She pouted. “Not even one dance first?” She wriggled seductively over me again.
I shook my head.
“Then that’s all the free action you’re getting.” She stood abruptly.
“Tell him the Silver Claw alpha is here to speak with him.” I deliberately remained disinterested as I told her who I was, glancing around the room, still cataloging Owen Vulcan’s list of sins in my head.
I hadn’t intended to out myself, but if the women here were intent on throwing themselves at me, I just needed to get business out of the way.
Her lips parted, and she looked me up and down again, slower this time, with more speculation than whatever judgement she’d been using before. Perhaps she was sizing me up as her boss’s competition rather than merely checking for the bulge of my wallet this time.
“He’s a busy man.” She spoke lightly, but something in her tone suggested she wasn’t looking forward to speaking to him. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“I bet. But I’m here now, and I can wait.” I stretched my arms out along the back of the seat and rested my ankle on my knee, making it clear I was going nowhere fast.
Foxy turned nervous as she swiped the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. “I’ll see if he has time now.”
I nodded. “Good idea.”
She hurried away, just another bare ass in the crowd now, the fox tail completely gone. She spoke to a guy wearing a black denim vest that had long since faded to gray before disappearing behind a curtain that had seen far better days.
When she emerged a few moments later, she scurried away like she was a rabbit being hunted rather than a fox. I watched the curtain a little longer until a slim man with long gray hair emerged.
Owen Vulcan. Brody had pulled up enough pictures and security footage of the man that I recognized him immediately.
He appeared completely harmless, but there was something cold and flinty about his brown eyes, and that hard gaze landed on me straight away. He had a younger, beefier man by his side. The man’s face was crisscrossed by fine scars. That was his beta, Shane Grimald, although there was no need for such a show of protection in his own club. I’d have been very foolish to start a fight by myself in another pack’s territory.
No matter how much I wanted to tear this man’s throat out.
He walked straight to me, his strides confident, a shifter in no hurry. He smiled, but it was simply a movement of his mouth, never reaching his eyes at all. “Owen Vulcan,” he said as he reached me, but he didn’t extend his hand.
This wasn’t a situation for pleasantries.
I nodded. “Patrick Crenshawe, Silver Claw pack.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw briefly. “And so much more,” he murmured.
I still wanted to rip his damn throat out. I had no doubt at all this man was the fucker attacking Jo.
“And are you at Bane’s Garden for business or pleasure?” He gestured around. “As you can see, there’s no judgement here.”
Revulsion was a visceral wave inside me. Some of the atmosphere in the club had shifted, and more kinks were playing out across the room. Kinks I never wanted any part of.
“Inquiries,” I said.
His smile became malevolent. “Really?”
“One of the vehicles belonging to your company pushed one of my cars into the Novelli.”
He shrugged. “Can’t vouch for every vehicle.” He clearly didn’t care to, either. “I’m sure you understand. My pack members have full use of vehicles, strippers borrow them from here if they…you know…requireprivacy.” He shrugged again and laughed. “Hell, even club members have access to them…although they have to bring them back fully valeted and cleaned, if you know what I mean.”
I watched him. There was nothing I wanted to say to this man, and I was using all my energy to focus on not starting a pack war by launching an attack on him. Keeping my wolf at bay was hard, though.
“No one even needs to report taking a vehicle as long as they return it. We’re a very casual, trusting pack. It’s why we have so many members.” He looked around his club and laughed again. “Look at all these happy people.” The joviality in his voice rang completely false.
Because I looked, but none of them seemed happy.Shackledwas a more accurate descriptor as women ground desperately over sweaty men, batting meaty, grasping hands away when they skimmed over their hips and breasts too many times.
“Anyway, it hasn’t been returned yet,” he said.