Chapter 4 Every Single Night

• The red neon sign above Midnight Maidens buzzed faintly, casting a glow over the cracked pavement like a bleeding moon. Inside, the club thrummed with heat and bass, the walls vibrating with the pulse of music and want. Velvet booths and polished brass caught the moody light like secrets. The air was thick with perfume, smoke, and something else that clung to the skin like a whispered promise.
• Konstantine had returned.
• Again.
• Every night since the alley.
• He came late, always the last one to arrive, always sitting at the edge of the room as if he didn’t belong there—but everyone could tell he owned the space the moment he entered it. His presence was too sharp, too composed. Men like him weren’t built for places like this. But he came anyway.
• And Brandy noticed.
• No, noticed was too soft a word.
• She felt him. Like a live wire across the room. His eyes followed her like a flame waiting to catch. Each set, each walk to the bar, she caught him watching. Not leering. Just…watching. And not just her body. Like he was searching for something underneath.
• She hated how she liked it.
• She hated how it made her spin slower, stretch longer, linger on the pole just a beat more than usual. She hated that she thought of his voice when she was alone. That she dreamt about the alley. About his lighter. About his hands.
• It was unraveling her.
• She didn’t even realize Chardonnay was talking until her friend waved a glitter-drenched hand in her face backstage.
• "Earth to Brandy. You spacing again?"
• Brandy blinked. "Sorry. Long week."
• Chardonnay gave her a knowing look. "You’ve been in another dimension ever since Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous showed up."
• Brandy rolled her eyes. "He’s just a guy."
• "Mm. That’s not how you say ‘just a guy.’ That’s how you say, ‘he could ruin me and I’d let him.’"
• Brandy tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in her throat.
• "Anyway," Chardonnay said, flipping her ponytail as she reached for her lip gloss. "Tonight's your night off, right?"
• "Yeah. You?"
• "I’m up in ten. You staying to watch the chaos or heading home to brood?"
• Brandy shrugged. "Might stick around for a drink."
• Chardonnay winked. "Then I’ll give you a show worth staying for."
• ---
• Grigori didn’t like clubs. Not like this one, anyway. Too loud. Too dark. Too many people pretending to be things they weren’t. But where Konstantine went, he followed. That was the job. That was the bond.
• He leaned against the wall near the VIP section, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room. He saw exits. Angles. Weaknesses.
• “Shipment should’ve landed last night,” he murmured to Konstantine. “Still nothing from the East Port. I’m thinking it was rerouted—or intercepted.”
• Konstantine’s jaw flexed. “By the Irish?”
• “Could be. Or someone with more local muscle.”
• Konstantine’s eyes narrowed, ice blue cutting across the dance floor. “We’ll pay Seamus a visit. Again.”
• Grigori opened his mouth to respond—then stopped.
• The lights shifted. The music slowed to a pulse. A spotlight arced toward the stage, and a woman stepped into its center.
• Silver heels. Rhinestone corset. Skin that glowed like warm gold. Curls coiled down her back, bouncing with every step.
• Chardonnay.
• Grigori stared.
• Not because she was beautiful.
• Because she moved like a queen. Like she didn’t care who was watching—but knew they all were.
• Her hips swayed with the slow grind of the bassline. She twisted around the gold pole, one leg extended high, head tossed back, mouth parted.
• Grigori was frozen.
• She looked at him.
• Right at him.
• And smirked.
• Konstantine followed his gaze and chuckled. "Try not to propose before she finishes her set."
• Grigori muttered, "Too late."
• Backstage, Chardonnay peeled herself from the pole with a final flourish as the music faded and the lights dimmed. She trotted offstage, still breathless, heart hammering from more than just the performance.
• Brandy was waiting near the curtain.
• “Well?” Chardonnay asked, glitter still clinging to her neck.
• Brandy arched a brow. “You looked like you were ready to devour someone.”
• Chardonnay grinned, breathless. “Did you see him?”
• “Who?”
• “Vest. Biceps. Serious murder eyes. The one standing next to your slow-burn obsession.”
• “Grigori?” Brandy supplied.
• Chardonnay fanned herself. “Is that his name? God, even that’s hot. I mean, who names a man Grigori and gives him cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds?”
• Brandy laughed.
• Chardonnay’s grin turned dreamy. “He looked like he wanted to drag me offstage and into a mafia-themed wedding.”
• “Don’t fall for the fantasy,” Brandy warned.
• “I’m already designing the dress.”
• Brandy shook her head, still smiling as she turned and made her way toward the bar.
• She didn’t notice Konstantine had moved until it was too late.
• He stood just off the edge of the dance floor, tall and still as a shadow.
• Her eyes flicked to him.
• His were already waiting.
• There was a beat of silence. A vacuum between them. The kind that didn’t need words.
• Then, finally—
• "Brandy," he said.
• She swallowed. "Konstantine."
• He stepped forward.
• She didn’t step back.
• The music faded into something quieter. The room blurred. The crowd faded.
• And as their eyes locked—his full of storm and danger, hers full of heat and warning—something between them caught fire.
• She turned abruptly toward the bar, signaling the bartender for her usual. Konstantine moved with her, taking the stool beside her without asking.
• “Why do you keep running from me?” he asked softly.
• Brandy didn’t look at him. “Why do you keep chasing?”
• “I’m not chasing.”
• “You're here every night.”
• “You notice.”
• She exhaled a shaky breath. “You make it hard not to.”
• He leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then stop pretending this isn’t happening.”
• Brandy turned her eyes on him—burning amber, defiant. “What is this, Konstantine? You come here, watch me like I’m your personal addiction, and then leave without a word.”
• “I stay because I can’t leave. I look because I don’t know how to stop.”
• Her throat tightened. Her heart fluttered traitorously.
• “I don’t do this,” she murmured. “I don’t… feel like this.”
• “You’re not the only one.”
• She shook her head. “This is dangerous.”
• He didn’t deny it. “I know.”
• She stared at the drink the bartender slid her way, suddenly too shaken to touch it.
• Then she rose, her voice soft but resolute. “I can’t.”
• And she left him there, burning, like a wildfire. But she wasn't water.
• No, she was the gasoline.