My Stepbrother’s Masked Obsession

Jennifer's POV

The glass slips from my fingers before I realize I've let go.

It hits the floor and explodes—a hundred glittering teeth biting across the tile, amber liquid and ice skittering away like tiny fleeing things. For half a second, the world goes quiet. Then Marco's hand closes around my bicep, hauling me upright with a grip that's going to leave bruises. I can already feel them forming, purple half-moons blooming beneath his fingers.

"Fifteen minutes, Jennifer!" His voice slices through the noise, sharp with desperation and too much cheap cologne. "Ruby's not answering her phone. That table in the back has been waiting forty minutes. You're up."

I finally manage to pull my arm free, stumbling back a step. My apron is soaked. My hands are shaking. The bar is a disaster behind me with half-mixed drinks, a line of impatient customers, all of them staring now, irritated and hungry.

"I pour drinks." My voice comes out thin, barely audible over the noise. "I don't dance. You knew that when you hired me."

"Tonight, you do." He shoves a crumpled bundle into my chest with a black lace, still warm from whoever wore it last, smelling of perfume and sweat and desperation. My fingers curl around it instinctively, and the texture makes my stomach turn. "The back table paid triple. Face covered. Twenty minutes, and you're done."

"Marco, I can't. I don't know how to dance. I'll embarrass the club. Just give me five more minutes to find Ruby—"

"Do you want your check tonight or not?"

The words shut me up faster than a slap. They hang between us, ugly and final. Rent is three days late. The house owner called this morning, his voice cold, telling me if the money doesn't hit his account by Friday, he's starting eviction proceedings. Mom already missed a refill on her blood pressure pills twice this month because we didn't have the extra forty dollars for the copay.

There is no room to argue.

So the mask goes on—elastic biting into the back of my skull, cheap lace scratching at my cheeks. Two bouncers walk me down a hallway that reeks of smoke, spilled liquor, and the sour ghost of a thousand bad decisions. My feet move, but my mind is still screaming no with every step.

The curtain parts, and the lights hit me like a physical blow. They're so bright I can't see past the first row of tables. My body finds a rhythm on its own with something primal and instinctive that I didn't know was buried inside me. It's not good, but my movement is better than standing frozen while their hungry gazes devour me whole. My head floats somewhere else, watching from a distance as this masked stranger rolls her hips and runs her hands through her hair like she knows exactly what she's doing.

And that's when I saw him.

Back corner table. Half-submerged in shadow. A drink resting in front of him that hasn't been touched once. Every other man in this place is hooting, leaning forward, grinning like idiots. He's not doing any of that. He's just... watching. Still as death. Completely, utterly still, like a predator who's already decided exactly how this night is going to end and sees no reason to rush.

Even from up here, I feel that stare. It's heavier than it has any right to be—peeling back the mask, the performance, the desperate pretenses and seeing straight through to the terrified girl underneath. I look away first. I always do, whenever someone's gaze gets too intense.

But my eyes drift back anyway. Over and over, like a compass needle finding north, and every single time he's right there. Not looking at anything else in the room. Just me.

The set ends eventually. I don't know how much time passes, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour but my legs are trembling so badly I nearly pitch forward off the stage. I duck behind the curtain and rip the mask half off, gasping for air like I've been drowning.

"Not bad." Marco is suddenly there, clapping me on the shoulder like we're old friends. "The back table wants a private set. Just you. Fifteen more minutes, and you're free and clear. Full check, plus a bonus."

My stomach drops into my shoes. "Marco. I already told you. I'm not that kind of person. I can't go back in that room alone with him."

"Fifteen minutes." Flat. Final. "Full check, or no check. Your call, Jen."

I lean against the wall and force myself to breathe. I think about Mom asleep on the couch with the TV still flickering, the thin blanket pulled to her chin because she's always cold now. I think about the pill bottles on the counter, the ones that cost more than I make in a week of bartending. I think about the eviction notice sitting in my junk drawer, waiting for me to acknowledge it.

"Fine." The word tastes like ash.

The private room door clicks shut behind me.

He's already there, lounging on a leather couch across from the door, his arm stretched along the back of it like he owns the place. Which, for all I know, he might. His posture is deceptively relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, tracking my every movement as I cross the threshold.

