Greymoor Academy: I Accidentally Bonded With Four Lycan Royals!

Maisie

"You can’t go in there, ma’am."

The bouncer took up most of the doorway.

He was enormous. Not quite Lycan-sized, but close enough.

"I’m with Quinlan."

His expression remained blank. "I was given specific orders not to let you in."

Somewhere behind him a door opened and faint laughter spilled through, followed by the sounds of... moaning.

My fingers curled into fists.

The Lycans had brought me here, claimed they had a bit of business to conclude that wouldn’t take long, assigned me a werewolf guard who kept growling at every man who approached me, and disappeared through those doors.

It’d been thirty minutes and I was beyond irritated.

I’d watched man after man, and a few women stumble out of those doors, looking dazed, skins flushed, clothes ruined or askew, and very... satisfied. I didn’t need the Goddess to tell me what the hell was going on in there.

But why bring me here at all, if they had plans on getting their needs met by some hooker in a waitress uniform? I felt like an idiot. I didn’t like feeling like an idiot. I was going up there to break someone’s fucking nose and then, I was going home.

"If you let me in, I promise not to break you in half."

The bouncer arched a brow, looked me up and down, and then settled his gaze on my pretty pink nails that Violette had freshly polished for me this morning. "Oh, I’m sure."

My Lycan was all for the violence, and I knew how easy it would be to crack his jaw. But I stopped myself, sucking in a deep, calming breath. He was just doing his job. I would save the violence for my mates.

Defeated, I returned to the bar.

The werewolf security detail assigned to me followed. So did his sharp glare. Apparently, I was considered a flight risk.

"What’s up there?" I asked the bartender as I settled back onto the stool, nursing a glass of water because my husbands had decided I couldn’t be trusted with anything else.

The tender, whose name is discovered to be Trevor, followed my gaze to the staircase. His lips kicked up in a faint smirk. "Trouble."

I felt my interest and frustration intensify and I sat up straighter. "What kind?"

Trevor nodded at the club around us, L’ange déchu, the iridescent lighting and writhing bodies in every corner, the kissing and groping in the dark.

"People think this is the club," he said. Then he laughed. "But this is merely the lobby."

My lips parted as I glanced around me. "The lobby," I repeated with disbelief.

"The pretty part. The public part. The part people are meant to see."

A fresh wave of curiosity hit me. "Then what’s upstairs?"

His smile widened. "They say it’s a theatre. And a seat in there costs more than a man like me could ever make in ten years. They say the fee is to buy discretion and secrecy."

Okay. I was beyond curious now.

"And what happens in this theatre?"

He shot me a funny look. "Did you hear what I just said, beautiful? No one knows exactly what goes on in there because no one speaks of it. The kind of men who can afford a place like that can also afford hiring assassins to kill you off if any kind of information about them gets leaked. So the girls don’t talk about it."

"The girls," I stammered, heart racing. What was Quinlan? A pimp? My heart dropped. Was this his own way of handling what happened to him as child?

As if reading my mind, Trevor laughed. "No. It’s not what you’re thinking. The boss is something of a connoisseur. The theater, from what I hear, is for people with tastes they can’t indulge out in the open."

My brows drew together.

"The girls apply for the position, by the way. The current waiting list is a year long. Many are influenced by the pay that comes with. Who wouldn’t? But the interviews are thorough in ensuring those who are picked are into the job because they genuinely like it. And the payment is only the added benefit, not the price of their value."

I stared at him, stunned beyond comprehension.

"The clients are screened too before they’re accepted. It doesn’t matter how wealthy they are, they must meet the most basic requirement before acceptance."

"And what’s that?"

Trevor smiled. "Some say basic human decency. Others say it is understanding that they may be paying for the service and experience, but knowing that if they harmed or touched anyone without their consent, they consented to leaving these walls in a body bag. The whole point is to make sure the participants are wanted, desired, and safe."

He shook the mixer and grinned. "But all of these are just speculations, of course. I could be wrong and it could only be ballet classes going on in there."

But my curiosity had tipped over the scale. I wanted to know what was happening up there. I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted to see Quinlan’s world. "How do I get in?"

"Not sure, but I’m sure the maitresse could have some answers for you. She knows the boss quite... intimately."

I reared back. "The what?"

He inclined his head at something behind my back and I turned.

The crowd parted for her, and she commanded the room without even saying a word.

She had a black leather coat on, loosely tied at the waist and threatening to slip open with every slow sway of her hips. Beneath, she wore only the most decadent black lingerie, the sheer material teasing rather than concealing anything. Delicate straps crisscrossed over her full breasts, and a garter belt that framed her long, pale thighs like an invitation to sin. The lace was so fine it was almost translucent, hinting at the dark, hardened peaks of her nipples and the smooth curve where her hips flared.

Her fiery red hair tumbled down her back in wild, tousled waves, and her lips were painted a deep, blood-red. She was beautiful in a way that was dark and intoxicating, simply impossible to look away from. And she walked like she knew the kind of power she held over the room, the way the men held their breaths and lusted after her.

She made a beeline for the bar and up close, her eyes were extremely light with a faint pinkish hue that gave her an ethereal, almost hypnotic quality. There were crescent shaped scars on both of her eyelids as she blinked.

"Trev," she said in a sultry greeting to the bartender.

"Hey, Charlene," he replied. "The usual?"

"Oui."

I couldn’t stop staring at her. Perhaps, it was because of her beauty. Or maybe it was because she smelled like Quinlan.

It was faint. Barely there. But the thing with creatures like us was that a scent was a signature. If you spent too long in someone’s company, you started to smell like them. And if you had sex with them, you would always carry a piece of them.

My Lycan roiled because we both knew somewhere deep inside that it was the latter.

Feeling the weight of my gaze, the woman turned her head to me. Her eyes were off by a few inches, centered on my forehead as she said, "I know a Lycan when I feel one. You must be his newest pet." She extended a perfectly manicured hand. "You may call me Charlene."

Pet?

I stared at her hand. Then at her catty smile. I grasped her fingers anyway in a firm handshake.

Only to have her tug me forward with more strength than a human should have and before I could react, Charlene’s other hand cupped the back of my neck and pulled me in. Her lips met mine in a soft, unexpected kiss.

My eyes widened. Her mouth was warm and tasted faintly of cherries. For a stunned second, I froze, too shocked to pull away.

She kissed me slowly, in an exploratory manner, like she was learning me. Gentle at first, then with a little more pressure, her tongue brushing my lower lip teasingly.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Her free hand rose to my face, fingertips tracing my cheekbones, the line of my jaw, the curve of my lips with delicate curiosity.

Then she pulled back just enough to smile against my mouth.

"Beautiful," she whispered, voice husky. "Even better than I imagined. Might even steal you from him."

My face burned. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was still trying to process what had just happened when she finally released me, stepping back with a satisfied little hum.

And that’s when I noticed the little scar above both of her eyelids. And the unseeing look in her eyes.

Charlene was blind.

"I—" I was at a loss for words. "Maisie. My name is Maisie."

Her face instantly went slack. "Oh, that nasty jerk." Then she smiled so brightly, it could’ve blinded me, pulling me in again to kiss both my cheeks. "They did it, didn’t they? Of course, they did. Why else would you be here?"

"Did what?"

She punched my shoulder. "Married you, silly. I’m glad they got their heads out of their asses and didn’t choose her."

"Her," I echoed, shocked at the sudden change in her.

"The silver-haired bitch," she supplied. She pointed a finger at her face. "She did this to me because I fucked Quinn. I would be careful of that one if I were you."