The Rogue’s Savage Claim on Me

ELOWEN The bass pulsed through the floor like a heartbeat, vibrating up through my heels and into my bones. I stood at the edge of the stage, one hand curled around the cold brass of the pole, waiting for my cue. The lights were low in the main room — that expensive, moody darkness that made everyone look better and feel richer. Velvet booths lined the walls, occupied by men in suits who'd loosened their ties just enough to pretend they were relaxed. Champagne buckets glinted on tables. The air smelled like expensive cologne and possibility. The Gilded Lily wasn't a dive. It was the kind of club where the cover charge weeded out the riffraff and the drink prices kept them out. The girls here were professionals — dancers, athletes, performers — and we were paid like it. No sticky floors. No grabby hands without immediate consequences. Just money, music, and the mutual understanding that everyone was here to play a role. My song started. A slow, heavy beat. Something with a dark pulse that I'd picked specifically because it let me move like honey instead of like a seizure. I stepped into the light. Stage name: Wren. I'd picked it years ago, when I first started dancing at a shittier club across town. Something small and unassuming that would make men underestimate me — and then I'd prove them wrong. The name stuck. Now it was stitched into my reputation: Wren, the pink-haired girl who moved like water and looked at you like she knew exactly what you were thinking. The spotlight found me and I let it. I wore a black lace bodysuit tonight, the kind that left almost nothing to the imagination while technically covering the parts that mattered. My pink hair was down, brushing my shoulder blades, catching the light like cotton candy spun from something dangerous. The tattoo on my forearm — a cascade of flowers and thorns that wound from wrist to elbow — stood out against my pale skin. I started slow. I always started slow. One hand on the pole, walking a lazy circle around it, letting the audience remember I existed. Eye contact with the front row — a guy in his forties with a Rolex and a wedding ring he hadn't bothered to remove. I gave him a smile that promised nothing and suggested everything. His hand moved toward his wallet. Good. Then I climbed. The pole was an extension of my body at this point, as familiar as my own spine. I gripped it high, hooked my knee, and lifted myself with a strength that surprised people who only saw the curves and the lace. I inverted — slowly, deliberately — my legs splitting into a perfect line as I hung upside down, back arched, hair cascading toward the stage floor. The music built. I built with it. I spun into a flatline — body horizontal, one hand gripping the pole, the other extended like I was reaching for something I'd never quite catch. My core screamed. I made it look effortless. That was the job: make the impossible look easy, make the athletic look erotic, make every man in the room believe that you were dancing just for him. I slid down the pole in a slow spiral, landing in a crouch, thighs spread, chest heaving with breath I didn't let show on my face. The song's tempo shifted — harder now, more insistent — and I rose with it, rolling my body in a wave that started at my knees and ended at my throat. My hands traced my own curves like a map I was inviting them to follow. Over my hips. Up my waist. Cupping my breasts through the lace, thumbs brushing my n*****s until they peaked visibly against the fabric. The Rolex guy was definitely reaching for his wallet now. I dropped to my knees, arched back until my hair touched the stage, and rolled my hips toward the ceiling in a motion that was pure, undiluted s*x. No apology. No shame. Just a woman in complete control of her body and the room full of men who wanted it. The song ended. I rose like I hadn't just performed four minutes of athletic seduction, collected the bills that had accumulated at the edge of the stage, and walked off like I owned the place. Because tonight, I did. Private dances paid better than stage work, and I had a regular waiting. His name was David — or at least that's what he told me, and I didn't care enough to verify. Mid-fifties, silver hair, the kind ofeli money that came with guilt and a dead bedroom at home. He came in every Thursday, asked for me specifically, and tipped like he was trying to buy absolution. I didn't judge. I just danced. The private rooms at the Gilded Lily were nicer than most people's living rooms — velvet couches, dim lighting, sound systems that cocooned you in music until the outside world stopped existing. The doors had windows that security could see through. The rules were clear: look but don't touch, unless she says otherwise. And I never said otherwise. David was already seated when I walked in, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. Trying to look casual. Trying to look like this was normal for him, like he did this all the time instead of once a week like clockwork. "Wren." He said my name like a prayer. "You were incredible up there." "I know." I didn't do false modesty. It wasn't what he was paying for. I let the music guide me — something slower in here, more intimate, a song about want and waiting that matched the ache in his eyes. I stood in front of him, close enough that my knees brushed his, and started to move. Private dances were different from stage work. More personal. More focused. On stage, you