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I couldn’t read him.
Alphas, especially drunk Mistletoe patrons, wereeasy. Feral—and not in a good way. They wanted booze, boobs, and cash.
Honestly, Ambrose probably wanted the same, but as he ushered me down the stairs and into another gently winding corridor, that didn’t make my stomach roil like it usually did. The standard club churn hadn’t reared once, not even when we passed other alphas along the way. They felt more familiar, despite being strangers, their auras and scents suddenly so dull compared to the vampire by my side. While they postured, chests puffed, club omegas jerked closer when we crossed paths, Ambrose barely seemed to notice them.
Instead, he appeared to be making note of each and every door, clocking the occupied rooms with pack names scribbled on chalk placards over the keyholes.
When he stopped at a closed door withGravesscrawled in lilting cursive, my stomach did a loop, a legion of butterflies waking in their cocoons after a very,verylong sleep. Keeping me behind him, his stance almost protective again, the vampire glanced up and down the shadowy corridor once more, thensplat, slapped my sad golden yuletide bow that he must have pocketed on the door.
A door he then popped open and ushered me through with yet another old-world gesture: a bow, likeIwas the guest of honor.
Despite the outrageous price tag, the dungeon’s private suites were almost exactly the same: round rooms with black walls, floors, and ceilings. Throw in a huge bed, twin leather armchairs, a bar cart, spare cleaning supplies, and some clean linens—I’d seen it all already on the tours. Apparently, personalization came by way of the specific toys requested by patrons. According to the other omegas, the ones who had been here way longer than me, you could tell a lot about the night ahead depending on the toys pulled from the props department.
I saw… none.
Just over the threshold, all I could make out in a room much darker than it had been during my cursory tour were the silhouettes of two alphas in armchairs, their backs to me, one smoking, the other sipping blood from a crystal flute—and then a big wooden chest that, like Ambrose, felt old and out of place here. Rustic and weathered, with black iron hardware right down to the huge lock, it seemed these vampires had come prepared; just left of the smoker, it faced the door like they had wanted me to see.
These alphas had a game plan for the night.
And were currently watching two hired alphas fuck a bound omega through a one-way glass window, the show ongoing all night and optional for every room. Most of the performers were bonded mates, paid to set the mood, or patrons who liked to be watched.
My face scorched when I noticed the amount of slick weeping down the omega’s thighs: an exhibitionist to her core, six silvery healed bond bites peppered her neck, her alphas watching her take their brutality with raw, earnest affection.
Something stirred in me at that.
But then the door shut and the lock clicked, and it all becamewaytoo real.
Leaving me at the door, Ambrose strolled deeper into the obsidian suite like this wasn’t his first time—like it was their home away from home, actually. Hands threaded behind his back, he strolled up behind the armchair of the smoking vampire, then reached down and took something from him. A beat later, the performance disappeared, the glass screen opaque and the bonded alphas with their slick-drenched omega gone.
“Gentlemen,” he drawled, beckoning me to him with an outstretched hand. “Our gift for the night—courtesy of thegreatAldo Graves.”
The smoking vampire chuckled dryly at that, the sound licking up my thighs as I padded closer, suddenly beyond wobbly in these stupid heels. Once again, I fell into Ambrose’s hand, into the safety it promised, just as two new gazes snapped my way, one a fiery copper, the other a soft brown. Like their fellow fanged alpha, the weight of them made me weak in the knees, their undivided attention like fifty-pound dumbbells strapped to my arms, hell-bent on dragging me under.
Without so much as a flicker of disgust.
No nausea.
No acidic burn in my throat.
The butterflies in my belly tested their wings for the first time, all fluttery and sweet, and I stumbled the last few steps around the armchairs, facing them head-on.
“On your knees,Hollis,” Ambrose whispered in my ear. Despite the added four inches from these chunky red heels, he still needed to duck down to command me, to brush his cool lips against my skin, a ghost of a caress, such a deliciousteasethat I whined.
Then gritted my teeth.
Because—I’d told himHolly.
No one called me Hollis.
But down I went, because that was my job at Club Mistletoe, my purpose in this dungeon.
Much to my surprise, Ambrose crouched with me, then snagged the longest diamond strand of my necklace and tugged, gently guiding me forward like it was a leash and not a choker that probably cost more than I’d make this year.
“These are my coven bonds,” he told me, guiding me closer to the vampire with eyes like a sunset on fire. I flinched when he put his cigarette out on his palm, extinguishing the scent of cloves for something…else. It was then I caught the faded scars of a bond bite, silvery and subtle; apparently, that was the one injury vampirescouldn’theal from.
Alphas cemented permanent pack bonds through bites. Betas thought it was barbaric a long time ago, back when the three biological classes were less integrated, but now, no one batted an eye. Packs of alphas forged their loyalty through bites on each other’s wrists; omegas were chained to them through one-way bites to their necks.
Wedidn’t bite them back.
