The electronic bass of the new wave song thumped through the smokey air and mirrored my excited heartbeat. The Monarch Towers oozed with glamour and its nightclub was a place where the elite mortals of Ascendria, and anyone else who could afford the ridiculous prices of drinks, congregated. The dance floor was a hedonistic playground of the rich. Strobe lights flashed through the plumes of smoke and across sweat-glistening skin as the dancers moved against one another to the pulsing beat of Frankie Goes to Hollywood. The laser beams set white shirts and dresses into glowing neon light, stark against the gloom of the club.

'Relax,' an older song, still got played because of the dirty undertone to the lyrics, something spicy-romance-reader Tabitha was surprisingly unaware of. When I'd explained the nature of the explicit song while we'd walked the running trail exchanging favorite bands, her shocked expression had been precious and I hadn't been able to stop laughing for a good five minutes afterward.

Exhilaration pumped through my blood and there was a spring in my step as I shoved my way through to the VIP section where the Stag party was set up for the night. Holly Johnson's voice flowed through the enormous speakers set up around the DJ, who leaned over his setup, one hand cupping his headphone, the sleeves of his pastel jacket rolled up. While Holly sang, I tried to tell myself to relax too.

Relax, just relax, you'll see Tabitha soon.

I'd been uneasy ever since I'd kissed Tabitha in the coatroom earlier this evening and tasted wretchedness on her lips. Later tonight, I hoped to pry the truth out of her. We'd almost been caught out by Marissa too, and while she and Tabitha had spoken out in the hallway I'd gone into full panic mode trying to figure out how I could hide my big ass amongst the wet weather raincoats.

Afterward, I'd showered, dressed, and impatiently waited a reasonable length of time to seem blasé about turning up at the Stag Party. One of Romain's chauffeurs had driven me here and I'd joined the party late in the hour even though there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

I strode through a wall of heat and music and bodies. A massive disco ball hung from the ceiling and splayed light as it slowly spun overhead. The chemical smell of dry ice curled through the air and shoved itself up my nostrils. Lust with a slimy tackiness to it slithered all over my body from those from whom I'd garnered unwanted attention. I ignored flirty eyes and coy smiles and women with zero fucking shame making a beeline for me.

Bypassing the throng of patrons clustered around the bar jockeying to get the bartender's attention, I walked around the frayed edges of the dancers and where they took a breather between songs to sit around tables and drink. My gaze wandered, and in the intermittent flashes of laser lights, I encountered blissed-out faces with either fully dilated or pin-prick pupils depending on the drug they'd snorted or inhaled. Recreational drugs we infused with magic and distributed through the crime syndicates and their minions on behalf of the Horned Gods.

I reached the VIP section set up with bouncers guarding the short flight of steps to the raised area. Besides the drinks which I was paying for all night, I'd also requested the private area for the Stag Party. A nice gesture, given to Oswain under the pretense of thanking him and the servants helping out with Jurgana, but it was done to keep those attending the Stag Party corralled in one place. Here, they'd keep to the club's ground floor with easy access to the dance floor, while the rest of the club, particularly the second floor and its wrap-around balcony was dark and seductive and easy enough to disappear into with Tabitha.

The meat-headed bouncer with blunt cheekbones and a puffy nose nodded politely as I passed by and walked up the steps. I'd spent a fair bit of time here at the Monarch Tower's club after Irma, so they knew me, and besides, I was fucking paying for everything tonight.

The VIP section was a large area with curved leather booths backed with merlot brocade curtains. Starburst chandeliers glittered overhead. Smaller tables were set alongside the gold-gilded railing, fencing us in, and down one end was our own private bar with servers flitting amongst the crowd.

The Stag Party was exactly how I'd imagined it would be: loud and boisterous. The round tables were littered with a variety of empty glasses, crystal trimmed with gold. Jackets had been discarded and flung over empty chairs or dropped onto the floor. A few of the party-goers had already passed the fuck out and were sprawled over booth seats. As I moved deeper into the area a cork exploded upward, narrowly missing a chandelier, and bubbly champagne sprayed across those close by. Some girl was dancing on a tabletop, and the drunk boys were hooting and whooping and egging one another on to down shots or trying badly to chat up the women who'd been invited into the party. I mentally rolled my eyes. It was like watching a bunch of repressed high school kids gone crazy on the freedom of moving on to college and out from under the wing of helicopter parents.

