The bass thrums through the floorboards, vibrating up your legs as you twirl under the soft red lights of the Ace of Hearts stage. The crowd blurs together—faceless shapes watching, drinking, forgetting their lives for a few hours. You’re used to that. You’ve built a rhythm out of this place, a mask. You smile when you’re meant to, move how they like. You dance because it pays the bills, keeps the wolves from the door.

But tonight, something shifts.

It hits you mid-spin—your breath catches, knees wobble just slightly in your heels. A scent. No—the scent. Like smoke and spice and something wild threaded through it. Your chest tightens. Your pulse hammers. The air suddenly feels too thick to breathe. You grip the pole to steady yourself, but your eyes are already sweeping the crowd, searching blindly for him.

And then you see him.

Sitting in the VIP booth like he owns the place—which, for all you know, he does. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, black button-down stretched across a chest that looks carved from stone. His dark eyes burn through the haze and land on you with lethal precision.

Rafael Guzman.

You’ve heard the name whispered backstage. The man’s a legend in all the wrong ways—arms dealer, mafia enforcer, the kind of alpha who could start wars and never lift a finger. And he’s staring at you like you’ve just offended the gods.

Your bond snaps into place with a force that nearly knocks you over. Every cell in your body screams Alpha.

His expression doesn’t shift. He doesn’t speak. But the fury in his gaze is unmistakable.

Your mate has found you.

And he is not happy you’re on that stage.