Up close, he's overwhelming in a way that makes my breath catch and hold. Bigger than he looked from the stage—broader, taller, more solid. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, shadowed with a faint stubble that catches the lamplight. His eyes are so dark I can't tell where the pupil ends and the iris begins—just endless, bottomless black. The kind of eyes that have seen too much and forgotten nothing.

His shirt is open at the collar, revealing a sliver of hard chest and the inked edge of a tattoo that disappears beneath the fabric. I catch a glimpse of something dark curling around his collarbone—a serpent, maybe, or a dragon coiling into shadow.

"Shut the door."

Quiet. He doesn't need to raise his voice to command a room. It's in his bones.

My hand does it before I've consciously decided to obey, and the latch clicks shut with a finality that makes my pulse stutter.

"You're not one of the regulars." He tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he didn't expect to find tonight. "I'd remember if I'd seen you before."

"I'm not." My voice comes out steadier than I have any right to expect. "This isn't what I do."

Something flickers in those dark eyes—amusement, maybe, or the spark of a challenge. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, unhurried. Like he has nowhere else in the world to be.

"No? Then what do you do?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might." His gaze travels over me slowly—a physical caress that makes my skin prickle with heat. "I like knowing exactly what I'm looking at."

"You're looking at someone who wants her paycheck and to go home."

That earns me something close to a real smile—quick, gone before I'm sure I saw it, but there nonetheless. "Fair enough. Come here."

It's not a question. Some stubborn, reckless part of me wants to refuse, just to prove I still can. But rent doesn't care about pride, and pride won't buy Mom's medication. So I cross the room on legs that feel borrowed from someone else, stopping just out of arm's reach.

His hand snakes out and closes around my wrist. Not rough. Just certain. Like he already knew exactly where it would land.

"Take off the mask."

"No."

Sharp. Out before I can stop it. His eyebrows lift, just slightly. I realize with a jolt that it's been a long, long time since anyone told this man no. Something shifts in the air between us—a decision being made, whether I agree to it or not.

"What are you so afraid of?" His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist once, absent, like he's not even aware he's doing it. "I already watched you dance in front of forty strangers. A little lace isn't going to change much."

"It's not about the mask."

"Then what is it about?"

I don't have an answer. Or rather, I have too many answers, none of which I'm willing to give him. So I stay quiet, and my silence seems to satisfy him more than any lie I could have told.

He tugs, just slightly, and I stumble forward into his space. His hand slides from my wrist to my waist, pulling me down onto his lap in one smooth motion. My breath catches—I'm straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, the black lace of my costume riding up my hips. Heat radiates off him in waves.

"Much better," he murmurs, and I can feel the words vibrate through his chest. "Tell me your name."

"I already did."

"You told me a name. I want the real one."

I don't answer. His hand presses against my lower back, arching me closer until there's no space left between us. I can feel every line of him—hard muscle beneath the silk of his shirt, the heat of his thighs beneath mine, the undeniable evidence that he wants this as much as I'm pretending not to.

"Stubborn." His free hand comes up to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. "I like that. Makes the chase more interesting."

"I'm not a chase."

"Oh, you absolutely are." His thumb traces the line of my bottom lip through the lace. "I've been watching you all night. Do you know how many men in that room wished they were me right now? How many would kill to have you exactly where you are?"

His thumb pushes past my lips, just barely, and I taste salt and skin and something darker. My tongue touches him before I can stop it—instinct, pure heat, and the low groan that rumbles from his chest makes my thighs clench around him.

"There she is." His voice is rough now, stripped of all pretense. "I knew you were in there somewhere."

His hand slides into my hair, tangling in the strands, and he pulls my head back just enough to expose my throat. His mouth finds the pulse point there—a whisper of lips, the scrape of teeth and I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Tell me your real name," he says against my skin. "And I'll stop."

"I don't believe you."

"Smart girl." His teeth graze my throat again. "You're right. I won't stop. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since you stepped on that stage."

"You didn't even know I existed before tonight."

"I know you now." His mouth trails up my neck to my jaw, leaving a trail of heat. "And I'm never going to forget you."

His lips find mine through the lace of the mask—not a real kiss, not yet, just the teasing promise of one. It's enough to make my hips rock forward involuntarily, grinding against him, and the sound he makes is feral.

"Let me see your face." His hands find the edge of the mask. "Just once. I need to see who I'm kissing."

"No." My hands come up to stop him. "You can't."