As yet no one had noticed my arrival. The soles of my oxfords stuck to the floor, tacky with spilled drinks, as I neared the large gathering. I towered above most so it was easy to scan the area for Tabitha. I was curious to see the outfit she'd begged me not to laugh at. I was looking for golden hair and some kind of ridiculous matronly outfit her aunt had shoved her into.

Relax blended away and turned into the opening riff of one of Tabitha's favorite bands—Def Leppard's, Pour Some Sugar On Me—the drums and cymbals kicking in. A server in a crisp black uniform walked by with a silver tray loaded with drinks and I snagged a whiskey, taking a sip as I searched for Tabitha.

I frowned, I couldn't see her in here.

Then glanced over my shoulder—she could be out there on the dance floor.

My jaw sawed and blunt-edged jealousy twisted inside like I'd been knifed. Who the fuck could she be dancing with?

My eyes slit, it could be any-fucking-one, but if it was Tomas...

Quickly moving to the side, I braced a hand on the railing and searched through the bobbing heads and swaying limbs out on the dance floor. There were guys still in the 80s with dyed spiky hair or curly mullets, some were welcoming in the 90s with grungy plaid shirts, ripped jeans, and permanent scowls, but most were wearing designer suits and grinding up against women in short clinging dresses.

I ran my gaze along the upper-story balcony and the faces of the patrons leaning against the railing. Wisps of smoke drifted from cigarettes and cigars, alcohol glistening in crystal glasses, as they watched those below dancing, or canted closer to one another as they shout-talked over the loud music.

Turning my attention back to the party, I realized most of Oswain's guests were crowded down the other end of the open room as if they were attending a private concert. The guys were clapping their hands over their heads while stomping their feet as they shout-sung about being sweet-sticky and pouring sugar on some innocent girl.

Interestingly, they were trained in one direction.

In fact, when I glanced around I realized that most of the servants were. Even a small group who were huddled together at a round table had paused their argument over gardening methods to stare wide-eyed toward the back.

A pair of women with their arms crossed and hips jutted out were shooting dirty looks at the guys they stood next to, annoyed their attention was elsewhere. I heard snippets of conversation between the two guys in front of me who were bouncing up and down, punching the air with their fists.

"I had no idea she was this wild."

"Me either!"

"You think she has a boyfriend?"

Mild curiosity over the raucous clapping and wolf whistles ringing over the music had me slowly, slowly swiveling around while I raised the tumbler to my mouth and took a long pull of whiskey. Liquid warmth started to slide down my throat, leaving a smokey stinging trail just as my gaze landed on the girl I'd earlier spotted dancing on top of a table and dismissed.

She was bent forward at the waist swinging her hair around. That's all I saw—whipping strands of butterscotch hair whirling around and around. A shimmer of caramel and strands of ripened wheat sparkling as if a handful of glitter had been tossed over the locks.

She snapped suddenly upright and all that hair fell away from her heart-shaped face to tumble over bare shoulders and down her back.

And I choked on the mouthful of whiskey.

It fucking sprayed from my mouth like a burst fire hydrant.

I doubled over, coughing and hacking and slamming a fist on my chest, gasping for a lungful of air.

Choking a shuddering breath down, I eased to my full height, flicking the beads of alcohol off my mouth and chin. My astonished gaze traveled slowly from the black strappy high heels with their silver studs and red soles kicking up as Tabitha danced on the polished wooden table. It skimmed along those long, long golden legs to her swinging hips as she shimmied her shoulders to the music. Raising an arm above her head, she twirled a tartan jacket like it was a fucking lasso and flung it into the crowd.

Some guy caught it and bellowed in victory. "Tabitha Catt, you rock!"

For a long, long moment, I wasn't fucking sure who I was looking at.

Tabitha Catt was a girl gone wild.

Long blond hair dripped down her chest and had been teased so high it rivaled Joan Collins's. Everything was pared down to make Tabitha's beauty shine true. A sweep of black kohl across her eyelids turned them into cat eyes and those gorgeous lips of hers were coated in scarlet.

