Chapter 10: Serving Drinks to My Ex-Executioner

Six Years Later

“Who’s ready to forget their problems tonight?”

The Rusty Anchor erupted. Glasses slammed, the music shook the walls, and a tuneless singer competed with shouts for tequila. Friday nights were always a disaster; I loved it.

“Birthday shots!” I yelled. “Three tequilas!”

I slid three glasses across the bar and caught the cash mid-air—years of muscle memory.

“Keep the change, Raven,” Rico grinned.

“I was planning on it.”

“You wound me,” he said, clutching his chest.

“I’ll send you flowers.”

The regulars laughed. Six years since the Holloways erased me and Xavier Beckett shattered my world, the timid omega who apologized for existing had died in the gutters and strip clubs. Now, there was only Raven.

Brie slid up next to me, wiping sweat off her forehead. “So…” she nodded toward Rico. “Another victim?”

I handed a whiskey to another guy. “Please.”

“You smiled at him.”

“I smile at everyone.”

“No you don’t.”

I laughed. “If Rico can make it through three dates without proposing, maybe I’ll think about it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Nope.” I slid another drink down the counter. “I’ve just learned not to expect things to last.”

After losing everything, I stopped believing in soulmates. People leave. Families betray you. Alpha promises don’t mean a thing. So I kept it simple: flirt, laugh, and be the first one to leave. Nobody can break something you refuse to give them. Even Ciel stopped trying to argue with me years ago. Sometimes surviving changes your wolf as much as it changes you.

The office door opened and Roman Renard walked out. He had a scar across his jaw that made him look permanently pissed off, even though he rarely yelled.

“Raven.”

Just his tone made me stand up straighter. “Office.”

Brie winced. “Good luck.”

Once we were inside, Roman closed the door. “You need money?”

I laughed. “When don’t I?”

My landlord had just raised my rent again after I told him no to his latest offer to “work it off.” Apparently, not sleeping with your landlord is considered bad customer service.

Roman tossed an envelope on the desk. “Private event.”

I frowned. “What kind?”

“Lycans.”

My stomach dropped. Not rogues or street wolves. Purebloods. Just the word brought back everything—Luminara, Xavier, the Holloways.

Roman saw me hesitate. “Triple pay.”

I didn’t say anything.

“They’re rich, arrogant, and drunk,” he added. “They want an omega bartender who won’t pass out every time someone growls.”

“I’m not an omega.”

He gave me a look. “You know what I mean.”

I did. I’d spent six years hiding what I actually was. No scent, no bond, no past. Just Raven.

“The last human bartender quit halfway through the party,” Roman said.

“Why?”

“He didn’t quit.” Roman’s face was totally flat. “They carried him out in an ambulance.”

I sighed. Well, that actually made the job sound more appealing. “Triple pay?”

He nodded. “Cash.”

That was two months of rent and medicine for my clinic, with enough left over to actually breathe for a second. Trauma doesn’t pay the bills.

“I’ll do it.”

“Car leaves in thirty minutes,” Roman said.

⚜

Forty minutes later, I was in a service elevator ascending toward a penthouse dripping with luxury. In the back, I swapped my clothes for the mandated uniform: a black corset, leather skirt, and fishnets—outfits designed for eye candy, not bartenders.

The woman in the mirror didn’t resemble the nineteen-year-old who had wept in a holding cell. Years of hardship had stripped away the softness, leaving me lean, sharp, and beautiful in the way broken glass is. I applied red lipstick and winged eyeliner; armor comes in many forms.

“This is a mistake,” Ciel muttered.

“They’re just rich wolves.”

“They’re purebloods. They can smell lies.”

I smiled at my reflection. “Then let’s not lie.”

The rooftop overlooked the city, a sprawl of marble floors and bottles that cost more than my rent. I focused on the routine of setting up the bar—ice, lemons, mint—to steady my nerves.

Then, a deep voice drifted across the counter.

“Well.”

My hands stopped.

“They finally hired someone worth looking at.”

Every muscle in my body locked up. Slowly, I looked up.

Xavier Beckett was standing there. Black suit, open collar, broad shoulders. Those purple eyes hadn’t changed in six years. If anything, time had just made him more dangerous. He looked me over slowly. He didn’t recognize me; he was just appreciating the view, like I was just another expensive drink on the menu.

The irony almost made me laugh. The man who ruined my life couldn’t even recognize the girl he’d dumped. Good. Let him look.

He smiled. “Can I get a recommendation?”

I leaned on the counter, keeping it professional and calm. “What are you in the mood for?”

“You.” Straight to the point. Typical.

“I’m not on the menu.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“It usually is.”

His smile widened. He was clearly used to getting whatever he wanted. He reached for the oldest bottle of scotch. “The best one.”

“You think you can afford it?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I think so.”

“I’ve seen rich men cry over the bill.”

“I’ve seen beautiful women underestimate me.”

I poured the drink anyway. As I slid the glass toward him, our fingers brushed.

Xavier felt it too. His smile vanished. For a second, he just stared at my hand, then my face. Something flickered in those violet eyes. Confusion? Instinct?

“You look…” he murmured.

“Familiar?” I smiled sweetly. “I hear that a lot.”

He studied me, and for a second, the room disappeared. Then he chuckled. “Maybe we’ve met.”

“Maybe.” I stepped away to help someone else. “Or maybe you just think every pretty bartender is in your memories.”

He actually laughed this time. “I like you.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I don’t hear ‘no’ very often.”

I didn’t even look back. “Get used to it, Alpha.”

For the first time in six years, Xavier Beckett actually looked interested. And he still had no clue who I was.