Maddoc, though, he knew how much Raven liked this place and wasn’t okay with her being out in the open constantly, so he had it redone.

While the outside is still old and beat down looking, stepping inside is like entering some sort of black cards club.

Walls have been put up, thick, black and white stripes covering three of them, a large wolf head painted across the center, black where the white stripe is, white where the black is.

The fourth, the longest back part of the building, is rich, royal blue, thick white lettering above it reading The Wolves Den.

There’s a bar stretching along it, leaving about five feet at each end, where matte black curtains are hung. They curve outward, forming a crescent-like shape, hiding whatever is beyond them.

Each corner of this place holds something different, couches that match the color of the back wall are grouped to the farthest right, surrounding a giant TV mounted high, ESPN playing across it while the outer left has a poker table set up and ready to go—Captain sits at one of the tables, must be where he plans to spend his night.

The front left is plush leather chairs and mini tables, another TV, while the front right, where I’m standing by the door, is a long row of lockers. Where they expect people to leave their shit maybe?

I glance back when I notice Raven stand, an oversized jacket swallowing her small frame, to hide her stomach still, I’m guessing. Maddoc is already on his feet, leading her behind the hidden area on the left.

Royce’s phone pings in his pocket and his eyes slide back to mine. “That’s the church bell, VicVee. Time to be kings for peasants.”

My mind spins, but I don’t have to wonder what he’s talking about long.

“Royce!” a bubbly voice squeals.

I’m almost knocked back when long, thin arms fly past my face to wrap around his neck.

“Ladies, come in.” He shifts to the side. “Victoria here is channeling her mama tonight,” he says and I grow stiff.

As far as everyone around here knows I’m nothing but a handout kid, parentless and living in a home for ‘free,’ a group home girl.

Thankfully, these girls are more interested in Royce himself and not his words at the moment.

“She’s playing maid lady tonight. Whatever you need, she’s your girl.” He smirks like a dickhead. “Put your phones in one hand and purses in the other.”

Wow.

“Oh, boo, but I wanted to Snap some pics tonight,” one girl says, her voice coming out completely whiny and desperate, but she sticks her lip out like it’s supposed to be cute and flutters her lashes as if he cares.

He doesn’t, and he doesn’t do desperate.

He nods his chin at the tall, intimidating dude with braids who stands just outside the entrance.

Dude slides in, wraps an arm around her shoulder and spins her on her heels.

“Hey, wha—”

“Don’t make it worse, girl,” he whispers as he leads her out.

Royce turns to the others, all three standing wide-eyed and unsure.

“Trash is out, ready to party?” He grins, unfazed.

Three words from him and their fourth friend is forgotten.

They swiftly pull their phones from their bags as instructed and step toward me.

I roll my eyes, holding my palms out without so much as a pause and Royce steps back with a smirk.

The last chick takes forever to pass off her stuff, applying what must be a fifth coat of gloss to her lips.

“Oh my god, Amber, hurry up!” her friends complain.

“What?” She shrugs, finally handing her bag over. “I need to be all shiny and plump. I heard Captain likes that.”

My muscles lock.

Royce was waiting for it, and his grin grows a little deeper, a lot nastier.

So these girls are their entertainment for the night, this is why Captain wanted me here.

A sick burn races up my stomach and into my ribs, but I’d never show it.

“Ladies, let Victoria know what you want to drink, she can deliver it to us.” He wraps an arm around two of them. “Make it quick, Rora. We’ll be behind the right curtain.”

Asshole.

I take a deep breath and walk to the bar, ignoring Chloe and Mac who are relaxing with drinks on a set of barstools.

Chloe watches me as I slip behind the counter instead of giving the orders to the grunge dude taking them.

I quickly pour the stupid champagne but leave some room and top it off with a little less than a double shot of gin. They’ll never know, and they won’t dare complain after their girl got kicked out for thinking her wants mattered.

Let’s see how well they can perform later when they can’t even walk.

Brayshaws don’t do sloppy.

Chloe chuckles, and then a stir stick is pushed into my line of sight.

I eye her a moment, then take it and give a light swirl, tossing it to the granite top after. I lock my fingers around the edges to support my weight, holding her gaze.

She leans over, grabs the gin and signals for the guy, who drops an empty glass in front of her.

Mac eyes us both as she fills it to the brim, the contents spilling onto her fingers as she slides it my way. “I don’t know what’s going on or why you’re on socialite duty, but something tells me you can handle your liquor, and that you might need that.” She doesn’t make me ask, which is good because I wouldn’t have, and offers her explanation anyway. “The chick in there, the one with the pink shorts, is Amber, and she’s wanted Captain since sixth grade. This is her first invite.”

I tap my fingertips along the rim of the glass then lift it, allowing the sweet yet piney liquid to warm my throat. I look to Chloe. “Why are you telling me this?”

She grins at the empty glass a moment, before looking to me.

“Because I know a scorned Brayshaw when I see one. Clearly you fucked up, I can see it, even though it’s not common knowledge to others how bad he wants to screw you… in both ways.” She places her elbows on the countertop, dropping her chin atop her interlocked fingers. “And because she’s a competitive gymnast, and you’re just… you.”

“You couldn’t help it, could you?”

She shrugs, hiding her grin in her drink as I hold mine back.

Mac chuckles, shaking his head, and offers to help me carry the drinks, but I ignore him and walk to the end of the bar, squaring my shoulders before I slip behind the black curtain.

The second I’m on the other side of the expensive material, strong, fluorescent eyes demand mine and hold, but I force my gaze over his shoulder, and I’m met with my own reflection across the room.

Mirrors all around.

There are no ‘walls’ to be seen—only yourself and everything surrounding you, and more than one of each.

Soft, tranquil music comes from every direction—how it’s not heard outside this room, I don’t know.

A black velvet curved couch makes up all edges, and it takes me a second to realize I’m raised higher than the seating area, higher than the others in the room.

A stage.

I take the three smalls steps to the floor level, a sparkly black tile, maybe even marble. There are a few end tables here and there, ice buckets sitting atop them.

Royce reaches out, taking the two drinks closest to him without a word, so I move one from my right over to my left, now holding a flute in each hand.