4. Chapter 4

four

Clara

I can feel Mitch’s eyes boring into the back of my skull as I stride toward the club entrance.

His disapproval is practically burning a hole through my skull. But I don’t give a flying fuck what he thinks.

Since Jake’s death, he’s been acting like he can step into my brother’s shoes, as if he could ever fill that void.

Nobody can fucking replace Jake.

I make a beeline for the club, my heels clicking on the pavement like a fucking metronome. The door looks all sleek and shiny, like it’s trying too hard to be classy. But I know better. I can feel the bass pulsing inside, vibrating up through the soles of my feet. It’s like the heartbeat of some wild animal, just waiting to be unleashed.

And I’m more than ready to let my own beast out to play. Tonight is about me, and I’m not going to let anyone ruin it.

The long queue of desperate partyers parts like the Red Sea as I approach, their eyes widening as they take in my appearance. A woman in a skintight latex nurse’s outfit openly gapes, while a man in a gimp suit and leash visibly swallows.

Take a good long look at what you can’t have, fuckers.

Brushing them off, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored windows of the club, and I have to admit, I look damn good. The red dress clings to every curve, my tits are pushed up to my chin.

Damn right, this dress kills.

I reach the front of the line, ignoring the outraged mutters from those still waiting. The bouncer, a mountain of a man with biceps the size of my head, gives me a once-over.

I stare him down, daring him to try to stop me. I’m Clara fucking Caldwell. I go where I want when I want.

After a tense moment, he steps aside, jerking his head toward the entrance. I give him a sweet smile and saunter past, the tap of my heels lost in the pounding bass emanating from inside.

A slick-looking fucker in a designer suit appears as soon as I cross the threshold, bowing so low I’m surprised he doesn’t faceplant.

“Ms. Caldwell, welcome. I’m Aston,” he simpers with a bow. “Mr. Stephan said to expect you.”

I nod, eager to get inside and lose myself in the chaos, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a mask. It’s a work of art, all red lace and intricate detailing, with a single black feather curling up from one side.

“This is for you, Ms. Caldwell. Specially made for tonight’s festivities,” he informs me, holding it out like it’s the fucking crown jewels.

I raise an eyebrow. “What’s this for?”

“Club policy. Allows for discretion and removes any form of inhibition.”

I snort. More like lets these rich pricks get their freak on without worrying about their faces ending up on TMZ.

Gotta hand it to Stephan, though. Fucker knows how to keep a secret.

I slip the mask on and feel a tingle run through me. Tonight, I’m not the Caldwell black sheep. I’m whoever the fuck I want to be.

Aston leads me toward a room that leads up to some bougie balcony with a prime view of the debauchery below. Plush couches, flickering candles—it’s like something out of a bad porno.

“I’ll send up some drinks,” the host yells. “Let me know if there’s anything else you desire.”

Oh, trust me, I will.

He scurries off, and I sprawl on the couch, scanning the writhing mass of bodies below. So much sin, so little time.

Stephan, I can’t believe you’ve been hiding somewhere as interesting as this.

A drink appears at my elbow, and I down it in one go, enjoying the tingle. The music pounds through me, making my pulse race. I feel alive. Free.

I stand up and lean on the balcony.

And that’s when I see him. Staring back at me. Even with the mask, I can tell he’s gorgeous.

Magnetic.

Dangerous.

He’s impossible to miss, even in this sea of plastic tits and steroid muscles. Tall and built like a fucking brick shithouse, with shoulders so broad they strain against the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.

I take another sip of my drink, locking eyes with the man below.

Even from up here, I can practically taste the big dick energy radiating off him in waves. The kind of energy that promises to utterly wreck you in the best possible way.

The guys flanking him are no slouches, either. The blond one has the kind of chiseled jaw and calculating eyes that scream “hitman heartthrob.” But even he can’t hold a candle to the raw sexual power of the man in the middle.

I watch as a gaggle of silicone bimbos descend on them, their hands roaming freely over hard muscle and designer labels. But Tall, Dark, and Fuckable barely spares them a glance. He shrugs off their groping fingers like they’re nothing more than minor irritants.

Because his eyes are locked on me.

Behind the mask, I can feel the intensity of his gaze, hot and heavy against my skin. It’s like he’s undressing me with his eyes, peeling away the layers of satin and lace until I’m laid bare before him.

He cocks his head to the side, a silent challenge, and raises his glass in a mock toast. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a smile that’s equal parts sin and danger.

Excitement ripples down my spine. This one’s not like the others. He’s not some trust fund fuckboy or coked-out club rat. No, this is a man who takes what he wants, everyone else be damned.

Just like me.

I can feel the wicked curve of my own smile beneath the mask, an answering invitation. Our gazes stay locked for a moment longer, the air between us practically crackling with tension.

Oh, yeah. He’s the one.

My prize for the night.