Blaire pulled her cheap black trench coat tighter around her body. She walked through the graffiti covered alleyway in the industrial edge of Manhattan. She stopped in front of a heavy, unmarked iron door.

The small viewing panel on the door slid open with a harsh scrape. A pair of bloodshot eyes stared at her for a few seconds. Heavy chains rattled, and the door swung inward.

Blaire took a deep breath and stepped into the dim, narrow hallway. The heavy bass of the club music instantly vibrated through the walls, making her teeth rattle.

Vince Kowalski, the floor manager, walked up to her. He chewed on an unlit cigar. He looked her up and down and told her to show him what she had to work with.

Blaire swallowed her humiliation. She unbuttoned the trench coat and let it fall open, revealing the tight black leotard underneath. Vince's eyes widened as he took in her perfect proportions.

He hired her on the spot. He shoved a liability waiver onto a clipboard and handed her a pen. Blaire signed the name "Jessica" on the dotted line without hesitating.

Vince pushed her into the crowded communal dressing room. The air was thick with the suffocating smell of cheap perfume and aerosol hairspray. Several dancers shot her glares full of territorial hostility.

Blaire ignored them. She sat down at a vanity mirror and picked up a wild, burgundy red wavy wig. She pulled it over her head, completely hiding her natural dark hair.

She applied a thick layer of foundation, covering her innocent features. She painted on heavy, dark smoky eyeshadow and a bright, aggressive red lipstick. The woman staring back at her in the mirror was a complete stranger.

She changed into the club's uniform: a black lace bodysuit and thigh high leather boots. She took three deep breaths, locking the weak, frightened Blaire away in a dark corner of her mind.

The stage director kicked the door open and yelled for Jessica to get on deck. Blaire stumbled slightly in the unfamiliar heels before finding her balance.

She pushed past the heavy velvet curtains. The blinding glare of the stage spotlights hit her face. The massive crowd of men below erupted into deafening whistles and shouts.

The visual assault made her want to shrink back, but the fear of the Terrell family pushed her forward. She straightened her spine and began to move her hips to the sultry saxophone beat.

She blended her years of classical ballet flexibility into the pole routine. She executed a flawless, inverted split high on the brass pole. The crowd went absolutely insane.

At that exact moment, behind the one way glass of the VIP booth on the second floor, Kamryn Lane leaned back against the leather sofa. He swirled the amber whiskey in his crystal glass.

He was bored out of his mind by the businessmen kissing his ass. His cold eyes swept over the main stage below, and then, they stopped moving.

The dancer in the red wig. Every spin and extension she made dripped with a lethal, natural seduction. It was completely different from the vulgar grinding of the other women.

Kamryn narrowed his eyes. His body unconsciously leaned forward. He could not see her face under the heavy makeup, but the curve of her waist and the line of her legs triggered a deep muscle memory.

His mouth went dry. He yanked at his silk tie, annoyed. For some reason, the image of the inexperienced, sweet body from the hotel bed yesterday flashed in his mind.

On stage, Blaire finished a spin and ran a finger over her red lips. Her dazed eyes swept across the second floor glass. It felt as if she was looking straight into Kamryn's soul.

That accidental glance struck a match to Kamryn's suppressed possessiveness. He lifted his glass and downed the burning whiskey in one swallow.

The men in the front row started throwing crumpled bills at the stage. A few drunk patrons reached out, trying to grab Blaire's slender ankles.

Blaire let out a sharp gasp. She quickly shimmied higher up the pole to avoid their sweaty hands. A flash of genuine panic broke through her sexy facade.

Kamryn saw that panic. The interest in his eyes instantly morphed into a dark, violent possessiveness. A primal instinct to protect what was his flared in his chest.

He turned his head to look at Mitch Duggan, his head of security standing in the shadows. He gave an order that left no room for debate.

Kamryn tapped his long finger against the glass. He told Mitch to bring the redhead to his booth, completely unharmed.

Down on the stage, the music faded. Blaire stood panting, bowing to the crowd. She prepared to kneel and collect the cash scattered on the floor. That was her survival money.

Before she could bend down, two massive men in black suits stepped out from the edge of the stage. They grabbed her arms in a vice grip.

Blaire panicked. She thrashed and screamed for help, but the crowd just cheered louder, assuming it was part of the show.

They dragged her off the stage and hauled her down a dark, private corridor leading to the second floor. She was being taken to a VIP booth, and she had no idea what nightmare waited for her inside.