were performing for a crowd; in here, you were performing for him, making him feel like he was the only person in the world who mattered. I rolled my hips, slow and deliberate, close enough that he could feel the heat of my body without actually touching. My hands slid up my thighs, over my stomach, cupping my breasts again — I knew what he liked, what made his breath catch. I turned, gave him my back, looked over my shoulder as I bent forward and let him see the curve of my ass in the high-cut bodysuit. He groaned. His hands gripped his own thighs — the struggle to not reach for me visible in the white of his knuckles. I turned back, straddled his lap without sitting, hovering just above him, my hips still moving in that endless, hypnotic rhythm. My breasts were inches from his face. I could feel how hard he was beneath me, straining against his expensive slacks, and I ground down just enough to acknowledge it without giving him what he really wanted. "Wren," he breathed. "God, you're—" "I know," I said again, and smiled. The song ended. He paid me three hundred dollars for fifteen minutes and thanked me like I'd given him a gift. Maybe I had. The gift of being seen, being wanted, being the sole focus of a beautiful woman's attention for a few minutes in a life that probably felt invisible most of the time. I took the money and didn't feel bad about any of it. The trouble started around midnight. I was between sets, sitting at the bar with a water (we weren't allowed to drink on shift, and I wouldn't have anyway — control mattered too much), when one of the floor hosts caught my eye and tilted her head toward the VIP section. Problem. I sighed, downed my water, and headed over. The VIP section was three booths roped off with velvet, reserved for the big spenders who wanted bottle service and the illusion of exclusivity. Tonight, one of those booths held a group of four guys — finance bros, by the look of them, loud and drunk and riding the high of someone's bonus or promotion or whatever excuse men like that used to act like assholes. And in the middle of them was Jade. Jade was new. Three weeks at the Lily, still learning the rhythms, still figuring out which customers were harmless and which ones needed handling. She was young — twenty-one, maybe twenty-two — with dark skin and long braids and a body that hadn't yet learned how to weaponize itself. Right now, she looked scared. One of the finance bros had his hand on her thigh. Too high. Too tight. "I said I'm not interested." Jade's voice was steady, but I could hear the tremor underneath. "Come on, sweetheart." The guy was red-faced, sweating, his tie completely undone now. "We're spending a lot of money here. The least you can do is be friendly." "She said no." That was me, stepping into the booth's orbit with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Red-face looked up at me, and I watched his expression shift as he took in the pink hair, the curves, the confidence. Deciding whether I was a threat or an opportunity. "No problem," he said, but his hand didn't move from Jade's thigh. "Just having a conversation." "Didn't look like a conversation." I kept my voice light, friendly, the way you talk to a dog that might bite. "Looked like you had your hand somewhere it wasn't invited." His buddies shifted. One of them — slightly less drunk, slightly more aware — put a hand on Red-face's shoulder. "Dude. Let it go." "I'm not doing anything wrong." Red-face's voice rose. "I'm a paying customer. I'm allowed to—" "You're allowed to look." I stepped closer, deliberately putting myself between him and Jade. "You're allowed to tip. You're allowed to enjoy the show. You're not allowed to touch unless you're told you can. House rules. You signed the agreement when you paid the cover." "This is bullshit." He stood up, and he was bigger than I'd realized — over six feet, broad, the kind of guy who was used to intimidating people with his size. "I want to talk to your manager." "I'm sure you do." I didn't step back. Didn't flinch. "But right now, you're going to take your hand off my colleague, apologize for making her uncomfortable, and either sit down and behave or leave. Those are your options." He stared at me. I stared back. The moment stretched. I was aware of security moving closer, two of them, positioning themselves just outside the VIP rope. They wouldn't intervene unless it escalated, but they were there. Ready. "You're a f*****g tease," Red-face spat. "All of you. Walking around like that, shaking your ass in our faces, and then acting like we're the bad guys for wanting what you're selling." "We're selling a fantasy," I said calmly. "Not our bodies. There's a difference. Learn it." He moved toward me — not quite a lunge, but aggressive, his hand coming up like he was going to grab my arm or my hair or whatever part of me he thought he was entitled to. He didn't make it. I shifted my weight, caught his wrist, and twisted. