Chapter 1 The Masked Man

SIX YEARS LATER

The alarm went off at seven. I lay there three seconds, eyes on that same brown water stain spreading across the ceiling like it was trying to reach me. Then I swung my legs out. Not because I felt like it. Eli’s next billing cycle didn’t give a shit about how I felt.

I showered fast, water barely warm, scrubbed the night off my skin and pulled on the black uniform that always smelled faintly of the club no matter how many times I washed it. Grabbed my bag, locked the door, and stepped into the noise of the city already choking the streets. Horns, shouts, the low rumble of buses—I tuned it out the way I tuned out most things these days. Practice.

Club Venom’s private lounge opened at nine for the overnight Doms who never seemed to go home. I was on bar until noon, two-hour break, then floor shift. Fourteen hours. I’d done worse.

Clara was already behind the bar when I got there, wiping the same glass she’d probably wiped three times. She glanced up and her eyebrow did that thing.

“You look like shit.”

“Morning to you too.”

She slid a coffee across without asking. Black, strong, the way I needed it. That was why I kept her around. “Billing again?”

“Specialist came by. Says the machine watching his brain waves needs upgrading.” I wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the heat sink in. “Another few grand I don’t have.”

Clara made a low sound, not quite a sigh. She knew better than to push. I didn’t have the words today anyway for what it felt like watching numbers on a screen decide whether your brother kept breathing.

I drank half the coffee, checked the assignment board—bar, like always—and started tying my apron. That’s when Dom Ryder slid up to the end of the bar like he owned the place. Mid-rank alpha. Enough power to act entitled, not enough to back it up without looking stupid. He’d been sniffing around for a private session for months. His smile came first, too wide.

“Nova. Looking good this morning.”

“Thanks, sir.” I turned back to the glasses. “What can I get you?”

“You know what I want.”

“Whisky, then.” I reached for the bottle. “Neat or rocks?”

He laughed, but it landed flat. Took the drink and wandered toward the booths without another word. I watched him in the mirror, felt nothing but the same flat calm I’d been carrying for six years. Survival armor.

The lounge filled slow. Masked Doms drifting in from upstairs rooms, suits rumpled or fresh, eyes already hunting. I read them by posture, by how they held their drinks. You learn quick.

I was pouring a double for some regular when the air changed. Not louder. Not brighter. Just… shifted. Like the whole room tilted a fraction toward the entrance.

I turned.

He stood there. Tall, broad, dark suit cut sharp enough to look expensive and effortless. Mask darker than most, covering more of his face. Only the strong line of his jaw and mouth showed below it. Above, through the eyeholes, green eyes that pinned me in place.

He was looking right at me.

Not scanning the room. Me.

I dropped my gaze first. Job rule. But my skin stayed tight.

He took the VIP booth in the back corner—the one they kept empty for people who mattered. Marcus materialized out of nowhere to walk him over personally. That told me plenty.

Clara bumped my shoulder. “New. Never seen that mask.”

“I noticed.”

“He asked for you. By name.”

I didn’t ask how he knew it. Untied my apron, smoothed my skirt, and crossed the floor. Kept my steps even. His eyes stayed on me the whole way.

“Sir. I’m Nova. I’ll be taking care of you this morning. Something to drink?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just studied me, slow and deliberate, like he was deciding what I was worth. Those green eyes moved over my face, patient.

“Sit down.”

“Can’t do that, sir. Club policy. But I can take your order from here.”

Corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Water. Still.”

I fetched it. When I set the glass down he reached for it and his sleeve rode up.

There it was.

Left wrist. Thin precise dagger, serpent coiled tight around the blade. Burned in.

The same mark I’d memorized at seventeen, crouched in a ventilation shaft while flames ate my house and a man walked away without looking back.

The glass slipped.

I caught it mid-air, barely. My hands stayed steady because I forced them to, but my heart slammed so hard I figured he could hear it.

“Careful,” he said, voice low, unbothered.

“Sorry.” My throat felt like sand. “Excuse me a second.”

I walked back to the bar like nothing was wrong. Set the tray down. Told Clara I needed two minutes. Got to the changing room, locked the door, and slid down the wall until my ass hit cold tile.

My hands shook now. Bad.

Six years.

Six fucking years carrying that image, pulling it out every time I needed to remember why I was still breathing. And here it was. On him.

I pressed the back of my head against the wall and stared at the ceiling until the roar in my ears quieted. Not feel. Think.

He hadn’t recognized me. Why would he? I was a kid then, hidden, half-dead. He’d walked away clean.

I wasn’t a kid anymore.

Four minutes. I stood up, fixed my face in the mirror—neutral, professional—and walked back out.

He was still in the booth.

Of course he was.

I picked up a fresh glass of water and headed over, legs steady even though my stomach kept trying to climb out of my throat. Whatever this was, I wasn’t running. Not this time.

The revenge I’d been feeding for six years had just sat down in my section and ordered water.

And I was going to serve it to him until I figured out how to make him choke on it.