Derek’s grip on Stiles’s wrist was tight, possessive, as he dragged her through the throbbing crowd of Velvet Underground. The club was alive—pulsing lights strobing red and blue across sweaty bodies, bass-heavy songs shaking the floor, people grinding like animals on the dance floor, hips rolling, asses pressed to crotches. Girls in skimpy outfits laughed loud, guys oiled and shirtless flexed for tips. The air reeked of booze, perfume, and sex—pure chaos.

“Keep up, slut,” Derek growled over the music, pulling her to the bar counter. He leaned in, signaling the bartender—a buff guy who nodded at him like a coworker. “Two whiskeys, neat. Make ’em strong.”