The heavy door to the VIP booth opened, and Blaire was shoved roughly inside. She stumbled forward, her knees hitting the thick Persian rug with a painful thud. The door clicked shut behind her, locking automatically.

The silence in the room was absolute. The soundproofing completely killed the heavy bass from the club below. The only sound was the faint hiss of a humidifier in the corner.

Blaire slowly lifted her head. Her eyes adjusted to the dim, amber lighting. Her gaze landed on the man sitting in the center of the massive leather sofa, radiating the aura of a king holding court.

When she recognized the cold, flawless face of Kamryn Lane, her heart stopped beating. It felt like an invisible hand had reached into her chest and crushed her lungs.

Pure terror made her shrink backward. She quickly ducked her head, letting the wild red wig fall forward to cover her face. She prayed to whatever god was listening that he would not recognize her.

Kamryn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes roamed over her body like a predator assessing a trapped animal. The look was highly invasive.

He let out a low scoff. The deep sound vibrated in the quiet room. He mocked her, saying she looked like a terrified rabbit, completely different from the slutty dancer on stage.

Blaire ground her teeth together. She forced her vocal cords to tighten, dropping her voice into a raspy, unfamiliar register. She told him she was just a dancer, calling him "sir."

The submissive answer seemed to irritate Kamryn. He stood up. His expensive leather shoes made soft, heavy thuds against the rug as he walked toward her.

He stopped right in front of her. He looked down, then suddenly lifted the toe of his polished shoe, hooking it under her chin and forcing her head up.

Blaire had no choice but to look up. Her heavily painted face was fully exposed to him. She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled, refusing to let the panic show in her eyes.

Kamryn's gaze lingered on her thick eyeliner for a second. His brow furrowed slightly, as if something didn't add up, but the raw lust in his eyes quickly burned away the doubt.

He bent down suddenly. His large hand clamped around her wrist. He yanked her up from the floor with brutal force, pulling her flush against his hard chest.

Blaire gasped. She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to push him away. His other arm wrapped around her waist like an iron band, locking her in place.

Kamryn lowered his head. His nose brushed against her cheek. He inhaled deeply, then scowled in disgust, muttering about the cheap, nauseating perfume she was wearing.

Before Blaire could struggle again, Kamryn's hand moved to the back of her neck. He tilted her head back and crashed his mouth down on her cheap red lipstick.

The kiss was a punishment. It was a violent invasion. He forced her lips apart, kissing her with a frantic, consuming hunger that terrified her.

As their mouths clashed, a sudden, violent jolt of recognition hit Kamryn's brain. The soft yield of her lips, the faint, underlying scent of citrus beneath the nauseating perfume-it was identical to the woman from the hotel yesterday. His brow furrowed in deep confusion. Impossible, he thought, his mind racing to reject the absurd coincidence. It's just a cheap trick. But the physical memory was undeniable, making his heart hammer in a way he despised.

A wave of absolute degradation washed over Blaire. She had suffered under his body just yesterday, and now she was being violated by him again.

Her fear instantly turned into blinding rage. Blaire clamped her teeth down hard on his lower lip. The sharp metallic taste of blood flooded both of their mouths.

Kamryn let out a muffled groan of pain. He shoved her away. He lifted his thumb and wiped the blood from his mouth. His dark eyes flared with a dangerous, violent light.

Blaire fell back onto the sofa. She panted heavily, her chest heaving. She glared at him like a cornered leopard, ready to fight to the death.

To her shock, Kamryn did not explode. He licked the blood off his lip. A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. Her wildness seemed to turn him on even more.

He walked over to the small bar cart and poured himself a drink. With his back to her, he stated his terms in a voice made of ice. One million dollars a month. Be his exclusive mistress.

The number hit Blaire like a physical shock. One million dollars. It was enough to disappear forever, to completely sever ties with the Terrell family.

But then Kamryn turned around. The absolute contempt in his eyes made her stomach turn. If she agreed, she would truly become the cheap whore he thought she was.

Blaire curled her hands into fists. Her nails dug so hard into her palms they broke the skin. She stood up, looked him dead in the eye, and used her raspy voice to spit out two words: "Dream on."

The muscles in Kamryn's forearm tightened around his glass. He clearly had never been rejected by a bottom tier dancer when offering that kind of money.

He closed the distance between them in two strides. He slammed the crystal glass down on the coffee table. The glass shattered, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot in the room. The temperature plummeted to freezing.

His hand shot out and gripped her throat. He backed her up until her spine hit the wall. He ground his teeth together, warning her not to push her luck. No one in New York said no to Kamryn Lane.

