Chapter 2: The Back Room Deal
The scent of bleach and desperation didn’t quite cover the underlying stench of Club Velvet. It was a sweet, cloying smell, like rotten flowers and spilled liquor, clinging to the red velvet walls that gave the place its name. Ashanti stood just inside the service entrance, the bass from the main floor a physical tremor in the concrete beneath her feet.
Jackie had dressed her. The outfit was a black, sheer mesh bodysuit under a faux leather corset that squeezed her ribs and pushed her breasts up into dramatic, exposed curves. A short, tight skirt completed the look. She felt like a piece of expensive, fragile hardware.
“You look like a premium fantasy,” Jackie had said, adjusting a strap. “Witchy, but approachable. Mysterious, but fuckable. It’s a delicate balance.”
Now, standing in the grimy hallway, Ashanti felt neither delicate nor balanced. She felt exposed. Logan leaned against the wall opposite her, arms crossed. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, but his posture screamed violence. His amber eyes tracked every person who passed—a bouncer with cracked horns, a waiter with glazed eyes, a woman in sequins stumbling on heels. He was a wolf marking the perimeter of a new, dangerous territory.
James returned from speaking with the manager, a slender vampire named Silas whose smile showed too much gum. “He’s interested,” James said quietly, stepping close. “But he wants a demo. A taste for himself. Says he has to ‘vet the product.’”
Ashanti’s stomach tightened. “Here? Now?”
“In the back. Five minutes. Standard house cut is forty percent.”
“Forty?” Logan’s voice was a low warning growl.
“It’s their wall, their electricity, their clientele. We’re freelancers. We take sixty of what we earn. It’s not great, but it’s the deal.” James looked at Ashanti. “You can say no. We walk right now.”
She thought of Dre’s cigar-stained smile. The sound of his threat echoing in their kitchen. The sixteen hundred dollars that didn’t exist. She shook her head. “Let’s get vetted.”
Silas’s office was a cluttered box behind the main bar. He didn’t sit. He circled her, his cold eyes drinking in the details. “The look is adequate. But the Velvet sells experience. Magic is a popular fantasy. Can you deliver a… physical enhancement?”
“I can,” Ashanti said, keeping her voice level. “Controlled sensation. Heightened pleasure. A warm, buzzing fullness. It’s subtle, but undeniable.”
“Show me.” Silas stopped in front of her. “On me. A sample.”
This was the moment. She glanced at Logan. His jaw was a hard line, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He gave the barest nod. Her signal to stop. She didn’t use it.
She reached out, placing her fingertips lightly on Silas’s suited wrist. She closed her eyes, pulling not on deep magic, but on a superficial, thrumming current she kept for her pharmacy work—a minor vitality charm, redirected. She pushed it into him, focusing on the base of his spine, the nerve endings in his groin.
Silas’s breath hitched. A flush, unnatural on his pale skin, crept up his neck. His pupils dilated. “Ah,” he breathed. “Yes. That is… marketable.” He stepped back, smoothing his suit jacket, a flicker of hungry embarrassment in his eyes. “Alright. You’re in. Your first client is waiting. Mr. Kray. Room three. He’s a regular. He pays for exclusivity and discretion. Don’t disappoint him.”
Room three was the storage room. The red bulb cast everything in a bloody, pulsating light. The man waiting was not what she expected. He was older, human, with a paunch straining his silk shirt and gold caps on his teeth. He smelled of expensive cologne and cheap ambition. A crime boss, mid-level, the kind who thought a witch was a new trophy.
“You the specialty?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
“I am.” She walked in. Logan took his post just outside the door, left open a crack as per Silas’s rules—a false nod to safety. She saw the shadow of him there, motionless.
Mr. Kray didn’t waste time on preamble. He unzipped his trousers, pulling out a thick, already-hard cock. “Earn your money, sweetheart. I heard you make a man see stars.”
“That’s the idea.” Her practiced calm settled over her like a shroud. She approached, sinking to her knees on the concrete floor. The taste of him was salty, musky. She took him into her mouth, using her hands, her tongue, building a rhythm. It was mechanical. She focused on the whir of a compressor somewhere down the hall.
