Club Rogue

Sloane's POV

Steam curled around my shoulders like an overeager lover as I scrubbed last night’s mistakes down the drain. The showerhead coughed up lukewarm disappointment—three years sharing this shitbox with Weslie and we still couldn’t afford a decent plumber.

“Nothing says romance like mildew spores,” I muttered, lathering shampoo into black strands. The scent of Grady’s cologne clung to my skin despite the vigorous scrubbing. Sandalwood and bullshit—the official fragrance of middle-aged enforcers having midlife crises.

The shower curtain rattled. “You know I had to call in three favors to bury that assault charge.” Grady’s silhouette loomed through the yellowed plastic like a particularly persistent specter of bad decisions. “Punching a Beta in front of witnesses? Even for you, that’s—”

“What? Excessive?” I scoffed, working conditioner through the ends of my hair.

“—pushing it,” he finished with that patronizing tone that made me want to break something. Preferably his face.

I rinsed quickly, shutting off the water with a squeak that perfectly matched my irritation level. “He grabbed my ass, Grady. What was I supposed to do? Curtsy and thank him for the attention?”

Grady’s exasperated sigh echoed off the discolored tiles. Six years as the enforcer's side piece, and he still hadn't learned when to back off.

“Sloane, you know how Lunaris City works. You’re an Omega in the Entertainment District.”

“The city can go fuck itself sideways,” I growled, yanking the curtain open. Grady’s eyes automatically dropped to my naked body before snapping back up. “Just because I can’t shift doesn’t mean I’m public property.”

That was the real kicker in this city—not just being an Omega, which was bad enough, but being wolfless. A genetic joke. The only thing worse than being at the bottom of the Lycan hierarchy was being defective merchandise.

Grady leaned against the bathroom doorframe. In his tailored charcoal suit, he looked every inch the Beta enforcer—Lunaris City’s version of judge, jury, and executioner all wrapped in designer fabric. “The system works, Sloane. Without the hierarchy you would be in much worse shape. Especially with your… condition.”

I huffed, heading toward my bedroom. “My condition? You mean the fact that I’m stuck in human form while the rest of you get to howl at the moon?”

“Sloane, please…”

“Look, I appreciate the favor, okay?” I paused at my bedroom door. “But for the record, if another Beta thinks my ass is public property, I’ll break his fucking nose too.”

Grady’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Even he knew the Submission Laws were bullshit, though he’d never admit it. Not when enforcing them kept his mortgage paid and his wife in designer clothes.

I slammed my bedroom door and leaned against it, water from my hair dripping onto the worn carpet. Through the thin walls, I could hear Weslie moving around in the kitchen, probably brewing his fancy coffee and judging my life choices.

Another day in paradise. Just trying to survive in a city built by Alphas, for Alphas.

And they wondered why I had anger issues.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged from my bedroom feeling slightly more lycan—or as lycan as a wolfless Omega could feel. I’d pulled my damp raven hair into a high ponytail, applied just enough eyeliner to make my ice-blue eyes pop, and slicked on my favorite red lipstick. My crop top rode up just enough to show off the abs I’d earned from dancing, and my skinny jeans hugged every curve.

Grady was perched at our kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone while Weslie leaned against the fridge, nursing his third coffee of the morning. My roommate’s black eyeliner was immaculate as always, his cut-off shirt revealing the sleeve of tattoos he’d gotten during what he called his “bad decision era.”

“Speaking of favors,” Weslie drawled, setting down his mug, “I got this pesky little parking ticket last night. Downtown enforcement is such a pain.” He batted his eyelashes at Grady. “I’d be happy to suck you off if you make it disappear. You know, since that seems to be the going rate for legal assistance around here.”

Grady choked on his coffee. “Remus and Lupin, Wes.”

I snickered, heading for the coffee pot. “Don’t act shocked. We all know your price list.”

Grady rolled his eyes, but I caught the slight flush creeping up his neck. “I’ll take care of it, Weslie. No... additional services required.”

Weslie slow-clapped. “The heroes this city deserves.”

Grady glared at both of us. “You two are fucking impossible.”

“And yet here you are,” I said, gesturing around our apartment. “Again.”

Weslie lobbed a stale donut at me. “Don’t insult our guest, Sloane. How’s the wife, Grady? Still thinking you work late at the precinct every Tuesday and Thursday?”

Grady’s jaw tightened. “Clara is fine.”

“I bet she is,” I chimed in, dumping sugar into my coffee. “Blissfully unaware that her Beta hubby is slumming it with an Omega. Scandal of the century.”

“You know,” Grady said, straightening his tie, “some might consider it inappropriate to discuss my wife after we just—”

“Fucked?” I supplied helpfully. “Had mediocre sex? Used each other for mutual benefit?”

Weslie nearly choked on his coffee. “Remus, Sloane.”

“What? It’s not like it’s a secret. Well, except to Clara.”

Grady checked his watch, clearly eager to escape. “I should get going. Actual enforcer work to do.”

“As opposed to the unofficial kind?” I asked sweetly, batting my eyelashes.

