We stepped through the curtain, confused, bewildered, and stunned. Each of us now had a black satin ribbon tied around one wrist. Dangling from it was a silver charm engraved with the letter V.
"Put these on and no one will bother you," she'd said. "You'll also get any drink from the bar without question. Order the most expensive bottle of champagne—I honestly don't care. But do not, under any circumstances, remove it. Now get out of my sight and enjoy the evening… until I summon you."
I felt sick with fear. The whole interaction had felt off, and warning bells hadn't stopped ringing in my head since the moment we stepped into that throne room. The bass pounded through the club, each beat echoing in my chest, each thud sharpening the edge of my unease. Cold dread slithered down my spine when she'd called me 'Lil Red'. No way that was a coincidence. I'd only been talking to Carter about that story at lunchtime—and that already felt like a lifetime ago.
We stopped at the balcony and stared down at the club below. Bodies of every shape and form moved with the music—writhing, swaying, lost in the rhythm. We stood there, blank-faced, until Iah—who was in the middle—suddenly burst out laughing.
That set Val off.
"Iah, what the hell?! Have you gone mad?" Val asked, blinking at her.
Iah only laughed harder.
"Your faces—oh my god, get a grip, girls! We actually made it!"
I raised an eyebrow. "You do know this could've ended with us kicked out and barred for life, right?"
Iah chuckled and slung her arm around me.
"But it didn't. We've now got the whole club to ourselves," she said, holding up her wrist—the silver charm glinting under the lights. "And free drinks to boot!"
I chewed the inside of my lip and sighed.
But at what cost?
What the hell could Valda want from the three of us? My mind wandered to all kinds of horrors, of course.
"Ugh, you are impossible, Iah," Val grumbled.
"Come on, ladies. This is Elena's night! Let's do this right and let our inner demons out!"
Val shook her head.
"You really have no self-preservation, do you? You'd be the first to die in a horror movie," she said with a smirk.
"Better than being the boring stick-in-the-mud virgin left behind," Iah replied, sticking her tongue out.
Val scoffed and rolled her eyes. Iah slung her other arm around Val, which was just hilarious since she was the shortest of the three of us. I couldn't help but smile.
"Ladies, the night awaits us! I don't know about you, but I fully intend to take advantage of this VIP treatment—more sparkling rosé and then grinding up against my best friends and complete strangers to some ostentatiously fabulous music in a glorious drunken stupor!"
As per usual, Iah's wild energy was infectious, and Val and I couldn't help but laugh as she led us to the spiral metal staircase and down toward the hypnotic dance floor of Club Dusk.
We reached the bar at the back of the club. Val was trying to catch one of the bartenders' attention. I looked out across the room. The DJ was set up to the right, wearing skull makeup and a top hat. His mix of 80s punk and dance beats was strange—but somehow, it worked. I found myself tapping my foot to the rhythm.
Above, more dancers performed in the VIP boxes, each labelled with Roman numerals. Some danced to dark, pulsing tones, their movements sharp and primal. Others floated with ethereal grace, as if carried on light and mist. Each performance had its own theme, its own story, and I found myself enjoying the contrast.
Then I noticed the walls.
The club was designed to look like a forest—trees carved in intricate swirls rose up between the VIP boxes, etched into marble like something from a dream. It was stunning and strangely familiar. It reminded me of Silverwood Park.
Suddenly, a glass appeared in front of me, filled with pink sparkling liquid. Val and Iah stood before me, both grinning.
"Happy Birthday, Elena!" Val and Iah shouted over the music.
We clinked glasses and drank.
The pink bubbly I'd had before was nothing like this. This wasn't just a drink—it was sparkling nectar, hitting the very centre of my heart... and my head.
We all paused for a beat, wide-eyed. Then we drank more.
It was delicious—sweet, fizzy, with an aftertaste of something otherworldly. My head felt light, my chest unburdened, like every worry had slipped away unnoticed.
Why had I been so worried about Valda? She probably just wanted new friends. And honestly, who better than us? We were fabulous! We were fun!
I drank again, and instead of the beat feeling like an ominous throb, my whole body gave in to it. I was the music. The music was me. I giggled at the thought, and a hiccup escaped me.
Oh man. This stuff was strong.
Val and Iah were clearly feeling it too—giggling, swaying, already half-dancing. Val raised Iah's arm and spun her around.
I couldn't just stand there and watch. I grabbed our empty glasses and dumped them on the bar, then seized Iah's and Val's hands. "Come on!"
We shouted with excitement as all our inhibitions shattered like glass.
