step away, pulling her flush against his chest. He winks at me, thumb brushing the curve of her hip like he's testing the fit.

"See? She already looks ready to go. Zade's got the good whiskey, doesn't he?"

Tina's breath catches. She nods before she thinks about it. Of course she does.

"Fine. If she agreed."

Roman laughs, steering us both toward the VIP stairs. The crowd parts. It always does.

---

The air changes up here. Thicker. Colder. The bass still pounds through the floor, but it feels distant now, muffled by the wealth in the leather, the cut of the suits, the weight of the guns I know they're carrying.

Zade stands when I reach the top of the stairs. He's broader than I expected, sharper, his black suit tailored like armor. He gestures to the leather couch beside him, his voice low and rough.

"Sit. Tell me what your father told you about me."

I don't sit. "Do I even know you?"

His mouth tugs at one corner, just barely. He leans forward to push a glass of whiskey across the table toward me, the amber liquid catching the dim light.

"You'll know me soon enough. Better than anyone else knows you."

My fingers brush the cool glass. I don't lift it. I don't drink what I haven't seen poured.

Behind me, Roman has already pulled Tina onto his lap, his arm slung loose around her middle, his mouth finding her neck. She giggles. She doesn't know the danger in that laugh.

I hold Zade's gaze. His eyes are black. Coal black. Flat and unreadable, like a wall I can't climb.

He waits.

Then he leans back, one ankle crossed over his knee, thumb brushing the rim of his glass slow and deliberate.

"Your father owes me a debt. I'm taking you as payment."

My chest goes cold. "My father. Impossible."

He barks a laugh, sharp and cold, setting his glass down hard enough that whiskey sloshes over the rim. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur.

"Your father already agreed. He shook my hand on it last week. You just didn't know."

The words hit like a blade between the ribs. I keep my face still. I've had practice.

"Then why is Tina here? If my father took the debt."

Zade's eyes flicker to Roman, who's still nuzzling Tina's neck, making her giggle against his mouth. He looks back at me, his mouth set in that cold, steady line.

"Roman wants his own. Your father brought your friend into this when he shook my hand. No takebacks."

"I refuse."

His expression doesn't shift. But his hand curls into a fist on the arm of the couch, leather creaking under the pressure. He stands, slow, imposing, stepping toward me until the heat of his body wraps around me like a cage, his scent—whiskey and tobacco and something darker—filling my lungs.

"You think I care what you refuse?" His voice is low, rough with authority. "You've been mine since I saw you sitting at that bar."

"Don't you think you could make me yours."

He reaches up. His thumb brushes the line of my jaw, calloused and warm. His hold tightens, just enough to make my breath catch. He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear, his voice certain as stone.

"I don't think. I know. You've already been mine. You just haven't admitted it to yourself yet."

"I am not yours. And that's final."

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his thumb still resting on my jaw. A slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips. He tastes the defiance. He likes it.

"Final or not, you're still here. Still talking to me. That's already a start."

I don't answer. I turn my head just enough to break his grip.

"Let's go. Tina."

She tries to stand. Roman's arm tightens around her waist, holding her pinned against him. He nips her shoulder playfully, and she squeaks, squirming but not fighting.

Zade's hand slides from my jaw to wrap around my wrist, unbreakable.

"She doesn't have to leave. But you aren't going anywhere tonight."

"What do you mean, tonight?"

He tugs me closer until my chest presses against his. His dark eyes glint with possession. His mouth brushes mine, warm and demanding, just barely, just enough to make my stomach drop.

"I mean you're staying here. With me. Just like your friend is staying with Roman."

"No. We're not."

Roman laughs into Tina's neck, his hand sliding up her thigh. Zade doesn't laugh. He holds my gaze, his mouth still hovering an inch from mine, his grip unyielding.

"You are. Your father gave you to me. I don't return what's mine."

The bass pounds through the floor. Tina giggles somewhere behind me. And Zade's thumb traces my jawline, patient and certain.

I meet his black eyes.

"No. I am not."

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