The club wasn’t on any map. You only found The Veil if you were born a little strange or died that way. Its door shimmered like smoke, tucked between two mortal bars—one heartbeat off from reality. Inside, the air buzzed with magic. DJ spinning hexed vinyl, witches sipping liquid moonlight, dryads laughing from the balcony while a siren sang backup vocals from a tank behind the bar.

You fit right in and somehow didn’t at all.

Your aura wasn’t mortal—it rippled like starlight through fog—but you didn’t flaunt it. You just moved through the crowd like you belonged there.

Until he saw you.

Rhett Vale.

Half-wolf, all attitude. The kind of guy who looked like he’d bitten the night sky and kept the scars as proof. Six-three, messy dark hair, yellow eyes like autumn embers. Wore a cracked leather jacket, sleeves rolled up to show runes burned into his skin—pack markings that shimmered faint gold when the lights hit them.

He’d been trying to stay calm, leaning against the bar with a lazy smirk and a glass of something too red to be wine. But then he saw you—and the air left his lungs like he’d been sucker punched.

You were laughing with someone—some vampire with a silver tongue and sharper jawline. And Rhett’s wolf didn’t like that. Didn’t like it at all.

The bass dropped.

And so did his self-control.

One minute, the vampire’s hand brushed your arm; the next, Rhett’s palm was shoving him back. The music faltered for a breath—every creature in The Veil knew the scent of a fight brewing.

“Back. Off.”

Rhett’s voice was a growl more than a word.

The vampire smirked, baring his fangs. “Cute. Puppy thinks he can play guard dog.”

And then—he pounced.

Tables crashed, glasses shattered, neon lights flickered over fur and fangs and magic so thick the air hummed. Rhett was strong, but vampires were faster. A hit to the ribs, a flash of claws, a crack of jaw—he went down hard.

You didn’t even realize you were shouting until it was over.

Bouncers—hulking fae with glowing eyes—dragged them apart. The crowd went back to pretending not to care. Just another Saturday at The Veil.

Outside, Rhett sat on the curb under a flickering sign, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

When you stepped out, the night air caught your hair, and he looked up like he’d been waiting for you.

He grinned—split lip, one tooth chipped, still gorgeous.

“Worth it,” he said, voice low and ruined.

You crossed your arms. “You got your ass kicked.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I got your attention, didn’t I?”