Chapter 3 — First Night, First Warnings

Catalina

The low hum of conversation and laughter wraps around me as I step onto the floor of The Hives Club for my first shift. My hands are steady, my face neutral, but beneath my calm, my stomach churns with unease. The memory of Adrian’s piercing gaze lingers—cool, calculating, and impossible to shake. His warning echoes in my mind, coiled tight around my thoughts: “You’ll see things here that may unsettle you.”

Unsettle me. That’s one way to put it.

I adjust the small tray I’m carrying, the cool metal trembling slightly against my palm as I weave through the crowd. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and that faint metallic tang that seems to cling to everything here. Bass-heavy music reverberates through the room, its deep pulse vibrating beneath my ribs. Every detail is heightened—sharper—like the entire space has been polished to a cold, dangerous gleam.

The patrons embody the same polished menace: beautiful, poised, and predatory. Sharp eyes follow me as I move, assessing, measuring. The mirrored walls catch fragments of their faces—distorted reflections that make them seem more like specters than people. I force myself to focus on the rhythm of my boots clicking softly against the polished floor, using it to drown out the cacophony around me. It’s just a job. Just waiting tables. Keep your head down.

“Table six,” the bartender mutters, sliding a tray of drinks toward me without meeting my eyes. His voice is curt, his shoulders hunched in a way that tells me he’s used to avoiding attention. I’ve quickly learned that the staff here don’t waste time on pleasantries. Efficiency is their armor, and I’m still fumbling to strap mine on.

I nod, securing the tray and navigating the shifting tide of bodies. But as I approach table six, my steps falter.

Luka is there.

He looms over the table like a shadow made flesh, his broad shoulders blocking out the warm golden light. He’s leaning against the back of a chair, his scarred face carved into a cruel smirk. The men seated around him—sharp suits, slicked-back hair—shift uneasily, their laughter thin and brittle.

Luka’s voice cuts through the noise, low and gravelly, but I can’t make out his words. Whatever he’s saying makes one of the men—wiry, with a pale, nervous face—flinch. The others glance at each other, their tension palpable.

I hesitate, my pulse quickening. The air around Luka feels heavier, like it’s been sucked dry of oxygen, leaving only the weight of unspoken threats.

I swallow hard and step closer, keeping my voice steady. “Drinks.”

The tray trembles slightly as I set it down on the table. For a moment, no one moves. Then the wiry man reaches for a glass, his hand trembling.

Luka’s hand shoots out, gripping the man’s wrist with a force that makes me flinch.

“I wasn’t finished,” Luka says, his tone almost conversational, but there’s a razor edge beneath it that cuts through the noise around us.

The man freezes, his face a shade paler as Luka leans in closer. The other guests shrink back in their seats, their gazes darting between Luka and their untouched drinks, as though unsure which is the greater danger.

I should leave. I know I should. But my feet stay rooted to the floor, my breath caught in my chest as I watch the scene unfold.

“You see,” Luka continues, his grip tightening, “manners matter here. And you—you’re being very rude.” His smile widens, all sharp teeth and malice.

The man stammers out an apology, his words tumbling over each other. Luka lets him go with a dismissive shove, sending him sprawling back into his chair. The tray rattles as the vibrations travel through the table, and I instinctively reach out to steady it.

Big mistake.

Luka’s eyes snap to me, cold and unyielding—like twin shards of ice cutting straight through my chest. My stomach twists, and a chill prickles over my skin. For a heartbeat, the club fades away. It’s just me and his gaze, pinning me in place.

“Something wrong?” he asks, his tone light, almost amused, but his smirk says otherwise.

I shake my head quickly, my mouth dry. “No,” I manage to say.

His stare lingers, sharp and assessing, and I force myself to hold still, even as fear coils tighter in my chest. Then, just as suddenly, his attention shifts back to the table, as though I’ve ceased to exist.

I retreat, my heart pounding against my ribs as I weave my way back toward the bar. My hands are trembling now, and I grip the empty tray tightly, willing myself to breathe.

“You’re lucky,” a voice says from behind me, startling me.

I turn to see Jackson leaning casually against the bar, a glass of amber liquid cradled in his hand. His hazel eyes glint with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe, or something more calculating.

“You shouldn’t linger when Luka’s working,” he says, his voice smooth and measured. “He doesn’t take kindly to interruptions.”

“I noticed,” I reply, though my voice doesn’t quite match the dry tone I was going for.

Jackson’s lips curl into a faint smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Consider this your first lesson,” he says, tilting his glass slightly toward me. “The club has its own… rules. Learn them quickly.”

“And if I don’t?”

His smile deepens, but there’s no warmth in it. “Then you won’t last long.”

The words hang between us, heavy and unspoken. Jackson takes a slow sip from his glass, his gaze steady on mine. “Everyone here follows the rules,” he continues, his tone lighter now, almost conversational. “Or at least pretends to.”

I don’t respond. My mouth feels too dry, my thoughts too tangled. He sets his glass down gently, the sound barely audible over the music, and straightens his jacket.

“You’d do well to remember that,” he says, his words a quiet warning.

With that, he walks away, his steps unhurried, as though he has all the time in the world.

I exhale shakily, leaning against the bar for support. My hands ache from gripping the tray too tightly, and I loosen my hold, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface. The weight of the night presses down on me, every nerve in my body buzzing with tension.

This is just the beginning.

I glance across the room, my eyes landing on the crimson curtain at the far end of the club—the one that leads to Adrian’s office. It’s drawn shut now, but the memory of his gaze, his veiled warnings, lingers in my mind.

I told him I could handle it.

I only hope I wasn’t lying.