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The bass thumps up through the soles of my boots as I step through the Blue Note’s front entrance, the sound settling into my bones before my vision adjusts to the darkness.

I’ve timed it so I arrive early enough for the live band to be warmed up, but late enough that the crowd density will help me blend in.

Cool winter air gives way to the heat of bodies packed together under the drop ceiling.

My nostrils flare at the layered scents of spilled alcohol, body spray that doesn’t quite cover sweat and pheromones, and underneath it all, the old wood that forms the bones of the place.

I tug my cardigan lower, letting it slide off one shoulder to expose the long, unmarked line of my neck. The nape guard hugs my throat with familiar pressure, the jewel dangling from the front, brushing the hollow of my throat.

In the glass behind the bar, a doe-eyed stranger with a sparkly clip holding back dark brown hair meets my gaze.

It took forty minutes to perfect this appearance, and it was worth every second.

I weave through the lounge, offering a quick thanks to the couple who clear a path for me. When I lean onto the polished counter, my crop top slides upward, exposing the fine chain at my waist.

When the bartender stops in front of me, I raise my voice to be heard over the music. “Whiskey sour, please.”

He dips his chin in acknowledgment and heads off to mix the drink. While he works, I lean back and survey the room.

A four-piece band plays a moody song on the stage at the back, the guitarist’s fingers flying over the strings while the drummer keeps the rhythm tight.

People cluster around small, high-top tables, leaning in to be heard, hands wrapped around glasses. A few have already migrated to the small dance floor, bodies swaying close together in the limited space.

Staff weave between patrons collecting empty glasses while bouncers hold the walls, searching the room for troublemakers.

The booths along the far wall offer more privacy to hide what hands do under the tables.

My drink arrives, and I take a small sip, letting the sweet-sour burn linger on my tongue.

As my head lifts again, my attention snags on a figure standing apart from the crowd near the far wall.

He puts no effort into standing out, which only attracts more attention.

Lean and long-limbed, with dark hair clipped close at the sides and left slightly longer on top, he’d verge on handsome perfection if not for the slight hook of a nose broken at least once and a mouth unfamiliar with easy smiles.

People give him a wider berth than necessary when they pass, avoiding even accidental acknowledgment, while the staff check in with him more often than anyone else.

My hindbrain registers him as an Alpha before I understand why I’m still staring at him, cataloguing the exact angle of his jaw, the particular stillness of him, and the way the dim light catches the pale silver of his irises.

I turn back to my drink.

The way the staff defers to him and the space he commands without trying… Orien Bellamy. People whisper his name on the street, always attached to Rowan Ward, the mysterious owner of this place.

I take another sip and let the whiskey burn its way down, willing the chill in my blood to follow.

Three-quarters through my drink, the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I turn my head, scanning the crowd for the cause. An Alpha at one of the high tables has caught my scent, nostrils flaring as his attention locks onto me.

I turn back to my drink, but not before letting my focus drift to Orien one more time. He’s still watching the room, still motionless, still perfectly controlled.

The other man heads my way with a drink in hand. I track his movement through the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He puffs out his chest and squares his shoulders in an attempt to appear bigger. Predictable.

I don’t turn as I bring my drink back to my mouth, using the motion to ease my elbow farther along the counter and open a gap between us small enough to seem accidental.

When he slides up next to me, I allow myself to appear surprised, a slight rise of my eyebrows the only acknowledgment.

His hand lands on my shoulder, thumb brushing bare skin where the collar of my shirt exposes my collarbone. “Haven’t seen you here before.”