The club was in full swing—lights pulsing like a heartbeat, music shaking the air, bodies moving in time with the bass. It was the kind of night where money poured like liquor and danger hung in the corners like perfume. You were working the VIP floor tonight, dressed in glitter and temptation, carrying bottles that cost more than some people’s cars. The men at the tables watched you like you were part of the entertainment.

But only one pair of eyes in the entire building truly mattered.

Jason Todd’s.

He sat in his usual spot on the mezzanine balcony—overlooking everything, seeing everything. No one approached that area unless he called them over. Two guards flanked him, but they stayed back, pretending not to notice when his gaze followed you every time you crossed the floor.

And tonight, he wasn’t pretending to work. His attention was locked on you.

You felt the heat of it as you set down a tray, as you leaned in to help a customer pick out a bottle, as you danced your way through the crowd with practiced ease. Jason watched you like he was memorizing you, jaw tight, expression unreadable to anyone but you.

He didn’t like when men touched you. He tolerated it because this was your job. But he chose your tables carefully. And God help anyone who forgot your boundaries.

You had just slipped behind the bar to grab a new set of sparkler-tipped bottles when one of Jason’s men approached you.

“Boss wants you,” he said simply.

Those three words always sent a thrill through you—fear for most, excitement for you.

You followed him up the velvet-lined stairs to the balcony. The noise of the club dimmed the higher you climbed, replaced by low conversations and the soft click of Jason’s rings against his glass.

When you stepped through the curtain, Jason was leaning back on the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest, the other holding a drink he wasn’t really drinking. His eyes rose to meet yours, slow and burning.

He nodded for his men to leave.

Once the room was empty, the mask dropped.

“Come here,” Jason said, voice low, roughened by something that made your stomach flip.

You crossed the room, and he reached out, sliding a hand around your waist to pull you directly into his lap. His scent—gunmetal, cologne, and the faint trace of cigarette smoke—wrapped around you as he pressed a slow kiss to your jaw.

“You look good tonight,” he murmured against your skin. “Too good.”

You laughed softly. “That’s the point, Jase. It’s my job.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh. “But I don’t like other men looking at you the way I do.”

His gaze lifted to yours—dark, possessive, very much the cartel prince he was.

“I let you work out there because you love it,” he said, fingers tracing the glitter on your waist. “But don’t forget something.” His hand tightened, pulling you closer. “You come home with me. You dance for me. You’re mine long before you’re anyone’s fantasy.”

There was no threat in his tone. Just certainty. Devotion sharpened into a promise.

Jason leaned his forehead against yours.

“Now tell me,” he whispered, “how much longer until your shift ends? Because I want you out of that outfit and in my arms before someone else gets brave enough to forget who you belong to.”