He groaned, tangling a hand in her white dreads. “Yeah, use that witch mouth.”
After a few minutes, he pulled her up roughly. “Turn around. Over the crates.”
She bent forward, her palms flattening on the wood of a whiskey crate. The cool air hit her exposed skin. He yanked her skirt up around her waist. She heard him spit into his hand, then the blunt, wet pressure of him nudging against her entrance. He wasn’t gentle. He shoved himself inside her with one deep, grinding thrust.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his hands clamping on her hips, nails digging in.
He set a brutal, jarring pace. Each slam of his hips drove her into the sharp edge of the crate. The sound was obscene in the small room—the wet slap of skin on skin, his grunts, the rustle of the cardboard. The red light made the sweat on his back look like fresh blood.
“That witch pussy better be worth the premium,” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck.
Ashanti closed her eyes. She detached. She was a conduit. She let a thread of her magic unspool, not the gentle buzz from the demo, but something sharper, a targeted pulse of hyper-sensation directed right at the root of him inside her. It was a calculated risk—too much and he’d lose control, too little and he’d feel cheated.
He gasped, his rhythm faltering. “Oh, hell. What is that? That’s… fuck…” His movements became frantic, desperate. He was hammering into her now, a man chasing a sensation that was just out of reach. She clenched around him, tightening her internal muscles, feeding the magic in time with his thrusts.
“I’m gonna… gonna fill you up, you magic bitch,” he panted, his voice ragged.
She felt him swell, throb, and then the hot, sudden flood of his release. He came with a choked roar, his body locking up as he emptied himself deep inside her in three sharp, pumping bursts. He collapsed over her back, his weight heavy and smothering, his sweat soaking through the mesh of her bodysuit.
After a moment, he pulled out with a slick, soft sound. The immediate drip of his cum down her thigh was warm. He slapped her ass, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed. “Not bad.”
He zipped himself up, pulled a thick roll of hundreds from his pocket, and peeled off several. He tossed them. They fluttered down, some sticking to the damp skin of her lower back, others landing on the dirty floor. “Two grand. Tell Silas I’ll be back next week.”
He left without another look.
Ashanti straightened up slowly. Her legs trembled. She peeled the bills from her skin, then bent to collect the rest from the floor. Two thousand. Her share would be twelve hundred. More than she’d ever gotten from Gorak. The math was cold comfort.
She used a rag from a shelf to clean herself as best she could. The door pushed open wider. Logan stood there, fully in the doorway now. The red light carved the harsh planes of his face into a gargoyle mask. His eyes glowed, pure animal amber. He was breathing slowly, deliberately, as if holding back a change.
She met his gaze, folding the money neatly. “It’s done.”
He didn’t speak. He just stared at the red mark on her ass, at the messy smear between her legs, at the cash in her hand. The air between them crackled with a tension far more dangerous than anything Mr. Kray had brought into the room.
James appeared behind him, his expression unreadable. “Silas is happy. Kray’s a big spender. He wants her booked solid for the next three Saturdays.” He looked from Ashanti’s composed face to his brother’s silent fury. “This is the play, Logan. It works.”
Logan finally moved. He stepped into the room, close to Ashanti. He didn’t touch her. He just leaned in, his voice a raw whisper only she could hear, carrying the rumble of the beast beneath. “I counted his heartbeats. I listened to his lungs. I knew the exact second he came inside you.”
She held his gaze, her own eyes fierce, refusing to flinch. “Good. Then you were doing your job.”
She walked past him, out into the hall, the cash a crisp bundle in her fist. The sounds of the club—the thumping music, the artificial joy—swallowed her. She headed for the women’s staff bathroom to change.
Logan watched her go. James put a hand on his shoulder. “Brother.”
Logan shook it off. “I need air,” he muttered, and turned, stalking away down the hall toward the back exit, needing the cold, unperfumed night to scour the smell of the room from his senses.
Outside, in the alley choked with garbage and neon runoff, Logan braced his hands against the brick wall. He hung his head, sucking in deep breaths. The animal in him was pacing, snarling, wanting to hunt, to tear, to reclaim. He’d watched. He’d stood guard. And he’d felt every flinch, every fake moan, as if they were his own.