Chapter 2

Declan lowered the baton. A man stood outside the room, dressed in a dark suit. He glanced at Tristan's crumpled body, then at the blood on the floor.

“The clients are arriving,” he said and adjusted his suit jacket. “You wanted the omega ready before nine.”

Declan clicked his tongue.

“Then he should have thought of that before stealing from me.”

The man didn't argue. He simply looked away. Tristan wanted to scream at him, to demand that he do something. Anything. But the man turned and walked out. Of course he did. Nobody at the club intervened when Declan became violent. The staff had learned that protecting Tristan was a good way to become the next target.

Declan tossed the baton onto the table.

“Clean yourself up.”

Tristan remained on the floor, breathing through clenched teeth.

Declan nudged his thigh with the toe of his shoe.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Then move.”

Tristan planted his palms on the concrete and forced himself onto his knees. The movement sent pain through his ribs, and he had to stop to steady his breathing. Declan watched him struggle.

“You're going to dress clean and dance for those men.”

Tristan lifted his head.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Please…” it escaped Tristan's lips like a whimper. “I'm injured."

“Fuck you to think I care.”

Tristan stared at him, momentarily unable to speak. Declan leaned closer.

“You will wash your face, put on something decent, and go out there with a smile. Those men have paid for an entertaining evening and you and I know that it's not everyday alphas can pay to have a pretty omega with the current scarcity. I won't have you ruining my business because you decided to steal.”

Tristan's fingers curled against the floor. He wanted to say something. He wanted to defend himself, but he knew it would earn him more beatings. He was tired of swallowing every insult, every threat, every humiliation. He was tired of pretending that obedience might eventually earn him mercy.

Declan grabbed him by the jaw.

“Listen carefully, you stupid little omega. You have no money, no protection, and nobody powerful enough to stop me. You can either make yourself useful or discover what happens to people who aren't.”

He released Tristan with a shove.

“Ten minutes.”

Declan left, slamming the door behind him. Tristan sat against the wall, his breathing uneven. He looked down at his bloodied hands. His knuckles were scraped, his lip had swollen, and the slightest movement made his ribs ache. He pressed his palm against his side and felt a fresh wave of nausea.

He could take a risk and refuse to dance. He could stay in that room until Declan returned and beat him again. Or he could walk out there, endure another night of unwanted hands and false smiles, and hope that tomorrow would be different.

---

By the time Tristan reached the dressing room, the club had begun to fill. He reached for the drawer where he had hidden the money he stole and a small smile appeared on his face. At least, he wasn't beaten for nothing. He would save up this money until he could escape from Declan's club.

Music pulsed through the walls and the smell of cigarette smoke filled the air as alphas customers busied themselves in what they knew how to do best.

Tristan gripped the edge of the dressing table and lowered himself into a chair. His reflection stared back at him.

He had a swollen lip, a darkening bruise beneath one eye and blood drying along his jaw. He looked terrible.

A first-aid kit sat beneath the table. Tristan opened it with unsteady fingers and cleaned the blood from his face. He pressed a cold cloth against his cheek, then examined the scrape near his eye. It wasn't deep, but the skin around it had begun to swell.

His back was worse. He couldn't inspect all the bruising, but the movement of his shoulders told him enough. He took a few shallow breaths and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Then he opened the wardrobe. The clothes inside were arranged by colour, each outfit chosen to catch the attention of the club's wealthiest customers. Some were sheer, others fitted tightly around the waist and thighs. A few had been designed to leave very little to the imagination.

Tristan selected a black silk shirt and narrow trousers. The fabric slid over his skin, soft enough to make him think of a life in which he could wear something beautiful simply because he liked it and not because he was forced to wear it for alphas.

He buttoned the shirt carefully, wincing when his arms moved too far behind him. He left the top buttons open, not out of invitation, but because the collar pressed against the bruising around his throat.

When he stood, his ribs protested. He steadied himself against the wardrobe.

“Come on,” he whispered.

His voice sounded unfamiliar. It was hoarse. He straightened his shoulders, wiped away the last trace of blood beneath his nose, and practised a smile in the mirror.

The door opened.

“Sweetheart.” A familiar voice came from the doorway.

Luke slipped inside and turned the lock with a soft click. Tristan knew who it was. This was the man from the doorway, the one who had said “Enough” and then walked away.

Luke was Declan's personal assistant.

“Oh, baby, look at your face.” Luke crossed the room and lifted Tristan's chin with two fingers.

His thumb brushed under the swollen eye, light as a feather. “I'm so sorry. Declan doesn't know when to stop. I told him that was enough, didn't I?”

Tristan stared at him. “You said one word.”

“Tristan…baby don't say that. I tried.”

“One word, then you left and let him keep going.”

Luke sighed, as if Tristan had hurt him. His hand slid into Tristan's hair and combed through it slowly.

“I can't stand against Declan. You know that.”

He leaned in. His breath was warm against Tristan's ear.

“But I could protect you, sweetheart. I'm the only one here who could. You keep pushing me away, and I keep waiting.”

His lips brushed Tristan's jaw. Tristan turned his face away.

“So much for protecting me.”

Luke went still. Then he smiled, and cupped Tristan's cheek gently.

“Baby, you haven't let me have you. I haven't even touched that tight little hole of yours, and every time I get near you, I get so hard I can't think straight.” His thumb dragged across Tristan's bottom lip. “Until you give me the whole package, I can only protect you so much.”

His hand left Tristan's face. It slid down his chest, over his stomach, and dipped beneath the waistband of his trousers. Tristan's blood went cold. He knocked the hand away and shoved Luke back.

“Don't touch me!” His voice cracked. “I'm not your toy!”

Luke's face went blank. The softness drained out of it all at once, like a mask was dropped on the floor.

Then he slapped him.