Chapter 24: ​A Parade of Flesh and Glitter

The music thrummed through the floorboards like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the walls and blending with the roar of conversation, laughter, and clinking glasses.

Darius sat sprawled across the leather booth, one arm draped over the backrest as he watched the performance unfolding on the elevated stage in the center of the Wild Hounds’ VIP lounge. Neon lights lined the walls, casting pink and purple glows across the room. Their reflections shimmered off polished metal fixtures and the glittering curtains that separated the private booths.

Below, waitresses moved effortlessly through the packed crowd, balancing trays of drinks as they slipped between tables filled with customers lounging comfortably and enjoying the night’s entertainment.

No one came anywhere near Darius’s booth.

The bouncers had made sure of that. Two massive men stood guard beside the velvet rope, arms folded across their chests as they watched the room with the calm vigilance of men who knew exactly how to handle trouble if it started.

On stage, the stripper hooked one knee around the pole and slowly spun her way down. Her back arched gracefully, and her long platinum-blonde hair brushed the stage floor before she smoothly reversed the movement and climbed back up again as if gravity barely applied to her.

The chrome pole flashed under the club lights each time she spun. Reaching the top, she grabbed the pole above her head and lifted her legs into a wide V-shape, holding herself there with impressive control while her thighs trembled from the effort. The split was so wide that several people watching below visibly leaned forward in appreciation.

Seriously. Is this supposed to be entertaining?

Darius’s jaw tightened.

He had been sitting here for forty-three minutes, nursing a glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched, watching the parade of flesh and glitter with all the enthusiasm of a man reading a tax ledger.

He was here for a meeting, damn it, and needed to make it back before dinner.

He had honestly thought the man would come running the moment he heard Darius was here. Was he deliberately testing his patience or what? Wasn’t he the one practically begging for his presence in that letter?

Darius was seriously starting to regret agreeing to this meeting.

Fuck.

He needed to get back to Basil as soon as possible and make sure he didn’t miss dinner.

If his prince skipped another meal, Darius was going to lose his mind.

The stripper shifted positions, gripping the pole with both hands now and rolling her hips in a slow figure-eight that sent the sequins on her costume scattering light across the stage.

And Darius’s mind, treacherous and entirely uninvited, replaced her.

What if Basil were the one on that platform?

He’d be less practiced. Less mechanical. There would be hesitation at first, of course. This wasn’t exactly something he had experience with. A flush would creep up that elegant neck of his, the same way it always did whenever he was embarrassed and trying desperately not to show it.

But then...then he’d lift his chin in that stubborn, defiant little gesture Darius had been hoping to see again tonight, and he’d wrap his fingers around the pole as though he had something to prove.

The first spin would be tentative, almost clumsy, but his body would learn fast. Darius was certain of it. He could see it far too clearly.

Basil’s narrow hips moving with growing confidence. The smooth curve of his spine as he turned. The muscles in his back shifting beneath skin Darius had somehow managed to memorize after seeing it only once.

His blond hair would fall across his forehead before he’d impatiently brush it back with one hand while the other kept him balanced against the pole. His legs would part in a slow, controlled movement. The pale skin of his inner thighs. The flex of his calves as he pointed his toes. And that expression.

The one Basil wore whenever he found himself enjoying something he absolutely refused to admit he enjoyed.

Half embarrassed. Half thrilled.

His lower lip caught between his teeth.

Darius’s cock stirred against his thigh, a sudden pressure that made his breath catch.

"Fuck," he muttered, shifting in his seat. His hand dropped beneath the table to adjust himself, knuckles brushing the rigid line straining against his trousers.

Behind him, Rowan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and alert despite the increasingly absurd situation.

He looked wildly out of place among the dancers, the alcohol, and the half-dressed women drifting through the VIP section with empty glasses and practiced smiles. His eyes swept the room in a constant, methodical pattern, left to right, right to left. When he noticed the prince’s hand move beneath the table and caught the subtle adjustment, Rowan’s brow lifted a fraction of an inch.

He couldn’t believe it.

The prince had dragged him here for this?

A strip club. A glorified brothel with a liquor license. Rowan’s jaw tightened as he scanned the room for what felt like the hundredth time, his gaze moving from the stage to the exits, then to the security stationed around the lounge. Nothing about this place felt appropriate for a member of the royal family. The scent alone, cheap perfume layered over stale beer and the artificial haze from the smoke machines, was enough to make him want to leave. He couldn’t help wondering if this was the kind of life Darius had lived before returning to the palace.

The thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

How would the King and Queen react if they knew?

Not that Rowan planned to tell them. His loyalty belonged to Darius now, and as long as the prince’s actions posed no threat to the royal family, it wasn’t his place to interfere.

Still...to think he had spent his entire career protecting the kingdom’s interests and serving with distinction, only to end up playing chaperone while a prince watched a half-naked woman writhe around a pole and then adjusted himself like some common patron.

The stripper didn’t miss it.

The gesture. The subtle shift. She had been doing this long enough to read a room without needing a soothsayer. A man didn’t adjust himself under the table unless something was working. She had been watching him throughout her entire routine and naturally assumed she was the reason.

She released the pole and descended the platform steps with the fluid confidence of someone who knew exactly the effect she had on people. Her hips swayed as she walked. Her fingers trailed lazily along the edge of the stage. She crossed the floor toward Darius’s booth, and the crowd instinctively made room for her. A dancer in motion was a familiar sight here, and nobody wanted to get in the way.

Darius raised an eyebrow and watched her approach with growing confusion.

She reached him, all perfume and body glitter, and placed one knee on the leather cushion beside his thigh. Her hand settled on his shoulder. She was only a breath away from lowering herself into his lap when Darius planted a palm against her sternum and shoved her back.

"Get the fuck off me."

The stripper stumbled back a step. Her expression flickered from surprise to a sharp glare. She had been rejected before.

Every dancer here had. But this wasn’t a polite refusal or a disinterested brush-off. This was outright dismissal, as though her presence alone irritated him.

For several seconds, she held his gaze.

Darius stared right back, completely unimpressed. Realizing she wasn’t getting anywhere, she clicked her tongue, turned on her heel, and drifted toward another table.

Rowan watched the exchange and frowned. Wasn’t that what he wanted? The prince had very obviously been aroused. Rowan had seen him adjust himself only moments ago. Or had he misunderstood something?

Darius sank deeper into the leather, checked the time on his wrist, and clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"What the fuck is taking them so long?"

As if summoned, the crowd near the back parted and Leo appeared, broad-shouldered, scarred at the jaw, moving with the easy authority of a man who owned every room he entered. Beside him walked a man whose skin was a canvas of ink, tattoos crawling from every inch of visible flesh marked with symbols Darius didn’t bother to read.

They approached the booth. Leo’s arms spread wide in greeting.

"I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Your Highness." He slid into the seat opposite Darius, the leather groaning under his weight.

Darius watched him. "You take your sweet time. Are you fucking, or what?"

Leo choked. Actually choked—a sputter that sent spit down the wrong pipe, his fist coming up to cover his mouth. The tattooed man now standing sentinel at Leo’s shoulder, coughed lightly into his hand and found something very interesting to look at on the ceiling.

Darius’s gaze moved between them, slow and deliberate. The corner of his mouth lifted.

"Wait. Am I right? Did I interrupt something... personal between you two?"

Leo recovered, reaching for the whiskey bottle on the table and pouring himself a generous measure. His voice was steady, but the redness at his collar betrayed him. "Your Highness, I’m glad you honored my invitation. I really appreciate it."

Changing the topic, I see. Darius’s smirk deepened.