🩸 CHAPTER 3: THE RED VELVET TRAP
1403 Words
My heart was beating so hard against my ribs I was terrified it would
crack them.
I burst through the back employee entrance of The Red Velvet, slamming
the heavy steel door behind me. I leaned against it, gasping for air,
my lungs burning from the freezing midnight rain and the absolute
panic of my sprint. Water dripped from my soaked dark coat, pooling
around my muddy boots on the clean linoleum floor.
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking violently. Jax’s
blood—the dark, thick crimson of a pure Alpha Pakman—was drying under
my fingernails and smudged across my pale wrists.
"Get it off," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Get it off, get it off."
I bolted into the employee bathroom, locking the door behind me with a
frantic click. I turned the sink faucet on maximum, shoving my hands
under the scalding water. I grabbed a bar of industrial soap and
scrubbed until my skin turned a raw, angry red. But no matter how hard
I washed, I couldn't scrub away the phantom sensation of his grip. My
wrist still throbbed where his fingers had clamped down like a steel
vice.
“Omega,” his voice echoed in my head, a dark, territorial rumble that
made my knees weak. “Mine.”
I gasped, looking up into the cracked bathroom mirror. My reflection
horrified me. The black-market suppressants hadn't just failed; they
were completely burning out of my system. The dull, boring brown of my
eyes was flickering, flashes of bright, iridescent amber swirling
through my irises. My skin felt flushed, a deep, feverish warmth
radiating from my core.
The scent was blooming.
I leaned over, desperately sniffing the air. The chemical, flat Odor
of a Beta was gone. The sharp, intoxicating aroma of sweet citrus and
fresh rain was bleeding out of my pores, filling the cramped bathroom.
If an Alpha walked into this hallway right now, he would smell me from
twenty feet away.
"No, no, no," I panicked, ripping open my wet coat. I reached into my
hidden inner pocket and pulled out a small, emergency glass vial of
scent-neutralizing spray. It wasn't as strong as the injections, but
it was all I had left. I sprayed it frantically over my neck, my
wrists, and my collarbone until I was choking on the bitter, synthetic
fumes.
The amber in my eyes slowly receded, hiding beneath the fake brown
facade once more. The scent muted, retreating back into my skin, but I
knew it was a temporary band-aid. The dam was breaking. My biology was
waking up because it had been exposed to its evolutionary match. A
dominant Alpha.
A sharp, rhythmic pounding on the bathroom door made me jump out of my skin.
"Eva! Are you in there?"
It was Marcus, the club's head floor manager. He was a Beta, thank
God, but his voice was tight with an unusual amount of stress.
"Yes! Just... fixing my uniform!" I called out, trying to force my
voice into a calm, steady rhythm. I wiped my face with a paper towel,
threw my wet coat into an empty locker, and pulled my black-and-red
server vest straight. I took one last deep breath, checking my eyes.
Ordinary. Brown. Just a Beta.
I unlocked the door and stepped out.
Marcus was pacing the hallway, his face pale under the dim red lights
of the club's backstage. The muffled, heavy bass of the electronic
music from the main lounge vibrated through the walls, but the
atmosphere back here was dead silent.
"You're late with the liquor restock for VIP Lounge Four," Marcus
snapped, though his eyes weren't angry—they were terrified. He kept
looking over his shoulder toward the main entrance. "Actually, forget
the restock. Just get out there and help clear the tables. We have a
massive problem."
"What's wrong?" I asked, my stomach dropping into a bottomless pit.
"The Bratva," Marcus whispered, leaning in close. "Someone ambushed
the Pakman down by the docks an hour ago. Rumour is he survived, but
he's severely wounded. His second-in-command, Ilya, just put the
entire district on a black-tier lockdown. Armoured SUVs are blocking
every street exit. Nobody leaves the zone. And Jax Volkov's personal
soldiers just walked through our front doors."
My breath hitched. They're already here.
"Why are they here?" I managed to ask, my hands balling into fists
behind my back so Marcus wouldn't see them shaking. "The club belongs
to the syndicate anyway. Why search it?"
"Marcus didn't say they're searching for a shooter," a voice called
out from the end of the hall.
We both turned. It was Chloe, another server, clutching a tray of
empty glasses to her chest. Her eyes were wide. "I overheard one of
the guards at the door. They aren't looking for the Ivanov syndicate.
They're looking for a person. A girl. They're scanning the scent
profiles of every female worker in the building."
The room tilted. My vision swam.
He marked my scent. Jax didn't just remember my face; his primal Alpha
track had locked onto my genetic code. The neutralizing spray I had
just used would buy me ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before a trained
Bratva enforcer realized the scent was artificially masked.
"Eva, go start on the western lounge tables," Marcus ordered, pushing
a plastic tray into my hands. "Act normal. If the Volkov guards see
anyone panicking, they'll drag you into the back room for questioning.
Just do your job and pray they find whoever they're looking for
quickly."
I nodded numbly, taking the tray.
I pushed through the double velvet curtains and stepped onto the main
floor of The Red Velvet. The club was a sprawling, multi-level maze of
dark leather booths, crimson neon lighting, and private alcoves.
Normally, it was packed with wealthy businessmen, crooked politicians,
and low-level mobsters throwing away cash. Tonight, the music was
still playing, but the dance floor was nearly empty.
Everyone was staring at the front entrance.
Four massive Bratva soldiers stood in a line, wearing heavy black
tactical coats. At the centre of them stood Ilya. He didn't look like
a standard mobster; he looked like a calculated executioner. He held a
sleek, military-grade handheld scanner—a device used to detect
pheromone levels and biology tracking.
They were moving row by row, table by table.
Every female guest and worker was being forced to stand while Ilya
passed the scanner near their neck. A green light meant Beta. A red
light meant Alpha. A blue light... a blue light meant Omega.
I gripped the tray so hard my knuckles turned white. I was trapped. If
I tried to run out the back door, the soldiers guarding the alley
would shoot me. If I stayed here, Ilya would reach my table in less
than five minutes.
Suddenly, the heavy bass of the music cut out completely, plunging the
club into a suffocating, tense silence.
The main double doors of the club swung open. The air in the room
instantly shifted, turning heavy, oppressive, and thick with an
overwhelming aura of pure, unadulterated power. The soldiers
immediately dropped their heads in absolute submission.
My heart stopped.
Walking through the doorway, flanked by a personal medical detail, was Jax.
He had refused to go to a hospital. His chest was heavily bandaged
beneath a fresh black silk shirt, the top three buttons left undone,
revealing the white gauze stark against his tanned skin. He was pale,
and he leaned slightly on a silver-headed cane, but his presence was
still a physical weight that crushed the room.
His pitch-black eyes swept over the crowd, completely ignoring the
terrified patrons. He wasn't looking for a threat. He was a predator
inspecting his hunting grounds.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, his chest expanding under the silk
shirt. His nose twitched.
I shrank back into the shadows of a VIP booth, pulling the tray up to
cover my face. But it was too late. The emergency spray was already
wearing off under the heat of my panic.
Jax's head snapped directly toward the western lounge. Directly toward me.
A dark, lethal smile stretched across his brutal, handsome face. He
lifted his cane, pointing it straight through the dim neon light,
right at my chest.
"There you are," he murmured, his deep voice carrying perfectly across
the silent club. "Bring me my Queen."
- Writer