"I can do whatever I want." His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "But I want you to want me to. Tell me you want this."

"Stop playing games."

"Who's playing?" His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing circles against the bare skin above the lace. "I'm serious, little dancer. I want to know everything about you. I want to know what you sound like when you come apart. I want to memorize every inch of your body until I could find you in the dark. I want to know your name so I can whisper it in my sleep."

My breath catches. "That's insane. You don't even know me."

"Then let me." His voice drops even lower, rough and raw. "Let me know you. All of you. Tell me your real name and I'll give you anything you want. Anything."

"What if I just want my paycheck?"

"Then you're a terrible liar." His thumb traces the edge of the mask again. "Because I can feel how wet you are through this lace. I can feel you trembling. And I saw the way you looked at me on that stage, little dancer. Like you already knew me. Like you'd been waiting for me."

I should deny it. I should push away, slap him, run out of this room and never look back. But my body won't obey. My hips roll against him of their own accord, and I'm horrified to realize I'm not even pretending to resist anymore.

"There." His voice is triumphant, satisfied. "That's what I wanted to see. That's what I knew was underneath all that fear."

"Fuck you."

"Promises " He grins, sharp and wolfish. "Later, maybe. But right now, I just want to see your face. I want to see you look at me while I kiss you."

His fingers hook beneath the elastic. And for one terrifying, thrilling moment, I want him to.

I want him to see me.

Then his hand stills. His head tilts, listening to something I can't hear.

"Stay here."

And before I can ask why, the first shot goes off.

The sound is so close the wall shudders. Plaster dust rains down from the ceiling. A second shot follows. Then a third. Screaming erupts from the main floor—furniture crashing, glass shattering, voices crying out in terror.

He's on his feet in an instant. The lounging predator vanishes; in its place is something coiled and lethal. I barely have time to gasp before his hand is around my wrist, yanking me off his lap and behind his body.

"Stay behind me." His voice is flat, hard. All traces of the man who kissed me moments ago are erased. "Don't move. Don't make a sound."

"Wha—"

"Quiet." He doesn't look at me, his gaze fixed on the door, but his hand finds mine and squeezes once. "You're with me now. You don't leave my side. Do you understand?"

I nod against his back, trembling so hard my teeth are chattering.

Another gunshot, closer. I flinch violently, and he turns in the same instant, catching me before I hit the floor, pulling me against his chest with an arm like iron.

"I've got you." His lips brush my temple, fierce and quick. "But you need to stay with me. Can you do that?"

I can't speak, so I nod against his chest. He smells like leather and whiskey and something uniquely him. I breathe it in like oxygen while the world outside this room descends into chaos.

"Good girl." His hand cups the back of my head, pressing my face into his shirt. "Don't look up. Don't look at anything. Just focus on me."

The door bursts open. Men's voices, harsh and urgent. I don't understand what they're saying, but I hear the name Marcus repeated. I feel the way his body goes absolutely still.

"Sir, we need to move. Now."

"Cover her." His voice is steel. "She comes with us."

"Sir, the car—"

"I said cover her."

Hands grab me, pulling me away from his chest. I cry out before I can stop myself. But he's there in the next instant, his arm around me again, snarling like a wolf defending its kill.

"Don't touch her. Anyone who touches her answers to me."

Chaos swirls around us—shouting, running footsteps, the distant wail of sirens. I keep my face buried in his chest, my fingers clutching his shirt like it's the only solid thing in a world that's come apart at the seams.

"You're okay," he murmurs against my hair. "I've got you. And when this is over, I'm finding you. I don't care how long it takes. I don't care how many nights I have to come back to this godforsaken club. I'm going to find you, and I'm going to learn every single thing about you, starting with your real name."

His hand slides into my hair again, tilting my face up toward his. In the chaos of red emergency lights and screaming, his eyes find mine and hold.

"I'm going to have you," he says, low and fierce. "Not tonight. Not the way you're thinking. But eventually. You're going to be mine, little dancer. And I promise you're going to want it just as much as I do."

He kisses me then, hard and fast and possessive—a brand, a promise, a claim.

Then he's gone, shoving me toward one of his men, barking orders I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.

"Get her out. Safe. Don't let her out of your sight until she's safe."

And I'm being dragged through the chaos, his kiss still burning on my lips, his words still echoing in my head.

Who the hell is this man?