We stormed the dance floor like it was ours, maybe it was. The beat pulsed through us. We danced around each other with reckless joy, wild, free, and totally alive. Iah twisted and dropped with dramatic flair, her locks bouncing with every move. Val rolled her hips like she was in a perfume ad—and knew it. And me? I gave in completely. No overthinking. No hesitation. No fear about being seen like this. Maybe this was the real me—just sweat, rhythm, and euphoria.
Other clubgoers joined in, and we welcomed them. Iah hopped up, wrapping her legs around a guy in a bowler hat, then stole it off his head with a grin as he spun her around. Val curtsied to a bearded Marie Antoinette in a very short skirt revealing a lot of leg (and bulge). He… she… they spun her into an elegant waltz.
Someone grabbed me by the waist and pulled me through a couple holding their arms in an arch. Suddenly, I was in the arms of a punk rocker with a rainbow mohawk and a skull tattoo covering his face. He spun me hard and shoved me laughing into the arms of a girl in a dark red tartan dress with gothy makeup. She grinned, and we danced like lifelong friends. Then a guy in mesh and towering platform heels grabbed my hand, dipped me low, and winked.
I was thrilled with every new face. Even though I lost sight of my friends, I felt safe. Everyone was here to live. No secrets. No agendas. Just joy.
The music intensified, swirling higher. I felt like I was spinning across the entire floor.
Fishnets. Mesh. Corsets. Top hats. One person might have been dressed as an actual cat. Labels didn't matter. Nothing did. It was all movement and music—the kind that drowns out every fear and fills your soul with pure light.
Drunk on music. Drunk on sweetness. Drunk on freedom.
Then, the music reached its crescendo—and cut.
A beat of silence.
Sparklers burst above us. Confetti rained down like stardust from the heavens.
We threw our hands into the air and cheered.
The lights snapped off. Gasps rippled through the club.
Then—boom—a spotlight hit the stage.
A masked figure stood at centre stage, framed by deep purple curtains and a flurry of falling confetti. He wore a white and gold embellished cloak that oozed elegance, draping over his head and body like a regal creature presenting himself to his subjects. His full-face mask mirrored the same level of opulence, with only two black eyes visible beneath the ornate design, peering into the crowd.
My breath caught as I realised—this was him. The figure I'd seen before we followed Valda into the club.
He scanned the room, the mask turning slowly in my direction, and a shiver ran down my spine. It felt like those black eyes weren't just looking at me—they were looking through me.
With a swift flourish, he threw his cloak open, revealing a violin.
The crowd exploded in excitement so suddenly it made me jump. Screams of recognition and thrill filled the air.
He began to play. The melody was haunting, seductive, hypnotic – and the audience loved it. I loved it! I felt a sense of ease as the melody delicately washed over us. The audience cried out again, their bodies moving as if possessed by the tune.
Beneath the opulence of the cloak, he wore a sheer black mesh shirt, cinched with patent leather braces that added a formal edge to his otherwise provocative look. Tight black leather trousers clung to him like a second skin, completing the ensemble with unapologetic boldness. A striking contrast. Dark. Dangerous.
Then he stopped. Silence fell like a held breath.
His voice rang out—rich, clear, and commanding. It had a striking range, gliding effortlessly from a smooth, sultry low to a piercing, spine-tingling high. Every word was precise yet emotionally charged, as if the sound alone could seduce or shatter. The mask should've muffled it—but it didn't. Somehow, impossibly, the sound reached us like he wasn't wearing one at all:
Tongue like silk,
Mirrored skin
Velvet leash
Painted grin
The crowd roared. Goosebumps rippled across my arms, and a flush bloomed over my cheeks. A shiver ran straight down my spine. This must be him, I thought. Howl, Iah had said—the lead singer of Howl by Night.
Taught to touch
Devil's kiss—
He raised a hand to his mask and, with dramatic grace he pulled the mask away and flung his head back to remove the cloak hood.
And there he was.
He wasn't just beautiful – he was impossible. No one I'd ever seen came close, and my brain refused to accept him as real.
His black hair tumbled to his shoulders in loose waves, swept back with the kind of careless intention that whispered danger. The ends curled rebelliously, as if defying restraint. Dark liner rimmed his eyes, with sharp, jester-like points drawn precisely at the centre of his lower lids—an audacious, tongue-in-cheek nod to the golden mask he'd worn earlier. His nose bore a slight, boyish bump at the end, giving his face a lived-in charm rather than sculpted perfection. And those lips—neither full nor thin—were striking in their own right: expressive, sensual, utterly real.
Bound to you—
A borrowed sin!
He lift the mask up above his head and crushed it in his hand—and it turned to dust. Gone was the princely façade.