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that he yelped and stumbled. Years of late-night walks through dark streets had taught me a few things. I wasn't a fighter, but I knew how to redirect force. How to use someone's momentum against them. Security was there in an instant, two large men in black suits smoothly stepping in to take over. Red-face was sputtering, his friends were apologizing, and Jade was slipping out of the booth with wide eyes and shaking hands. "Get him out," I said to security. "And his friends. They're done for the night." "You can't do this," Red-face protested as they escorted him toward the exit. "I'll sue. I'll—" "You'll go home, sober up, and thank God we're not pressing charges." I smiled at him. "Have a lovely evening." He was still yelling when they pushed him through the door. Jade found me in the dressing room an hour later. "Thank you," she said, and she looked like she might cry. "I didn't know what to do. He just— his hand was just there, and I froze—" "It happens." I squeezed her shoulder. "First time's always the worst. You did fine." "I didn't do anything. You did everything." "You said no. That's everything." I held her gaze until she nodded. "Next time, you say no louder. And you don't wait for backup. You get yourself out of the situation first, then you find security. Okay?" "Okay." She wiped her eyes. "You're kind of terrifying, you know that?" "I've been told." She laughed — a wet, shaky sound — and hugged me before disappearing to finish her shift. I watched her go and felt something complicated in my chest. Not quite maternal. More like... solidarity. The knowledge that we were all in this together, all navigating a world that wanted to consume us, and the only way through was to look out for each other. I turned back to my locker and started gathering my things. "Leaving already?" Mina appeared at my elbow like a ghost with lip gloss and a grudge. She was one of the other dancers — been here longer than me, never quite forgiven me for becoming a favorite — and she had a habit of showing up at inconvenient moments. "Shift's over." I pulled my jeans out of my locker, started changing out of the bodysuit. "Heard you handled Marcus's table." Mina leaned against the lockers, watching me undress with open appraisal. "Threw them out?" "They threw themselves out. I just helped." "Mmm." She was still staring at my chest as I unclipped my bra and reached for a regular one. "God, those t**s. They're unreal. Are they real?" "You ask me that every week." "Because I can't believe it every week." Before I could stop her, Mina slipped behind me, pressing her chest against my back and reaching around to cup both my breasts in her hands. She weighed them like she was judging produce at a farmer's market. "Done fondling them?" I asked flatly. "Nope. It's my weekly torment of envy." She squeezed, then released with a dramatic sigh, stepping back. "Like, what the f**k. This is so unfair. I paid twelve grand for mine and they don't move like that." I rolled my eyes and reached for my bra, slipping my arms through the straps. Mina — without being asked — stepped in to hook the back, then tugged at the cups, helping settle everything into place with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times. "There." She adjusted the straps. "The girls are secure." "Thanks." I turned and pushed her away with a laugh. "Now go bother someone else." "If you ever decide you're into women, you know where to find me," she called over her shoulder as she sauntered off to the mirrors, already moving on to her next target for attention. "I'll keep that in mind." "You won't, but I appreciate the lie." She blew me a kiss and disappeared around the corner. I shook my head and finished changing. Jeans, tank top, cropped jacket. Sneakers instead of heels. Cash from tonight folded into the interior pocket of my bag, next to my phone and keys and the knife I never went anywhere without. The door to the dressing room opened again, and this time it was Carmen — one of the bartenders, older than most of us, with silver streaks in her black hair and a bullshit detector that never failed. "Good work tonight, Wren." She handed me a bottle of water. "That asshole had been pushing limits for an hour before you stepped in. Management's grateful." "Management can show it in my paycheck." Carmen laughed. "I'll pass that along." She paused, studying my face. "You okay? That was a lot." "It was a Tuesday." "It's Thursday." "Same thing." I shouldered my bag and gave her a half-smile. "I'm fine. Just tired. Long night, long walk home." "You still doing that?" Carmen frowned. "Walking home alone at two in the morning?" "It's fine." "It's creepy as hell is what it is. You should get a car. Or a roommate. Or a very large dog." "I like the walk. It's quiet." "Quiet gets girls killed." "Cheerful thought. Thanks." I headed for the door, waving over my shoulder. "See you Saturday." "Be careful," Carmen called after me. I was always careful. That was the whole point. The bus smelled like diesel and someone's leftover Thai food. I leaned my head against the window, letting the cool glass press into my temple as the city lights blurred past. Two-fourteen in the morning. The 27 was nearly empty at this hour — just me, a drunk guy three rows back who'd been snoring since Maple Street, and an older woman near the front clutching grocery bags like someone might try to steal her off-brand cereal. My feet ached. That deep, bone-tired throb that came from six hours in heels, working the pole and the floor and the private rooms where men paid extra to pretend I was listening to their problems. I was good at that part — the listening, the nodding, the making them feel seen. It was a skill, same as the dancing. Most people didn't understand that. I shifted in my seat, my bag heavy on my lap. Good night tonight. The cash was a comfortable weight against my thigh — stage tips, David's private dance, a few other regulars