“You know me so well,” I said with a smirk, sitting on the opposite couch.

“Doubt that but you only come here when you want to race. I’ll have to see if anyone is dumb enough to race you.” It was a well-known fact that I didn’t lose. Not ever.

Roman turned his head to the guy beside him.

“Get her an Irish Trash Can,” he told him before turning back to me. The guy got up without question and went to their bar. I scanned the crowd of werewolves in the lounge and stopped breathing when I saw Viktor on the opposite side of the area, leaning against the railing in his fancy, tailored suit. He stuck out like an unearthed gemstone among torn jeans and fringed band shirts. He smiled while raising his drink towards me as if giving a toast.

How? He couldn’t have walked past me. So how did he get up here?

“Why is he here?” I asked Roman quickly. A couple walked in my line of sight while Roman turned around to see who I was talking about. The couple moved and Viktor was gone. Again. He was already an infuriating bastard and we hadn’t even talked. This was starting to put me on edge.

“Who?” Roman asked. I rubbed beneath my ears, where there was green. I touched each of my gold rings and tried to relax.

“Sorry, thought I saw someone I knew,” I offered as I was handed the Irish Trashcan. These things were so ridiculous. The liquid was vibrant neon green and blue with a Red Bull can opened and shoved upside down into the glass. This definitely wouldn’t help the itch under my skin. Regardless, I accepted the drink and pressed the straw between my lips, taking a long sip.

“Stay a while. The race won’t happen until later,” Roman said, his voice barking over the loud music. He waved his hand towards the dance floor below making it clear I was welcome but wasn’t pack and should enjoy the club outside their little lounge.

I went back down the steps to the main floor, eyes scanning for Viktor the whole time. I tucked myself into a dim booth to finish my drink and wait to see if he’d come.

Cages were hanging from the ceiling with both men and women dancing inside them. I could tell they were fae by their narcissistic squeals of delight as they watched their reflections in the adoring eyes of admirers, their svelte bodies frantically swaying above the writhing crowds. They were beautiful and they moved like fabric in the wind but they still had me making a sour face. My Irish brethren and I were seen as some low-class fae to them when that wasn’t the case at all.

I was sidhe, not fae, but no one really cared about all that. We were far and few between. Our people weren’t well known, respected, or even believed to be real. The faeries had their hand in that, making us out to be jokes. Ugly, gnarled, warped, and short hot-tempered things.