88

ALEXANDER

The club is like dozens I’ve walked into over the years. Different places but still the same. Low red velvet couches, tables with stains that will never scrub out, women balancing trays in nothing but stilettos, and men in tailored suits leaning too far over poker tables as if proximity might change their luck. Most of them are losing more than they can afford. A few are winning, but even those victories are temporary; the house always collects.

Casinos are never just casinos. They’re façades, bright distractions covering whatever the real business is. And tonight, I’m not here for the bright part. I’m here for the business. For the person who owns most of these dens.

The moment my shoes hit the curb, I see him in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most cars. He doesn’t bother with a greeting. Just presses a folded slip of paper into my hand and walks away without a backward glance. I don’t need to unfold it to know the contents.

Tokyo air bites at the back of my throat. It reminds me why I love this country. Here, I am not The Lycan King. I’m not The Wolf Slayer.

I’m a man who can call a cab without first calculating if the driver’s carrying a bomb under his seat or a gun tucked close to his ribs. I can move without the constant hum of danger prickling at my neck. Even for an alpha, that’s a rare thing.

I could never do this at home.

For half a breath, my mind drifts to Alina. She’d love it here. She’s probably never stepped foot outside that wretched place she grew up in. If you could even call it growing up. I can picture her eyes widening at the city lights, the clean streets, the hum of life after midnight.

Her kind barely lived like people. The thought churns my stomach. I’ve seen what it’s like. Wolves penned in camps, no roofs worth the name, no security, no dignity.

I’m no saint. I’ve sent plenty to those camps myself. But never Lycans. Lycans always have a way out, if they know to seek us. We protect our own. Because if we don’t, no one else will.

The hall I’m led through is narrow, the carpet plush underfoot but carrying the faint scent of smoke and spilled whiskey. At the far end, a curtain of thick red velvet parts, revealing the reason the outside of this place hasn’t been burned to the ground. What’s hidden behind this fabric is the real draw.

The first thing I see is pale, bare skin. Glistening under the low amber lights. A woman drapes herself around a chrome pole like a cat claiming territory. The air is thick with haze from imported cigars, curling and clinging to every surface. Round tables cluster in the dimness, each with suited men slouched over their cards while women hover at their sides, pouring drinks with mechanical smiles. Their eyes flick uneasily toward one particular corner. The place she sits. The witch.

“I expected you to storm in here with a pack of your dogs,” a voice purrs behind me, the tone dripping like honey laced with venom.

A single talon drags down the sleeve of my jacket. Calling it a nail would be generous, it’s too long for anything practical, except maybe the kind of damage she enjoys inflicting.

Without looking at her, I answer, “You give yourself far too much credit, darling.”

The word makes her grip tighten, long points biting into the fine wool of my suit. If this fabric were anything less than the best, it would split, and those claws would find skin. She poisons them, always. I’ve seen what one nick can do to a man. Which is why I never come to her wearing anything she could shred through easily.

Her voice sharpens to a blade. “Call me darling again, and the only way your bitch of a brother will recognise you is by the colour of your blood on this floor.”

A low sound rumbles in my throat as I finally turn to face her. Her eyes are the colour of fresh spilled wine, lit from within by a heat that’s almost beautiful if you forget it’s fueled entirely by hate. Every pore in her flawless face seems to exhale loathing.

“Keep making promises like that,” I say, letting my gaze trail over her with deliberate slowness, “and I’ll have to kiss you right here, darling.”

Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t strike. She knows better. She’s queen of this little den, but even queens kneel when real kings enter the room.

“What the fuck do you want, Alexander?” she spits. Her accent thickens when she’s angry, vowels sharpening into something distinctly Japanese. All her years in London and New York have never sanded it away. I’ve always liked that about her. It’s how I know when I’ve hit the mark. She shows her cards too early, every time.

Her skin darkens with a flush of rage, but she doesn’t move. There are at least twenty of my men in this room. If she lunges, they’ll reach her before her claws ever touch me. The moment she glances around and realises it, I know I’ve already won.

She hisses something under her breath.

“Let’s talk in your office,” I tell her. My gaze sweeps over her once more, lingering just long enough to make her shift in her seat. Then I return to her face. “Unless, of course, you’d rather risk me getting… tempted. Half these men would never focus on their cards again if they saw you naked.”

She growls low, but turns without another word. She can never tell when I’m joking. That’s what makes her so much fun to play with.