Blaire's face flushed red from the lack of oxygen. She did not break eye contact. She forced the words out through her restricted windpipe. She called him an arrogant bastard and told him he made her sick.

Kamryn's fingers tightened around her throat. Just as the pressure became unbearable, the sound of heavy footsteps and voices bled through the thick door.

A deep, cold voice asked the bodyguards outside-specifically addressing Mitch Duggan-if Kamryn was in the room. It was Calhoun Terrell.

Blaire's pupils dilated. Her heart leaped into her throat, choking her. If her adoptive brother caught her dressed like a stripper in a VIP booth, her life was over.

Kamryn recognized his friend's voice too. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and released his grip on Blaire's neck.

He took a step back and adjusted the collar of his shirt. He glanced at the door, his mind calculating rapidly. Losing his temper over a bottom-tier dancer while Calhoun was waiting outside was beneath him. It was a waste of energy. He decided to handle this the way he handled all persistent annoyances-with overwhelming financial force.

Not wanting Calhoun to see him losing his mind over a club dancer, Kamryn reached into his suit pocket. He pulled out a thick stack of cash and a gold embossed business card.

He shoved the money and the card roughly into the deep V-neck of her bodysuit. He leaned in and whispered a harsh warning against her ear. He told her to call the number when she stopped being stupid, and then ordered her to get out.

Blaire felt like she had been granted a pardon from death row. She frantically shoved the cash down into her tall boots. She grabbed the card, kept her head down, and stumbled toward the door.

She yanked the door open. She came face to face with Calhoun standing in the hallway. He had one hand in his pocket, his eyes cold and indifferent.

Blaire's entire body went stiff. She instinctively pulled the red wig further down her face and bit her lip, terrified to make a single sound.

In her panic, her trembling fingers lost their grip. The gold embossed business card slipped from her hand and landed right next to Calhoun's polished leather shoe.

Calhoun frowned. His eyes swept over her revealing outfit and the overwhelming scent of cheap perfume. A look of pure, undisguised disgust flashed across his face.

He did not look closely at the face hidden beneath the heavy makeup. He simply bent down, picked up the card with two fingers, and held it out to her.

Blaire snatched the card from his fingers. She didn't even dare to whisper a thank you. She squeezed past him and sprinted down the hallway toward the employee exit like her life depended on it.

Calhoun watched her run away, his frown deepening. He dismissed the strange encounter, turned the handle, and walked into Kamryn's booth.

An hour later, Blaire had scrubbed her face clean and changed back into her jeans. She took a cab back to the Terrell estate, feeling like a walking ghost.

She pushed the side door open as quietly as possible. The moment she stepped into the dark hallway, a tall shadow detached itself from the wall, blocking her path.

It was Calhoun. He had beaten her home and had been waiting in the dark. The faint smell of tobacco and an overwhelming sense of oppression filled the air.

Blaire's heart started hammering all over again. She forced a polite greeting and tried to walk around him to get to the stairs. His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.

His grip was bruising. He yanked her forward, closing the distance between them until it was dangerously intimate.

He leaned down. His nose almost brushed her hair. His dark eyes glittered with a terrifying intensity in the shadows.

Calhoun spoke in a slow, deliberate tone. He asked her where she had been so late, and why she smelled like an overwhelming mixture of cheap perfume and stale sweat.

Blaire's brain scrambled for an excuse. She stuttered out a lie about going to a classmate's birthday party at a local bar.

Calhoun stared at her. His fingers slowly slid up her arm. He reached her neck and casually brushed his thumb over the red marks Kamryn's fingers had left on her skin.

He pressed his thumb hard into the bruise. Blaire sucked in a sharp breath of pain, but she forced her feet to stay planted.

Calhoun leaned in until his lips were right next to her ear. His voice was a low, demonic whisper. He warned her to stay away from Kamryn Lane, telling her that Kamryn was not a predator she could handle.

The double meaning was clear. It was a warning about her supposed attempt to sleep with Kamryn, but it also dripped with a sick, possessive jealousy.

The coldness in his voice made Blaire shiver uncontrollably. She nodded frantically, promising she would never go near Kamryn.

Satisfied, Calhoun slowly released her. He took a step back, his face returning to the mask of a strict, emotionless older brother. He told her to go to bed.

Blaire practically ran up the stairs. She slammed her bedroom door shut and locked it. She realized with horrifying clarity that every man in this house was a monster. She had to leave tomorrow.