who'd wanted time. Enough to cover the electric bill, pad my savings a little, maybe even splurge on something that wasn't ramen or frozen pizza. It would be more if I took weekends, but I didn't. Friday and Saturday nights were where the real money flowed — bachelor parties, expense accounts, men looking to celebrate or forget — and I left those shifts for the girls who really wanted the big bucks. The ones with kids at home or debts to pay down or dreams that cost more than mine. The newbies who needed the experience and the cash. I'd done my time on the weekend grind. Now I took my weeknights and let the rest go. My phone buzzed. I didn't have to look to know who it was. Trevor had a sixth sense for catching me when my guard was down — late nights, early mornings, the vulnerable hours when normal people were asleep and couldn't screen his calls. I'd stopped answering three months ago. He hadn't stopped trying. The screen lit up against the dark fabric of my bag. Missing you. Can we talk? I turned the phone face-down and watched the city thin out beyond the window. We were past the downtown towers now, past the mid-rise apartments and the 24-hour diners, moving into the stretch where streetlights got sparse and the buildings gave way to trees. My stop was coming up — the last one before the route looped back toward civilization. The driver always gave me a look when I got off here, like he wanted to ask if I was sure, if someone was meeting me, if I knew there was nothing out here but woods and dark. I never answered. It wasn't his business, and besides, he was wrong. There was something out here. My cabin. My quiet. My life that belonged to no one but me. The bus groaned to a stop and I gathered my bag, slinging it across my body so my hands stayed free. Force of habit. The drunk guy startled awake as I passed, blinking at me with watery confusion, and I gave him a nod that said go back to sleep, buddy without slowing down. The doors hissed open and I stepped out into the cold. October in the mountains meant the kind of chill that sliced right through whatever you were wearing, and tonight I was wearing a cropped jacket over a tank top because I hadn't planned for the temperature to drop fifteen degrees while I was inside. Rookie mistake. I'd lived out here for almost two years now; I should know better. I started walking. The road stretched out ahead of me, cracked asphalt and gravel shoulders, the tree line pressing close on both sides. No sidewalk out here. No streetlights past the bus stop. Just the moon hanging low and fat above the pines, spilling silver light across everything it touched. I loved this walk. I knew that probably made me crazy, or at least careless. A woman alone on a dark road at two in the morning, fifteen minutes from the nearest house that wasn't hers — it was the setup for every horror movie ever made. My mother knew I lived out here, but she didn't know about the walks. She'd have a stroke if she did. Trevor would use it as proof that I couldn't take care of myself, that I needed someone looking out for me, that I'd fall apart without a safety net made of money and expectations and him. But the thing was, I didn't feel unsafe out here. The club was where I had to watch my back — case in point, tonight. The city was where I kept my keys between my fingers and my eyes on every shadow. But out here, in the dark, with the cold air filling my lungs and the trees whispering their secrets to each other — out here I could breathe. Out here I was just a woman walking home, and the woods didn't care what I did for money or whose daughter I was or why I'd rather live in a cabin with spotty Wi-Fi than a penthouse with a view. The woods just let me be. I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets, my right hand curling around the knife on instinct. Not because I was scared. Because I wasn't stupid. There was a difference. The path curved ahead, following the road for another quarter mile before my turnoff appeared — a narrow lane that wound through the trees to the cabin that had been my grandmother's, then my parents', then mine by default when they decided someone should "keep an eye on the place" and I volunteered before they could suggest I move back home instead. That had been the deal. Stay in the cabin, Elowen. Just until you figure things out. Two years later, I was still figuring. The freelance writing paid the bills — barely. Content work, mostly. Blog posts for companies that sold things I'd never buy, product descriptions that made cheap crap sound revolutionary, the occasional ghostwritten article for someone too important to write their own words. