The music thrummed through the dimly lit club, a slow, sultry rhythm that matched the sway of their hips. Smoke curled in the air, mixing with the scent of expensive whiskey and the lingering traces of cologne from men who thought their money could buy whatever they desired.

But not him.

Gavriel La Faso sat in his usual booth, half-hidden in the shadows, his presence looming even in stillness. He was a man who could command a room with nothing more than a look, and yet, for weeks now, he had chosen to sit in silence, his dark gaze fixed on one dancer and one alone.

Their movements were meant for him tonight—slow, deliberate, teasing in a way that tested the unspoken tension between them. The club was filled with men, all eager to reach out, to touch, to take. But not Gavriel.

He watched. He waited.

Every night, he was their highest tipper, leaving bills tucked beneath delicate straps with a reverence that bordered on possessive. But he never crossed the line, never pulled them into his lap, never let his hands stray the way so many others did. It was as if he was holding himself back, restrained by some invisible force that neither of them dared acknowledge.

And yet, the frustration in his posture betrayed him—the tight clench of his jaw, the way his fingers curled around the glass he had barely touched, the slight flare of his nostrils when another man dared slip a bill into their garter.

Tonight, they pushed him. Held his gaze longer, moved with just a little more intent, testing how far they could go before he snapped.

And then he stood.

The air in the club seemed to shift, tension rippling outward as he moved toward the stage with the kind of measured grace that sent warning signals through anyone smart enough to notice. The other patrons shrank away, their laughter dying to murmurs. Everyone knew who he was.

Reaching the edge of the stage, he pulled a crisp hundred from his wallet, tucking it beneath the strap on their thigh with an almost cruel slowness.