Chapter 1

The first blow split Tristan's lip.

He tasted blood before he felt the pain. A hot, metallic tang spread across his tongue, and when he tried to swallow, his throat tightened around it.

“Where is the money?”

Declan was a notorious pimp. He owned the underground club where Tristan worked as a stripper, performing nightly for wealthy alphas who paid generously for the entertainment. But Tristan never saw a cent of that money. He had been working there to repay a debt Declan claimed Tristan’s family owed him, and until it was settled, he had little choice but to do as he was told.

Declan was a man accustomed to having his way. His wealth and influence kept the staff obedient and his clients satisfied, while no one dared question his authority.

Declan stood over him, his polished shoes planted on the concrete. He had removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, as though beating an omega half his own size was such a serious business.

Tristan pressed a trembling hand against his mouth. Blood slipped between his fingers.

“I told you. I didn't take anything.”

Declan struck him again. Tristan's head snapped sideways. His shoulder hit the wall, sending a burst of pain down his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the next blow landed against his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs.

“Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying, stop fucking hitting me!”

The words escaped before Tristan could stop them. For a moment, the room fell silent. Declan stared at him. Tristan knew that look. He had seen it enough times to recognise the instant Declan decided that an ordinary beating would no longer satisfy him.

“You think you can raise your voice at me?”

“No.” Tristan struggled to breathe. “But you can't keep accusing me of stealing money I never touched.”

Declan laughed without humour.

He caught Tristan by the front of his shirt and dragged him away from the wall. The fabric tightened around Tristan's throat. He clawed at Declan's wrist, trying to ease the pressure, but Declan only tightened his grip.

“You owe me a debt. You dance in my club. You eat because I allow it. You sleep under my roof because I haven't thrown you into the street. And now dare to steal from me?”

Blood dropped from Tristan's temples. Declan's fist slammed into Tristan's stomach.

Tristan bent with a strangled gasp. His knees struck the concrete, and he doubled over, arms wrapped around his abdomen. The pain was so sharp that for several seconds, he could do nothing but gasp for air that refused to fill his lungs.

Declan crouched beside him.

“Look at me.”

Tristan kept his head down.

A hand seized his hair and yanked his face upward.

“I said, look at me.”

Tristan met his eyes. Declan's expression was almost pleasant now. That was the part Tristan hated most. The man could be smiling while deciding how much pain another person deserved.

“Did you take the money?”

“No.”

Declan's smile vanished. He struck Tristan across the face. Tristan toppled onto his side. His cheek scraped against the rough concrete, tearing the skin beneath his eye. He tried to push himself up, but Declan's shoe caught him in the ribs and sent him sprawling again.

Pain exploded through his side. A broken sound escaped Tristan's mouth. He curled inward, protecting his stomach and head as the kicks continued. One struck his thigh. Another landed against his back. He felt something give way beneath the pressure, though he couldn't tell whether it was his bones breaking or his breath leaving him.

“Thief!”

Another kick.

“Ungrateful little bastard!”

Another.

Tristan's vision blurred and the overhead light fractured into two bright circles. He could hear Declan breathing above him, the scrape of his shoes against the floor, the dull thud of each impact.

Then Declan stopped. Tristan remained curled on the concrete, afraid to move.

“Get up.”

He tried. His arms shook beneath his weight. His right elbow buckled, and he collapsed with a sharp cry. Blood from his split lip dripped onto the floor, forming small red spots beside his face.

Declan seized his collar and hauled him upright. Tristan's feet barely found the ground before he was shoved against the wall again.

Tristan hated himself for being afraid. He hated the way his body trembled whenever Declan approached. Most of all, he hated that a part of him still hoped the man might suddenly decide he had suffered enough. Declan stared at him, then reached for the wooden baton resting on a nearby table.

Tristan's blood ran cold.

“Please.”

A sinister smile appeared on Declan's face. Declan swung. The baton struck Tristan's shoulder with a crack that made him cry out. He stumbled forward, caught himself against the wall, and tried to shield his head.

The next blow landed across his back. His knees gave way. He hit the floor hard enough to bite his tongue. Fresh blood filled his mouth, and he choked on it before spitting a dark streak onto the concrete.

Declan struck him again. Tristan could no longer keep track of the blows. His shoulder burned. His back throbbed with every shallow breath. Something warm trickled beneath his shirt, and when he reached back, his fingertips came away red. He stared at them. For one terrible second, he thought he might vomit.

“Enough.”

The voice came from the doorway.