THE LYCAN'S GOLD DIGGER WIFE

Lacy's POV

It's another night to hunt for a man- a wealthy man.

The music vibrates through the club, a steady rhythm of deep sounds that thrum against my skin.

Multicoloured lights dance about, distorting my vision.

I wobble a little on my heels, shine some teeth at a bartender.

The white heels on my feet were a lucky find at a clearance sale, and my golden anklet glints with each step I take- stumble, rather.

My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, framing my face just right.

I know I look good, and in a place like this, looking good is everything, especially if you're looking to snag someone.

Except...I'm a little nervous. I'm never nervous, and it's weird.

I mean, I did this for a living: captivated men for a quick buck.

It's never hard.

I weave through the crowd, careful not to brush against anyone.

The last thing I need is some drunk thinking my presence is an invitation.

The bar is my first stop; a shiny, glossy counter with rows of expensive liquor lined up, and the handsome, tattooed bartender I smiled at.

I slide onto a stool and sigh, remembering my mother's harsh words earlier today.

"You're useless. Just like your father. No, worse. You spread your legs to survive, and you think that makes you better than me?"

I kept my back turned to her, focusing on my reflection in the tiny, cracked mirror as I applied my eyeliner. My hands were steady, even as my chest tightened.

She didn't stop. She never did. "You walk around like you're someone, but you're nothing. Nothing. Just like him."

I swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from smudging my mascara. Her words shouldn't hurt anymore, but they always found a way to burrow under my skin.

"You are a whore; you're the reason I'm stuck on this bed as a sickling; you're also the reason your father died. You are bad luck."

Mother had been left frail after my birth and eventually got bedridden. Father had overworked himself to pay her medical bills before dying off.

Now I'm playing the role of a gold digger with no high school certificate to keep food on the table.

Her words always sting, no matter how many times I try to ignore them.

I had turned to my mother, ignoring her curses, and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

Her skin was cold, her body frail against the pillows. Her eyes, though, were still full of hatred as she turned away from me in disgust.

I walked out anyway, my eyes brimming with tears.

Now, sitting at the bar, I take a deep breath, shaking off the memories. This is my world now.

Not that house. Not the suffocating walls closing in on me.

I observe my surroundings, searching for a prince to root me out of my misery.

All I see are couples grinding against each other, men in faux-expensive suits whispering into the ears of women who pretend to be captivated -laughter that never quite reaches their eyes.

The usual.

My gaze lands on a man stepping inside. Broad shoulders, a standard suit, and shoes that attempt to look expensive but don't quite succeed.

Middle-class, I decide.

Not worth my time.

Some would call me a gold digger. They wouldn't be wrong.

I prefer to call myself an opportunist, though.

I see an opportunity, and I take it. The opportunity is for rich and stupid men who just want a pretty woman in their hands.

That's survival.

A quick scan of the room tells me there's no one here worth my effort.

My stomach churns with frustration as I massage my temples, willing the coming headache away.

It has been a bad week. If I walk out of here empty-handed, rent is going to be another one of my problems.

Adding to the issues with the mother's new, expensive medical care.

I push myself off my stool, ready to try my luck elsewhere, when my eyes land on him.

A gentleman in the farthest corner of the club.

He's away from the flashing lights and the wandering eyes.

The darkness clings to him like a second skin, but it does nothing to dull his presence.

He has a dark, brooding energy that makes him impossible to ignore.

I stop breathing for a second.

Everything about him screams money.

Not just rich...wealthy.

The kind of wealth that doesn't need to be flaunted because it's simply understood.

The way he sits, relaxed yet powerful, tells me he's used to people coming to him, not the other way around.

And he's gorgeous- drop-dead angelic.

His features are sharp, almost too perfect, as if days were spent crafting him. His dark hair blends into the shadows, and he rests against the seat- muscles straining against his tailored suit.

My luck has finally turned.

I straighten, adjusting the tiny straps of my dress before running a hand through my golden hair.

A fresh coat of lip gloss, a push of my boobs up high.

I'm set.

I saunter over, swaying my hips to the side with each step I take. The club fades around me. He's the only thing in my focus now.

Time to play my favourite game, preying on men.

My nerves instantly leave me; I can't fail this time.

Finally reaching his table, I tap my long red nails against the polished surface, offering him my best flirtatious smile, the one that has never failed to garner attention.

His eyes lift to meet mine, and as he notices me, a frown settles in on his handsome features before arching a perfectly shaped brow.

I point to the seat beside him, tilting my head slightly and pouting my lips. "Is this seat taken?"

The silence stretches between us.

Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"Depends," he says, his voice deep and smooth. It sends a shiver down my spine. "Are you looking for a place to sit, or something else?"

Those eyes of his twinkle, sending foreign fire down my spine.

I bite back a smile. Now this was going to be a very fun game to play.