A sudden strike of guitar. The curtains flew up. Howl's cloak had vanished, and behind him, the band appeared, and I was stunned that every member was strikingly beautiful and dressed showing off their electric personas.
Howl slung an electric guitar over his shoulder, stepped to the mic, and launched into the song with raw, magnetic energy.
The crowd surged forward, screaming with delight. So did I.
I couldn't help it. I was spellbound.
I watched each member of the band, taking them all in. Then I recalled Iah's description from earlier that night:
"The keyboardist, Raven—she's very hot in a woe-is-me-gothic way. Midnight, the drummer, has all these tattoos and piercings. And Shade, the bassist with the really long hair…"
My eyes first caught the keyboardist—ah, this must be Raven. Her long white hair fell over one shoulder, while tight braids hugged the other side of her head. Pale feathers were woven into small braids that dangled over her loose hair. The ends of her hair were dipped in black, which, along with the feathers, made me think of an old-style ink pot.
Piercing teal eyes flickered beneath smoky black shadow that stretched across her face like a mask, as her long fingers danced in a flourish over the keyboard. Her outfit—a billowing white shirt tucked into tight black leather trousers, thigh-high patent boots, and a black beaded waistcoat—gave her the air of a pirate captain commanding the keys of a ghost ship.
Next, I turned to the drummer, Midnight, I had presumed. He had tousled blond hair and ocean-blue eyes, sharp beneath a tilted hat. His style was a perfect blend of gothic beatnik and 1920s cabaret, with a tailored vest, skinny trousers, suspenders, and plenty of navy-style tattoos on his arms, chest and neck. A silver chain ran from his nose to his right ear, with a small cross dangling from the other ear.
Suddenly, the bassist, Shade, appeared right in front of us. I was standing to the left of the stage and watched as he moved like gentle waves with his bass guitar, making me blush. He was dark-skinned, devilishly handsome, with close-cropped curls that framed the sharp angles of his face. His golden eyes gleamed behind round red glasses, unreadable and magnetic.
His outfit was insane—mysterious-looking Victorian coat tails that flared as he moved, paired with tight striped trousers that clung to long, powerful legs. His bare chest was inked with intricate designs, the tattoos almost alive beneath the stage lights. A top hat, tipped just so, added a dramatic edge, while his meticulously groomed moustache and goatee gave him the air of a charming villain.
Iah's descriptions didn't do them justice — you had to see them to believe just how attractive they really were. I watched them all in awe, Howl included. In fact, it took every fibre of my being not to stare at him.
The song ended and the crowd went wild.
Howl flipped his hair back, toying with his guitar, before stepping intimately close to the microphone. The crowd quietened instantly. I heard his sultry voice purr:
"Good evening, my adorable sinners."
The response was electric. Screams erupted, along with whistles and cries of "oww!" from all genders. I caught the smirk curling on his lips beneath that dark gaze, and then his eyes found mine. My breath hitched. Bright violet eyes, just like Valda's. Our gaze locked for a split second before he turned smoothly back to the crowd and grinned.
"Look at you beautiful bastards," he said, placing a hand to his heart and sighing theatrically. "You never fail to take our breath away. It's almost like you've bewitched us — heart and soul — to the point we would just want to fuck you all."
Laughter broke from both the band and the crowd. More screams followed.
He chuckled softly, almost shyly, and somehow made even that seductive. Gripping the mic again, he murmured:
"Just so fuckable, all of you."
He flashed a grin over his shoulder at the band, teasing his guitar with a small, playful tune — like he was flirting with us through music. Raven answered on the keys, and the crowd bellowed in recognition. They knew what was coming.
This time, Howl grabbed the mic and half-sang, half-screamed:
"Do you want more?!"
The roar of the crowd answered for him. He turned back to the band, gave a nod, and the music kicked in. The lights washed the stage in a sultry red.
I kept my eyes on Howl as he sang, his voice thick with yearning:
"She sits so fine, like him in kind,
Holding on tight, fallen tricks behind.
To be beside her love, joyfully we plan,
Consequence unfolds; cordial warmth began."
He gripped the mic stand as though seducing a lover, and crooned the chorus while the band surged behind him:
"His soft white hand, in the moonlit night,
Felt beaten, pleasure — oh, what a sight!
The seven vices on his mind,
Her smile saying, she will be mine."
He began moving across the stage, brushing hands with eager fans. I surprised myself by not reaching out. Instead, I watched as his outstretched hand passed by me and then pointed skyward — and the crowd followed his gesture.
A figure descended from above.