I expected her to be in some dull, badly made outfit, but the strapless navy dress was simple yet modern. What looked to be a yellow and navy striped tie was wound just below those perky tits and knotted like a belt. I swallowed hard at the teasing hint of darkness between her plump cleavage.

My rounded gaze flitted around, darting and fleeting, to Tabitha's colleagues, and my grip clamped tighter around the crystal tumbler as a snarl clawed up my throat. Every single one of her male companions was staring at Tabitha in awe. One had his hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone and was hollering, "Tabitha Catt, be my girlfriend!"

Oh, hells no!

I'm her boyfriend. Me!

My gaze snapped forward and I watched her dance, the hem of the short-as-hells dress flicking mid-thigh.

Tabitha Catt was all legs.

And.

Fuck.

Hot.

She suddenly placed her heeled foot on some random guy's shoulder, leaned down, and stole his drink. She craned her head back and slammed the drink back. She flung her arm and hurled the empty shot glass like a fucking rockstar over the heads of her idol-worshiping audience. Someone jumped up and grabbed it mid-flight before it hit the wall and shattered.

The strumming of music came to an end on a thump of drums and cymbals and Def Leppard blended into Joan Jett's I Love Rock and Roll, the angry angsty guitar screeching loud. Tabitha spun around in a tight pirouette, her hair swinging wide in a sheet of shimmering gold. She stepped backward to perch right at the very edge of the table.

My heart beat wildly as she spread her arms wide, and I watched in horror as, straight-backed, she tipped backward.

Holy shit.

I lunged forward trying to get to her.

But Tabitha was caught by the guys up front who raised her above their heads.

And then, with my mouth hanging open, I watched Tabitha Catt go crowd surfing.

White teeth gleamed as she laughed with that glorious dimple denting her freckled cheek while she was passed right around the tight-knit group of servants to finally return at the end of the song to the same table. Oswain bounded up, a cigar clamped between his teeth, and pulled her upright. He punched their entwined hands upward and roared, "BEST. MAN. EVER!"

A rush of cheering and whooping exploded like thunder.

Grinning, Tabitha crossed her legs and bowed. Oswain jumped down from the table, grabbed her by the waist, and placed her on the ground.

Blowing out a pent-up breath I dragged a hand over my face.

What the hells had I walked into?

I plucked out a cigar from my breast pocket and lit it, mostly to give me time to get my shit together before I went and barged into Tabitha's little fan club that was vying for her attention.

I finished what was left of my drink while trying not to laugh as I watched Tabitha and Oswain act like two drunk chicks.

Tabitha Catt was an adorable drunk.

She was completely oblivious to the males surrounding her, all of them talking over the top of one another asking her to dance. She was solely focused on Oswain. She had her hands wrapped around his upper arms with an earnest expression."You're the best friend ever."

"No, you're the bestest friend ever."

Ten seconds later they were waving fists in front of each other's faces, stomping their feet, and yelling at one another.

"I'm sick of your white-themed flowers!"

"I don't get why. It's all about foil foliage when it comes to white roses!"

"I want to plant posies and pansies and poppies. They're colorful and pretty. And. You. Won't. Let. Me!"

A minute later they were falling into one another in a drunken hug.

Oswain twirled a lock of her hair around her finger, "You have such pretty hair."

"You do too. It's soooo soft and bouncy."

"I love you."

"No, I love you."

"I love you more."

"I love you the mostest."

Sweat prickled down my spine, sticking my shirt to my back from the storm of heat the vast amount of people dancing in the club stirred. As was typical, I was in a suit and regretted it the moment I stepped inside the nightclub. Biting down on the cigar, I undid the jacket's buttons and shrugged it off, tossing it over the leather seat of an empty booth. Undoing the gold cufflinks, I slid them into my pocket and rolled up my shirt sleeves.

A hearty clap on the back had me turning around. Oswain was there with an arm slung over Tabitha's shoulder. She swayed against him, teetering in her rockstar six-inch heels. Her arm was wrapped around his back, and the neanderthal side of me burned to drag her to my side and kick Oswain out of his own Stag Party.