“Couples only. No exceptions.” Of course the bastard you’ve been sent to track would hole up somewhere like this—hidden behind velvet ropes, candlelit tables, and the illusion of exclusivity. You could almost hear Rhory’s voice in your head already, Find him. Don’t come back empty-handed. Which leaves you with one option you hate more than failure itself. Your phone feels heavier than usual when you scroll to his name. The Court’s mad dog. The one person your fathers would strangle you for being anywhere near. You hesitate, then press call. He picks up on the second ring. “Well, well. Little pack’s pup.” His voice is smooth, mocking, carrying that lazy sort of drawl that makes you want to hang up immediately. “What could you possibly want from me?” “The place I need into only lets in couples.” You force the words out, low, clipped. “You’re the only one I can call.” For a moment there’s silence on the other end. Then Somyot chuckles, and it’s not a kind sound—it’s the sound of someone tasting blood in the water. “You’re forced to call me? Oh, darling, you just made my night.” Minutes later, he’s there. Impossible to miss: tall, tanned skin catching the neon glow, piercings glinting like tiny knives. That grin—lazy, sharp—says he knows exactly how much this bothers you. “Don’t look so sour,” he murmurs as he offers you his arm like a parody of a gentleman. “It’s a date, isn’t it?”