Page 2 of Veil of Secrets

He’s not crowd. He’s not casino trash. He’s someone who doesn’t wait in line.

And that’s a problem.

My chest tightens in warning. Not panic. Not yet. But my eyes trace the way back down—the angle I’ll drop if I have to jump, the muscle groups I’ll need if someone tries to unhook the chain holding this box in the sky.

I’ve danced through worse. I’ve danced while bruises bloomed and blood soaked through tights. Tonight isn’t special. But that guy down there?

He just made it feel like it is.

And I hate that.

I twist down into a crouch, muscles burning as I slide, then hook the bar with my arm. Let the cage sway again. The rust scrapes against my palm.

That cage might be rusted, but it’s still mine. I don’t care who’s watching.

Except maybe I do.

The song ends without warning. Not a clean fade—just a messy cut and a burst of static that crackles through the speakers before the next track stumbles in. Typical for this dump. The crowd howls for more, some chant my name. Others just yell words they wouldn’t say to their sisters.

I grip the bars, breath coming fast, heartbeat slowing but not settling. The chain above grinds as the cage jerks downward, lowering me like a prize on a hook. Sweat cools against my skin, and I resist the urge to wipe it off my chest. Let them see it. Let them remember I don’t sparkle—I drip.

The cage hits the floor with a heavy thud. My boots clang against the metal. The bouncer nearby doesn’t even look up. He knows better than to offer a hand.

I step out. The crowd doesn’t part for me, but they shift enough. Just enough to remind me they’re always watching.

I pass the bar. No one touches me. They know not to.

I pull the towel from my waistband and swipe it over my shoulders, then down my cleavage. Glitter smears. Sweat sticks. I tug the chain around my neck—an old padlock dangling at the center, rusted and long since broken. It’s not jewelry. It’s not fashion. It’s a reminder. Of what got locked up and what didn’t survive.

My fingers tighten around it.

Tommy’s voice echoes in the back of my head. Not loud, not booming—just there.

“Don’t act like you’re better than me. You dance because I made you worth watching.”

His hands come next. Rough. Controlling. Always right where I didn’t want them. I remember the bruise he left under my ribs the last time I tried to quit. I still can’t stretch too far on my left side without feeling it pinch.

I suck in a breath and drop the towel behind the bar.

Then I look up.

He’s still there.

Same place. Same posture. Not threatening. Not lazy either. Just… patient.

That stare. It’s not about lust. I’ve had men stare at me like I was dinner. His stare isn’t like that.

It’s worse.

He’s trying to figure something out.

And that? That’s dangerous.

The last guy who looked at me like I was his answer broke two of my ribs and said it was love. I don’t need another savior with fists.

I look away.

Keep walking.

---