All week, I worried about Lachlan and Temperance. Not knowing what would happen to them sent my thoughts into a spiral of worst-case scenarios. At least tonight I could dance and forget for a little while. My chunky Mary Janes clomped on the metal stairs backstage at Siege. Billy, the stagehand, closed the door to my Plexiglas cube and wrenched the pulley, floating me and my box above the center of the dance floor. A few patrons arched their necks to check out the new dancer hanging from the ceiling, but most ignored me.

I bent and grabbed my ankles, stretching my hamstring muscles, and garnering more glances from the crowd below. My hands skimmed up my legs and hiked my plaid schoolgirl skirt up, revealing my boy-cut white satin panties and the bows tying the ruching at the sides.

With a tug on the knotted ties of my shirt under my breasts, I laughed as the techno rendition of an old song by Vanity 6 played over the sound system. The irony of me shaking my ass to "Nasty Girl" was lost on the masses below, but Brock winked at our little inside joke as he took a sip of his drink. I smiled back at him in his VIP booth. He returned his attention to the three women accompanying him tonight, and I started my dance routine.

Even with my eyes closed, the flash of the strobes transported me through a psychedelic wormhole to a simpler universe where Vanity was just a singer's name and I was just a dancer in a box.

As the hours passed, Tessa Harlow's physical body evaporated and only my spirit writhed to the beat of the music. The ultimate freedom sang in my bones, curing a bitterness deep in my tissue.

To dance with abandon, without fear of judgement or recrimination, was life altering.

In my euphoria, I felt the warm caress of Rogan's hands on my thighs, trailing up my backside and lifting my skirt, his huge palms flat on my butt cheeks. The striking heat broke my trance and caused me to seek the source.

In reality, I danced alone in my box. No one in the crowd paid me any attention— except one man sitting alone at a small table near the entrance. His cap and full beard covered most of his face. He tilted his head, exposing a pearly white grin and assessing blue eyes. I stumbled and braced myself on the walls of the box. Lachlan's black ball cap and thick beard hid his identity from the crowd, but I knew he was there for me.

A trill of flattery pinched my spine. A hot FBI agent had donned a disguise and risked exposure to come watch me dance. The high of the compliment quickly faded as I remembered Lachlan's face as he lied to me.

He may be into me, but Lachlan sacrificed his chances with me for the sake of his job. I wasn't about to get involved with another man who chose his career over love.

A half hour before closing, Lachlan paid his tab and waved up at me before he left the club.

At the end of the night, I changed into my regular clothes and carried my costume and heels in my backpack as I walked to my truck in my flat shoes.

Formless shadows lurked behind each vehicle in the lot, but I ignored them, pretending Rogan was still here making sure I got in my truck safely.

"Psst."

"Who's there?" I stopped and clutched my keys.

"Vanity." A tall man in a cowboy hat stepped out from behind an SUV. He kept his hands in his pockets and cocked one knee. His loose cotton shirt and dusty work pants looked so out of place in a big city parking lot like this.

"Zook? Is that you?" Zook Guthrie? In the Siege parking lot? I hadn't seen him in five years. Zook and I had cared for each other once. I could trust him. Right?

"It's me."

"You look so much bigger. Why're you here? How—"

"Did you think we wouldn't find you, Vanity?" My father's nasally voice hit my ears. His lanky shadow stepped around the hood of a car to my left and paced toward us. "Or should I call you Tessa Harlot?"

Oh no! How did he find me? With my truck parked just ten steps away, my only hope was to outrun them. I bolted and grasped the door handle, but I'd forgotten to unlock it. Darn, darn. I fumbled with my keys, but Zook charged and grabbed my upper arms.

"Zook. Let me go. Don't do this." I wrenched in his hold. My heart thumped so wildly, I'm sure he could feel it.

My father stepped in front of us. "You're coming home now, honeysuckle."

"No!"

I swung my arms to attempt to block him, but he seized a chunk of my hair and yanked it up. Needles stung my scalp. His heavy fist walloped my cheek, jerking my head to the side. I stopped fighting and reeled in the pain. I couldn't focus. My head, my face... Escape. I needed to escape. But how?

Zook handed me off to my father. The terror ratcheted through me as he wrapped his long arms around me and pulled me against him with my hands pinned behind my back.

"No! No!" I kicked and screamed through a haze of pain and panic.

"Get her feet," he ordered.

"Stop fightin', Vanity." Zook grabbed hold of my flying ankles.

"Never." I lost a fight like this at a street market in Karachi. Never again.

My father threw me to the ground and straddled me. He slugged my face, blow after blow. I screamed and hit him as hard as I could with my keys, trying to reach his eyes, but my hands bounced off him like failed shots at a dartboard. I grunted as he landed a vicious punch to my stomach. He stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from his face.

"Zook, please! Let me go!" I made eye contact with him through the mess of hair covering my face.

"I'm sorry, Van." His face contorted in anguish. He didn't want to betray me. Zook. My first love. So handsome and good. Under the control of the Brotherhood like everyone else on the compound.

Through all the chaos, my thumb found the panic button on my fob and pressed it. The truck horn blared in screeching bursts.

Blinding headlights lit up my father's back. He turned and covered his eyes to block the light. Zook released my feet and stood up straight, his hands shaking as he squinted at the approaching car.

"Oh shit." Zook took off running.

With a loud roar that emerged from deep in my stomach, I focused all my strength and stabbed the point of my keys into my father's neck.

"Ow, fuck!" As he clutched the spot I'd hit, his weight lifted from me. A muscular arm swung out and plowed into his face. In time with the blasts of the horn, the shadow of a hulking mass of man threw fast, brutal punches into my father's face. A gurgling sound emerged from his throat as he collapsed in a bloody pulp.

"Stop! Stop! You'll kill him." I tried to sit up. "Ow. Please help me."

The massive chest of my mystery hero heaved as he looked at me. He dropped the motionless body and stalked toward me. A car pulled up. Zook jumped from the driver's side, raced around, and loaded my father's limp body into the passenger seat. The wheels skidded on the pavement as they zoomed off.

Gone. They're gone. It's over. I'm safe.

My rescuer kneeled at my side. "Are you alright?"

Even in the dark, with my head spinning and the horn blasting, the scrape of the voice was unmistakable. "Rogan? What... Are you here?"

He must've found my fob because the horn blasts stopped.

"I asked if you're alright."

Yes. His voice. How could Rogan be here? "Are you dead? Am I dead?"

"What?"

"I dunno. It hurts. My head, my face. Everything hurts."

"Fuck." He slipped his arms beneath my back and knees and lifted me gently. He carried me to a truck and set me in the passenger seat. He spoke into his phone as he drove out of the lot. "T needs you. My place."

I closed my eyes as we sped away.