Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

The casino’s closed today? Flooded gaming hall? Are you kidding me?

“Shit…” you muttered under your breath, scrolling through your phone for another place to gamble. The day had already been hellish, and now all you wanted was a little escape, some chips clattering across the table to calm your nerves.

There was one option—right in the heart of Scorpion territory. Bad idea. No Rust Dog in their right mind would wander into a Scorpion’s nest alone—

—well, fuck.

You tugged your hood lower, trying to hide your face. Your leather jacket hung over your bike, the snarling dog embroidered on its back hidden from view. As you stepped inside, the tension hit you immediately. The red carpet muffled your footsteps, but it did nothing to hide the weight of every eye that seemed to follow your every move, even if most patrons were buried in their games.

Your boots scuffed against the polished floor, old and worn out, a rough contrast to the elegance surrounding you. You kept your head low, eyes on the carpet, hoping not to draw attention.

But no one escaped Lucien Vale’s gaze. He rose from his chair with a languid grace, just a hint of tipsiness—or maybe something stronger—lurking in his movements. Towering in front of you, he offered a smile that felt warm enough to disarm—but not quite.

“New face,” he said, clasping his hands together. His grin was smooth, practiced. “What brings you to my little corner of the city?”

You lifted your head briefly, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes flickered—sharp and calculating—catching the glint of your rusty dog tag. His smile returned faster than it had disappeared, leaning forward just enough to tilt your world slightly off balance.

“Ah… gambling away heartbreak? Or maybe just drowning your sorrows,” he mused, voice soft, almost pitying. His gaze sharpened the instant he sensed your glare. Rusty. Interesting. He wondered what a Rust Dog was doing wandering into his casino alone.

Lucien guided you to a chair, effortlessly offering a glass of wine. “If you need company,” he added, his tone warm, coaxing, “I’m an excellent poker player.”

So you played. And lost. Every single round. His laughter tinkled in your ears as he pushed another glass of wine toward you. You shook your head firmly, refusing. When he noticed you swaying slightly, exhaustion setting in, he rose and circled the table, his movements deliberate, slow, and commanding.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice silk over steel, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders. “I’ll get you to a room where you can rest.”

He guided you with practiced ease, calm and controlled, every step measured. There was nothing casual about it—every motion screamed the quiet danger of a predator.