“You know, one of these days that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble I can’t fix,” Grady warned, but there was no real heat behind it.

I leaned in, close enough to catch the lingering scent of his cologne. “Promise?”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of our secondhand chair.

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy next time,” I called after him as he headed for the door. “I expect at least dinner first.”

“In your dreams, Sloane,” Grady tossed back, but the slight quirk of his lips betrayed him. The door clicked shut behind him, and I listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway.

I turned to find Weslie giving me his patented “you’re-a-disaster” look, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched high enough to defy gravity.

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“You know exactly what.” He sipped his coffee, the silver rings on his long fingers catching the morning light that filtered through our dingy apartment windows. “One of these days, Clara’s going to find out, and I’m not bailing you out when she comes for your blood.”

I sighed, surveying our cramped living space. The apartment wasn’t much—mismatched furniture collected from sidewalks and thrift stores, walls thin enough to hear our neighbors’ arguments (and other activities), and a persistent leak in the corner that no amount of buckets could solve. But it was ours, a sanctuary in a city that saw us as little more than background characters.

“What’s on your agenda today? More spreadsheets and brooding over drink inventory?” I asked, changing the subject as I hopped onto our scratched kitchen counter.

Weslie flipped me off with one finger, chipped black nail polish and all. “Some of us take our jobs at Club Rogue seriously. Not all of us can just take our clothes off and call it a night’s work.”

“Don’t forget the pole tricks. Those take actual skill.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Weslie’s tall frame moved with practiced efficiency around our tiny kitchen. “Because that’s what our clientele pays to see. Anyway, Vladamir is meeting me for lunch. Then I’m going in to do inventory.”

“Oh ‘lunch’, sure thing, Weslie,” I wiggled my eyebrows. “How is the mobster sex god these days?”

A smile tugged at Weslie’s lips. “He’s fine. Busy with his Alpha Daddy’s current campaign. Being a good little mid-rank for the cameras.”

“Oh, while dating an omega in secret? Scandalous.” I kicked my feet.

“Actually, politically savvy. Apparently, Vlad’s Daddy is running on a reform promise. All about protecting ‘vulnerable populations’ and ‘bridging the hierarchy divide’.”

I rolled my eyes, “Alphas love to promise the world they need the mutts and the humans for their numbers. Once they’re in, it’s all leash and muzzles again. Isn’t the election only a formality anyway?”

“Well, it’s for the lower district. Apparently, our lack of Alpha leaves us open for claims.” Weslie corrected.

“Since when do you care about politics?”

“Since I started dating the son of our current Alpha? Anyway, you know about that one Alpha and the whole family getting murdered like two decades ago. Apparently, their family were the rightful Alphas of the Howl and the lower districts. The Lykostellos are elected to oversee this district along with their own.”

I felt that familiar twist in my gut at the mention of murder. “Yeah, well, maybe some Alphas deserve what they get.”

Weslie gave me a sharp look. “Sloane...”

“What? You think I’m going to shed tears over dead Alphas when my parents—” I stopped, the familiar ache spreading through my chest. Eight years later and it still felt like yesterday. Finding our apartment door broken open. The blood. The smell. Two Omegas who never hurt anyone, slaughtered like animals with not a single Beta enforcer giving enough of a shit to find who did it.

“Sorry,” Weslie said softly. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to bring up…”

“I know you didn’t.” I waved him off, sliding from the counter. “Just don’t expect me to start wearing ‘Vote Lykostello’ buttons anytime soon.”

The thought of my parents also brought about that hollow feeling. One minute I’d been a normal fifteen-year-old with loving parents, the next I was homeless, sleeping in abandoned buildings and stealing food to survive.

“Shit,” I muttered, glancing at the cracked clock on our wall. “Speaking of uncomfortable social situations, I’m supposed to meet Tasha, Lex, and Kira for lunch in an hour.”

Weslie raised an eyebrow. “The Corporate District crew? Didn’t Tasha try to get you arrested last time?”

“She didn’t try,” I corrected, grabbing my faux leather jacket from the hook by the door. “She succeeded. Then acted shocked when I still showed up for her mating ceremony the next day.”

“Ah right, didn’t you also toast the Beta groom at that thing?” Weslie smirked.

I chuckled. “Yeah, I thanked him for his generous tips at the club.”

“And yet, you’re all still friends.”

“What can I say? I’m a masochist.”

“No, you’re not!” Weslie called out as I exited the apartment.

The stairwell in our building reeked of piss and Vietnamese food from the restaurant below—a charming combination that the landlord called “urban character” when we complained. Three flights down and I was on the street, the Lower District’s particular brand of chaos washing over me like a familiar, if slightly toxic, blanket.

A homeless lycan was sleeping in the doorway of the abandoned laundromat across the street, his wolf ears twitching even in sleep. Two gamma teens were tagging the wall of the bodega while the owner yelled threats in Spanish. The air smelled of garbage, street food, and that indefinable scent of too many bodies packed into too little space.

Home sweet fucking home.