Golden-skinned, with rich brown wavy hair and deep golden-brown eyes, her makeup was a smoky brown shadow paired with burgundy lips. She wore a flowing white dress, descending gracefully, her arms, waist, and ankles bound in sheer white scarves. The image was hauntingly sensual, like a living work of art.
With a single, fluid motion, she began to unwind herself, completely on her own. Her movements were poised and commanding. Then, in one final flourish, she dropped seamlessly into Howl's waiting arms, his electric guitar gone. The scarves draped around them, veiling the stage in a cocoon of intimacy.
She danced around him, the scarves like extensions of her body. She climbed, swung, and circled him, teasing him with each step. Howl caught one of the scarves and slowly, achingly, drew her in. He kept singing, and the band played on as though this unfolding seduction wasn't happening before their eyes.
"Consequence and warmth intertwine
In the dance of love, their souls entwine.
Moonlit night, a symphony of desire
Passion ignites, setting hearts on fire."
Their bodies moved together in a sensual rhythm. Hands explored. Fingers traced. Every motion blurred the line between performance and something more intimate.
Then the world around me began to shift. The people, the lights, even the sounds of the music started to slowly fade. I looked around, heart racing. The crowd was vanishing like smoke. Fear gripped me as I backed away from the stage, my back hitting the cold stone wall of the old theatre. All around me were carved trees, tall and twisted, as if I had stumbled into a forest carved from shadow.
But I could still see them, Howl and the dancer, lost in each other. The dance had become something else now, not just art, but raw foreplay, hidden behind fluid movements.
I shut my eyes, burning with embarrassment at what I was witnessing.
But then, gentle hands caressed my face.
I opened my eyes. I wasn't watching anymore.
I was in the place of the dancer.
Howl's hands cupped my face so tender, deliberate, as if I were something fragile and sacred. His fingertips traced my jawline, featherlight, like he was memorising me by touch alone. He looked at me like he already knew me.
His hands slipped lower, brushing the side of my neck, then over my shoulders—his palms dragging slowly, reverently, savouring every inch. When he reached my waist, he paused.
Then pulled me into him. One sharp motion.
My breath caught.
The wall of his body against mine drowned out the world. We were sealed in shadow, encased in a tempestuous dance that belonged only to us.
His thumb stroked the curve of my hip while his other hand slid up the centre of my abdomen. He never touched anything too intimate—but the space between us burned. The nearness was its own kind of sin.
His fingers hovered just below my collarbone, tracing the place a pendant might rest. A touch so innocent—and yet it carried the ache of a thousand promises.
His mouth was close now, his breath brushing my throat. My whole body tensed with need, but he didn't lean in. He lingered. A whisper away. A phantom kiss.
I stared into his eyes, begging him not to stop.
He smiled. That slow, wicked smile that knew exactly what he was doing.
His hand slid to the back of my neck, anchoring me. The other pressed into the small of my back, drawing me in so slowly I thought I might scream.
We never kissed.
We never spoke.
But the silence said everything.
His hands moved with a sculptor's precision—controlled and smooth, as if he were shaping me with every touch of his palm. There was restraint in him. Dangerous, deliberate restraint.
And god, I wanted him to break it.
I reached for him—but held back. Afraid.
Afraid that if I touched him, the moment would shatter.
Afraid that if I gave in, I'd never come back whole.
And just when I thought I might break apart…
He sang.
Low. Soft. Lyrics heavy with longing, mourning… and promise.
"Without understanding, his Huntsman's call
Young and strong, breaking down the wall.
No barrier lay between their lips
In the back, they lay in rapture, pure bliss."
The sound wrapped around me, gripped my chest, and set fire to my bones.
I didn't know this man.
But I had never been given more than what he just gave me.
I had never felt more wanted.
I had never felt more.
Then when I thought I couldn't hold back anymore I urged my hand to touch him, his hair, his face, anything—
The music came roaring back, full throttle. Loud. Pulsing.
I blinked. Disoriented.
And just like that, I was back in Club Dusk.
The crowd was still there, screaming and cheering like nothing had happened. Howl and the dancer were onstage, their bodies mimicking everything I had just experienced. My skin tingled. My pulse was erratic.
What the hell just happened to me?
This wasn't like me. I wasn't the kind of person to fall into lust. Not like that. Not while I was with someone.
Carter. Fuck.
The song ended. The crowd erupted. I stood frozen, rubbing my forehead, trying to catch my breath. I felt dazed—like I'd just woken from a dream I didn't want to admit I'd enjoyed.
Pushing off from the wall, I slipped through the swarm of partygoers, still cheering as the next song pulsed to life.
I finally made it to the edge of the crowd and spotted the bar—my one shot at a reprieve. I needed to clear my head.