Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

Every time we’re alone together, the energy seems to shift. There’s a thick tension in the air, and my mind starts inevitably wandering back to what we did the last time we were alone.

Since I’m thinking of such pleasant things, I’m startled when Callum says, “Why did you break up with Oliver Castle?”

It jolts me, and makes me remember, uncomfortably, how Oliver accosted me on campus earlier. How does he keep running into me like that? At first when he would find me at every party, I assumed my friends were texting him. But even later—

“Well?” Callum interrupts.

I sigh, annoyed to be talking about this again. And without the likelihood of kinky jealousy-fueled sex afterward.

“It just never felt right,” I say. “It was like putting a shoe on the wrong foot. Right away it was awkward, and the longer it went on, the worse it got.”

“So you weren’t in love with him? When we met?” Callum asks.

There’s the tiniest hint of vulnerability in his question.

I’ve never heard Callum be vulnerable. Not even one percent. I desperately want to look at him, but I use all my willpower to keep my eyes pointed forward. I feel like we’re actually being honest for a minute, and I don’t want to ruin it.

“I never loved him,” I tell Cal, my voice steady and sure.

He exhales, and I know, I just know, there’s relief in that sigh.

I have to smile, thinking of something poetic.

“What?” Callum asks.

“Well, ironically, when I broke up with Oliver, I thought I should find someone more compatible. Someone more like me.”

Cal has to laugh, too.

“Instead you got the exact opposite,” he says.

“Right,” I say.

Opposites have a kind of symmetry. Fire and ice. Stern and playful. Impulsive and restrained. In a way, they belong together.

Oliver and I were more like two objects selected at random: a pen and an owl. A cookie and a shovel.

That’s why there was no emotion on my side, just indifference.

You need push and pull to feel love. Or hate.

We pull up in front of Pole. It’s a cabaret club on the west end of the city. Dark, low-ceilinged, sprawling and seedy. But also wildly popular, because it’s not your run-of-the-mill strip club. The performances are dark, kinky, and fetish-based. Some of the dancers are semi-famous in Chicago, including Francie Ross, who’s one of the headliners. It doesn’t surprise me that she caught Zajac’s eye.

“Have you been here before?” I ask Callum.

“No,” he says carelessly. “Is it good?”

“You’ll see.” I grin.

The bouncers check our IDs and we head inside.

The thumping bass makes the air feel thick. I smell the sharp scent of alcohol, and the earthy tones of vape pens. The light is deep red, making everything else look like shades of black and gray.

The interior feels like a gothic dollhouse. Plush booths, botanical wallpaper, ornate mirrors. The waitresses are dressed up in strappy leather harnesses, some with leather animal ears and matching fur tails—bunnies, foxes, and cats, mostly.

I spy a table emptying out close to the stage, and I drag Callum over before someone else can snag it.

“Shouldn’t we be looking for your friend?” he says.