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't what I'd imagined when I graduated with a creative writing degree and dreams of novels and bylines and meaning. But it was mine. The dancing was mine. The cabin was mine, even if my name wasn't on the deed. I'd built something out here, piece by piece, and I wasn't going to let anyone convince me it wasn't enough. Not my parents. Not Trevor. Not the voice in my own head that sometimes whispered what are you doing, what are you running from, what are you trying to prove. I was proving I could do this alone. That was the whole point. The turnoff appeared in the moonlight, marked by a mailbox that hadn't held mail in decades and a wooden post so weathered it was more gray than brown. I left the main road and started up the lane, the gravel crunching under my sneakers. The trees closed in tighter here, branches reaching across the path like they were trying to hold hands. In daylight, it was beautiful — dappled sunlight, birdsong, the kind of pastoral peace that made people pay thousands for weekend retreats. At night, it was something else. Not scary, exactly. Just more. Like the woods were paying closer attention when the sun wasn't watching. The cabin's porch light glowed through the trees ahead, and something in my chest loosened. Home. It wasn't much — two bedrooms, a bathroom with pipes that groaned every winter, a kitchen that had been "charming" in the eighties and was now just dated. The furniture was a mix of family hand-me-downs and thrift store finds, nothing matching, everything worn soft with use. But it had a fireplace that actually worked, and a porch that caught the morning sun, and walls that didn't have ears waiting to report back to anyone. I climbed the three steps to the porch, dug my keys out of my bag, and stopped. Something was different. I couldn't say what, not at first. The porch light was on, the way I'd left it. The door was closed, the way I'd left it. The rocking chair in the corner sat empty, the way it always did. But something in the air felt off, the way a room feels when someone's just left it — that subtle displacement of stillness. I stood very still, key in one hand, other hand drifting back toward my bag. Listening. The woods were quiet. Not silent — there was the rustle of wind through branches, the distant call of something nocturnal, the hundred small sounds that meant the forest was alive and doing its forest thing. But under that... nothing. No creak of boards. No breathing. No sense of presence. I was being paranoid. I unlocked the door and went inside. The cabin was exactly as I'd left it. Laptop on the kitchen table, lid closed, charging cord snaking to the outlet by the window. Empty coffee mug in the sink that I kept meaning to wash. The blanket I'd wrapped around myself while working yesterday still puddled on the couch, because I lived alone and no one was here to judge my housekeeping. I did a walkthrough anyway, flipping on lights as I went. Bathroom: clear. Bedroom: clear. The second bedroom I used as an office s***h storage space s***h place to throw things I didn't want to deal with: clear, and also a mess, but a familiar mess. See? Paranoid. I dropped my bag on the kitchen table, pulled out the cash from tonight, and counted it. Six hundred and twelve dollars, not including the credit card tips that would hit my account in a few days. Good night. Great night, actually. I put the money in the coffee can I kept on top of the fridge — not the most sophisticated hiding spot, but I wasn't exactly worried about burglars out here — and then I poured myself a drink. Rosé tequila, neat, the good stuff that went down smooth and warm. One of my few indulgences. I just wanted something to take the edge off, to smooth the transition from work mode to home mode to sleep mode. I carried the glass to the window and looked out at the dark. The tree line was a solid wall of shadow beyond the porch light's reach. I couldn't see anything out there — not individual trees, not the path, not the road. Just black on black on black, the kind of darkness that swallowed everything it touched. I thought about that feeling on the porch. That sense of something off. Probably a deer had passed through. Or a raccoon had knocked something over. Or I was just tired and imagining things, because that's what happened when you worked until two in the morning and then walked home through the woods like some kind of fairy tale character with a death wish. I finished my whiskey, rinsed the glass, and checked the locks one more time. Front door: bolted. Back door: bolted. Windows: all latched. I'd started doing this religiously about a month after I moved in, not because anything had happened but because it felt like the responsible thing to do when you lived alone in the middle of nowhere. My mother would have been proud. She would have been prouder if I'd moved somewhere with neighbors and security cameras and a doorman, but she'd take what she could get. I changed out of my clothes and into an oversized t-shirt that had once belonged to Trevor and now belonged to me, because f**k him, it was comfortable and I wasn't giving it back. The sheets were cold when I slid into bed. I curled onto my side, pulled the blankets up to my chin, and stared at the window. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, pale and thin. The woods outside were silent now, or as silent as they ever got. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called — two low notes, mournful and strange. I closed my eyes. Tomorrow I had an article due, something about sustainable packaging that I'd been procrastinating on for a week. I'd write it in the morning, fueled by coffee and spite and the low-grade anxiety that always kicked in when a deadline got too close. Then maybe I'd take a walk, enjoy the autumn colors before they were gone. Friday night meant no shift — I didn't work weekends anymore — so I could actually relax. Unless someone called out and Carmen guilted me into covering, which happened more often than I liked to admit. The rhythm of my life. Predictable. Safe. Mine. I fell asleep without dreaming, and the darkness outside pressed close against the windows, and somewhere in the trees, something watched, and waited, and began to want.