7- Council

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          

Vincent Wolf didn't believe in coincidence. He believed in hard facts and cold truths. 
Reality was never as kind as fairy tales. If it were, he wouldn't have had to bury his father in an unmarked grave. Or watch his mother leave in a yellow cab, never looking back at the two boys she'd abandoned. Never have to shelter Ryan from the truth of things. So when the Hoodman Heiress showed up perched at his bar, right after their meeting, he knew something was afoot. 
Had Elenor sent her? Was she here to renegotiate? And who's the brunette? A friend? A cohort?
When he'd questioned her, listening for the lie between heartbeats, she'd seemed just as surprised to see him here. Yet Vincent still scented the sour note of deception during their conversation. He just couldn't pinpoint what it meant. The little cocktail dress was  an improvement though, his mind wandering to the way the thin fabric hugged every one of her curves. Annoying as she was, she cleaned up nicely. 
 If Ryan were here, he'd have made some rubbish comment about how it was fate she'd showed up at the same time. Destiny, that he'd been able to pick out her unusual scent amongst the smothering stench of sweat and perfumes. But then again, Ryan was a romantic, too soft-hearted and outspoken, and he was happy he'd left him at the office to finish reviewing an investor proposal so he didn't have to endure the torment of his teasing. 
The pulse of dance music thumped in his skull, soothing the frustration coiled in his belly as they descended into the V lounge. A den of debauchery and pleasure for the shifter community. Laid out much like any club, with rows of private booths along the back, where glittering pixie dust powdered tables and noses as shifters lounged back, giving themselves over to the high. It was packed tonight- good for business. 
Waitresses bustled back and forth from the bar tucked in the corner, passing shots on the dance floor and bottles to booths. While on the raised stage on the far right, dancers twirled with their legs up around poles to the whistles of the crowd, inviting patrons up to join in the fun. A place where shifters could be themselves whatever form that took without prejudice or restraint. 
There was a strict human form code in the club section, though- for safety. He'd made the mistake of allowing animal forms before and it cost him a small fortune in repairs, not to mention the holes in the cushions. So they'd expanded, buying the warehouse behind the bar and tunneling an access to provide a place where shifters could stretch their fur and fangs. It was Roman's idea to start an underground fight ring there that had been gaining popularity over the last year. 
A small hand curled around his wrist, causing him to pause at one of the booths where three fox shifters sat in human guise. "Hey handsome! Care to have your threads read?" A small brunette asked, her eyes traveling to his wrist, inspecting what only they, as servants of Aphrodite, could see. "Your love thread has quite the history!" She purred, flashing a pointed-toothed smile.