The silk slip slides over my skin like water made of whispers, cool and foreign against flesh that's used to practical cotton and blood-stained denim. Pink. They put me in fucking pink, like I'm some delicate flower instead of a weapon wrapped in ribbons. The fabric catches on my hip bones—I'm still too thin, Felix says, even though I've put on weight since we escaped the Den. Since we started eating real food instead of scraps and fear.
He always worries. Always reminds me to eat and drink when I forget. Always holds me when my pieces start to drift apart.
The mirror reflects a stranger wearing my face. Ruffles and lace cascade down my body like frosting on a cake. The makeup artist painted my lips cherry red, brushed glitter across my eyelids until I sparkle like a disco ball.
I look exactly like what I'm supposed to be. An expensive toy in a velvet box.
But toys don't usually carry ceramic knives taped to their thighs.
"You look beautiful." Felix's voice cuts through the chemical haze pumping through the vents, and I catch his reflectionbehind mine in the ornate mirror. He's devastating in that black suit, angles as sharp as knives. His dark hair is pulled back severe enough to make angels weep, and the way the fabric hugs his lean frame makes my mouth water even through the suppressants clouding my thoughts. "As always."
Beautiful.
Evan used to call me beautiful too, right before he'd?—
"This place smells like the Serpents' Den." The words fall out of my mouth before I can catch them, and I watch Felix's reflection freeze behind me.
Even he pauses at that. The Serpents' Den. His brother's kingdom of rust and ruin, where omegas were currency and pain was payment. Where I learned that beautiful was just another word for breakable.
His hand finds my shoulder, warm and real. "I know." His voice is soft, careful, like he's handling glass. "But we won't be here long. And no one is going to touch you."
The Rut Room is just the Serpents' Den in designer clothes. Velvet bars instead of rusted ones, but still a cage. The suppressants they're pumping through the air taste like artificial strawberries and forgotten screams, coating my tongue with memories I'd rather drown. They're stronger here than they were at the Den. More expensive. More effective at turning omegas into docile dolls and presenting scent matches. That tends to complicate things in places like this, where rich alphas play without consequence.
Felix made sure I took the antidote before we walked through those gilded doors, and his meds make him immune, but the smell still churns my stomach.
His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his silver eyes in the mirror. "Do you trust me?"
"You know I do." The answer comes automatic as breathing. Felix is my north star, my anchor, the only thing keeping metethered to this reality when the shadows start whispering too loud.
And they're whispering now. Over his shoulder, in the corner where the mirror doesn't quite reach, darkness moves like smoke given form. They're agitated tonight, restless, their voices a cloud of warnings I can't quite decipher. Something about blood and snakes and?—
A sharp knock on the door cuts through the whispers. "They're here," a guard's voice calls through the wood. Deep. Bored. He probably thinks I'm just another omega getting ready to spread her legs for money.
If only he knew.
Felix's hand squeezes my shoulder once—reassurance and promise wrapped in a single gesture—before he steps back. I smooth down the ridiculous ruffles, check that my knives are secure, and follow him out into the corridor that smells even stronger.
The backstage area is a maze of mirrors and shadows, omegas in various states of undress preparing for their performances. Some are high on the suppressant-booster cocktail, giggling and swaying like broken dolls. Others have that thousand-yard stare that comes from seeing too much, surviving too long. I wish the blood we're about to shed tonight could open their cages, too, but where would they go? Not everybody has a Felix, and I can barely remember which way is up most days, let alone show anyone else.
We reach the curtains that separate backstage from the main floor, and I peek through the gap like a child watching a horror movie through her fingers. The stage is bathed in red light, omegas moving in choreographed sensuality like little ballerinas at the top of a music box. They're beautiful, all of them, but it's the kind of beauty that comes with a price tag.
And there, sitting at a table near the stage like they belong here, are our targets.
Four alphas who've never been in a place like this before—it's written all over them in the way they hold themselves, the way they're looking at the stage but not at the performers, the subtle tension in their shoulders that screams discomfort. They're trying to blend in, but they stick out like wolves in a petting zoo.
The biggest one sits with his back to the wall, hazel eyes scanning the room like he's mapping escape routes. His brown hair is shorter than in the surveillance photos, and now I can see a huge forked scar running down the side of his face like he got struck by lightning. I'm close enough to see those angles weren't just a trick of the camera. He's built like a mountain given human form, broad shoulders straining against his civilian clothes. This one's the leader, I can tell by the way the others defer to him with subtle glances. Watching for his next move.
Next to him sits a man with silver hair that catches the stage lights like moonbeams. The one with the kind eyes. He's older than the others, maybe in his mid thirties, with the kind of lean muscle that comes from years of disciplined training. His blue eyes are sharp as surgical steel, and he holds himself with the stillness of a predator waiting to strike. There's something almost robotic about him, like he's cataloguing everything he sees for future reference.
The third one makes my skin crawl and tingle at the time, a strange paradox. Golden hair falls across his forehead in artful waves, and his blue eyes are the color of winter skies. He's beautiful in the way poisonous flowers are beautiful—lovely to look at but deadly to touch. There's something wrong with his smile, too wide, too knowing. His white suit looks expensive, the kind that's made to stand out even in a room of rich assholes. A predator hiding in plain sight. When he laughs at something oneof the others says, the sound makes the shadows in the corner writhe like living things.
The fourth alpha sits slightly apart from the others, with light brown hair and warm brown eyes that never quite settle on the stage. He's handsome in a quiet way, the kind of man who'd blend into a crowd until he decided not to. There's a stillness about him that reminds me of Felix, the kind of calm that comes before violence.
I'm starting to see how they ended up on a bad guy's hit list. They're all much too attractive for vigilantes.
"Remember your part?" Felix whispers against my ear, his breath warm against skin that's gone cold.
"Yes." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. They think Felix is a wealthy trafficker looking to expand his operations. They're here to kill him, posing as potential business partners. My job is simple—get them to the VIP lounge where Felix can spring his trap.
