Chapter 1: The Taste of Danger

The bass doesn't just vibrate the floor. It rattles my ribcage, making my lungs pulse with each beat. Strobe lights cut through the smoke-filled air, turning the crowd into a mass of flickering shadows. I've been to this club a dozen times, but tonight it feels different.

Oppressive.

Dangerous.

Or maybe that's just because of the man sitting alone in the VIP section.

"Five seconds, April," Jess hisses in my ear, her fingernails digging crescents into my bicep. "Don't tell me you're chicken. You chose 'Dare.'"

"I'm not chicken." My voice lacks its usual bite. I swallow hard, staring at the secluded booth cordoned off by velvet ropes and two massive bouncers. "He just looks like he's waiting for a body to be delivered."

"Exactly. High risk, high reward." Jess grins, her eyes gleaming with the kind of reckless excitement that always gets us into trouble. "Kiss the scariest guy in the club, win the pot. Five hundred bucks, April. You need this for your tuition."

She's right. I need the money. 

My scholarship covers tuition, but not the "incidental fees" the university loves to tack on. Not the textbooks that cost more than my monthly grocery budget. Not the lab fees, the technology fees, the we-decided-to-charge-you-because-we-can fees. I'm a scholarship kid in a pack of rich wolves who think "broke" means their trust fund only released ten thousand this month instead of twenty.

My bank account is currently weeping.

I glance back at our table where the other girls are watching. Madison holds up her phone, recording. Of course she is. Trina waves a stack of cash, fanning herself like she's at a strip club. Five hundred dollars in twenties.

Rent. Food. The electric bill that's two weeks overdue.

I take a breath that smells of stale beer, expensive perfume, and bad decisions. I smooth my short black dress—the one I bought at a thrift store and pretended was designer—and march forward before common sense can tackle me.

Just a peck, I tell myself. Run in, shock him, run out. Collect the money. Pay my bills. Survive another month.

The crowd seems to sense where I'm headed. People shift, creating a path. Conversations die mid-sentence as I pass. Someone whispers, "Is she crazy?"

The closer I get to the VIP section, the colder the air feels. It's like approaching the eye of a storm. The crowd naturally parts around this specific area, leaving a perimeter of emptiness. Even drunk humans seem to instinctively know: stay back.

The bouncers see me coming. Their eyes widen. One reaches for his radio.

I duck under the velvet rope before they can stop me.

The man sits alone in a semi-circular booth of black leather. He nurses a tumbler of amber liquid—probably scotch that costs more than my car. His other hand taps a slow, deliberate rhythm on the armrest. He's massive. Broad shoulders strain against a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and ink. Dark hair, cut short but still slightly mussed, like he's run his hands through it recently. Sharp jawline. Straight nose that's been broken at least once.

And hands. 

God, his hands.

Large, calloused, scarred knuckles. The hands of someone who fights. Who wins.

I don't let myself look at his face. If I see his eyes, I'll freeze. I'll run. I'll lose five hundred dollars I desperately need.

I step into his space.

He doesn't look up.

"Do you have a death wish?"

His voice is a low rumble, like thunder rolling over a valley. It vibrates straight through the soles of my heels, up my spine, settling somewhere in my chest. It's the kind of voice that commands armies. Ends arguments. Makes people kneel.

"Something like that," I whisper.

I should walk away. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to walk away.

Instead, I lean forward.

Before he can react, before my courage shatters, before I can think about the fact that this is the single worst idea I've ever had, I lunge.

I don't just peck him. 

My heel catches on the edge of the booth platform. I trip, stumbling forward, and practically fall into his lap. My hands slam onto his chest to steady myself—hard as a rock, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt—and my lips collide with his.

Contact.

Time fractures.

He doesn't push me away. That's shock number one.

Shock number two: He tastes like scotch, smoke, and something darker. Something that makes my pulse spike and my wolf—dormant, quiet little thing that she is—suddenly lift her head with interest.

For a split second, he's utterly still. His lips are firm, unyielding, surprised.

Then everything changes.