Morgan’s POV

Three months ago, that bus had shuddered to a stop, its doors hissing open like an ornery cat. When I had danced my way off that greycanine seat, my flats had slapped against pavement to the tune in my head. The sticky Mississippi air I’d been breathing for nineteen years got traded for diesel fumes and baking asphalt. I clutched my guitar case to my chest like a shield, the one Mama pawned her wedding ring to buy me.

Back home they called it the City of Second Chances, where talent’s worth more than blood. Lies told by talent scouts sweeping through our podunk county fair, their gold-capped smiles glinting under neon rodeo lights.

The memory curdled as I trudged past pawn shops blinking with desperate promises. Three months of “help wanted” signs. Sixty-two days of “we don’t hire humans”. Twenty-seven nights crying into a pillow that still smelled like honeysuckle from home.

“Just temporary,” I promised myself, staring at the crumpled audition flyer in my hand.

Dancers Wanted - All Species Welcome, it read. Mama would have a conniption fit if she knew. But Mama wasn’t here scrambling to pay eight-hundred dollars a month for a wererat-infested motel.

Club Rogue’s neon claw mark buzzed above a steel door that looked fit for bank vaults. My reflection wobbled in that polished metal—blonde frizz escaping Mama’s butterfly clip, blouse buttons straining where I’d gained stress weight eating gas station honey buns. Behind me, a gamma coughed laughter into his fist.

“Y’all holdin’ auditions?” I squeaked to the bouncer, flashing the flyer like a holy relic.

He sniffed, nostrils flaring. “Stairs. Left.”

The basement throbbed with bass so deep my teeth ached. Six girls perched on a velvet couch—all sharp collarbones. Some with tails out flicking lazily behind them.

Omegas.

Real ones.

My thighs squeaked against pleather when I sat.

“First timer?” The redhead beside me smirked, her claw-tipped fingers playing with a nose ring.

“Yes ma’am.” The honorific slipped out before I could stop it. Her snort sounded like a tea kettle whistling. “Morgan Anne Martin. Nice to meet y’all.”

The omegas eyed my outstretched hand like it was a rattlesnake. But then a couple introduced themselves, Jaz and Marcie.

Bless their hearts, they were friendly once I got ’em talking. Marcie from the farming territories had come to Lunaris City to study architecture. Jaz ran her fingers through rose-gold curls as she explained she’d been denied access to community college just for being an omega.

“Submitted fifty-seven job applications last moon cycle,” I confessed, smoothing my skirt. “Even tried that new coffee shop on Crescent, but the manager said humans ain’t allowed near the espresso machines.”

The girl with neon pink streaks in her hair shrugged, her claws clicking against a phone case bedazzled with crescent moons. “There are other ways to make money in the city.”

Marcie’s ear twitched—actual velvet fur. “Find you a nice Gamma or Beta and let him take care of you.”

The floor tilted under my cheap flats. “Y’all mean... like dating?”

The whole group exchanged pitying looks.

Jaz’s tail lashed. “My Beta’s got a penthouse on Crescent. Three omegas, two bedrooms. We get groceries delivered as long as...” Her eyes narrowed. “Well. You know how Betas are.”

My stomach soured worse than month-old sweet tea. “But... ain’t there laws?”

All six girls burst into laughter sharp enough to draw blood.

“Submission Laws,” Marcie spat. “Mean if a Beta snaps their fingers...” She demonstrated with a clawed hand. “We spread.”

The creak of a door sliced through my nausea. The man smelled like bourbon-soaked dollar bills—salt-and-pepper hair groomed within an inch of its life, suit costing more than my Mama’s farmhouse. His gold pinky ring clinked against a clipboard as he prowled toward us.

“Showtime, ladies.”

The man’s gaze scraped over us like a butcher assessing cuts of meat. “Lennix Kane,” he announced, thumb brushing his gaudy lapel pin—a howling wolf encrusted with tacky rhinestones. “You’re in my house now. Up.” He snapped fingers that reeked of cigar smoke and arrogance.

Marcie was first off the couch, spine stiffening like someone had yanked her strings. We rose in a rustle of nervous fabric, my thighs sticking to the pleather with a sound that made Jaz snicker. Lennix circled us, his polished oxfords clicking a predatory rhythm against concrete.

“Turn.” His voice held the bored menace of a man who enjoyed his work too much.

The redhead pivoted first, her tail swishing with practiced ease. I caught the tremor in my knees as Lennix paused behind me—his breath a humid on my neck.

“Human?” The word dripped with interest.

All the spit in my mouth dried up. “Y-yessir.”

The club owner circled me slower than a vulture eyeing carrion. “Curious specimen. Ever bottle-fed a lamb before slaughter?”

Ice slid down my spine. “No, sir.”

His laugh smelled like cigars and cruelty. “Perfect. Wolves adore playing with their food.” He pointed to Jaz and Marcie too. “You three come back at nine tonight. Side stage. Show me what you got. The rest of you come back tomorrow night. Same time. If you survive the night, you’ll be made part of the regular rotation.”

Jaz caught my eye across the lineup, her smirk sharp enough to draw blood. Welcome to the system, that look said.