Arthdal Strike

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Chapter 2

My feet barely touched the ground as they dragged me out the door, my screams lost in the echoes of the night. They shoved me into the back of the sleek black car, slamming the door shut. 

Trapped between two men, I knew there wasn’t any escape. Furious tears stung my eyes as the engine roared to life, the car speeding off into the city’s darkened streets.

I pressed myself against the front chair, every muscle tense. This couldn’t be happening. This was some kind of nightmare. 

But the cold leather beneath me and the steady hum of the engine made it real. Too real. I’d been sold—by my own flesh and blood.

We pulled up to Arthdal Strike. From the outside, it looked like just another club, the kind you’d pass by with a second glance—big building, neon lights flickering, a line of expensive cars parked out front. But as they hauled me out and led me through the entrance, the truth of the place hit me.

The inside was worse than I imagined. Dim red lights bathed the room in a sleazy glow, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and something darker. 

Women draped in scant clothing strolled across the floor and the big stage while men, dressed in tailored suits, sat in leather chairs, watching like vultures. Their eyes followed me, assessing and calculating.

I fought the urge to shrink back, to run, but there was nowhere to go. The man with the scar pushed me through a side door into a dim hallway.

The air felt heavier here, more oppressive. He turned to me, his grip finally releasing my arm. "Welcome to your new life," he said with a cruel grin.

The reality of it sank in—this was my new prison. And there was no escape.

I didn’t have time to think, though. I was shoved through another door and into what seemed to be a backstage area. Before I could catch my breath, a woman in tight leather pants and a heavy layer of makeup grabbed my arm and started tugging me toward the dressing room.

"Change. You’re up next," she said, her voice flat and bored, as if this was all routine.

"Up? Up for what?" I demanded, trying to shake her off. "I didn’t agree to—"

"Doesn’t matter what you agreed to, sweetheart," she cut me off, shoving a barely-there outfit into my hands. "You’re Arthdal’s now."

Her words hit me like ice water. 

I wanted to speak when a tall, slender-looking man with shoulder-length blond and dazzling green eyes walked up to us. The atmosphere chilled at his presence.

He had a cigarette between his thin, red lips, unlit. His eyes raked me and I'd never felt more exposed in all my life than that moment. 

“Hey,” his baritone made me shudder as the glint in his eyes sharpened. “Get dressed and get on that fucking stage now.”

I shook visibly. But my defiant nature, which by now I'd realised would land me in hot soup, forced my lips. “B-but I'm not a dancer. Uncle Jackson said I'd tend to tables here like my old job.”

Scoffs and snickers flowed around me. He stepped forward and I felt small. I literally had to strain my neck to look into his eyes. 

“I don't care what Uncle Jaxwax said. He ain't running this club. I am.” I felt his gaze darken and I held my breath. 

“Besides, waiting tables is a job for…” he paused, as if searching for the right words, then darkly added, “those who have advanced from dancing with a few exceptions. Also,” he drawled, hooking a finger underneath my chin and I smelt him, fucking good, “who would waste a beauty and sexiness like yours on tables when you can bring more up there?”

His eyes never left mine, as though teasing the life out of me, checking if I'd break. I did my best to stand my ground. 

He let me go, walking past as though the exchange between us didn't happen, only to stop at the door, both hands tucked into his black trousers pocket. 

“Now, if we have an understanding, get dressed and bloody earn, rabbit.”

I didn't catch his name but the next voice made me jolt as Scarface whispered in my ear. “Good job on annoying Boss Xander on your first hour here.”

I fumbled with the zipper, my hands shaking as I changed into the revealing outfit at a corner. No fucking freedom! 

The dim lights of the dressing room seemed to close in around me and my mind raced with thoughts of escape. 

But how? The place was heavily guarded, keeping its reputation. I was in over my head to even think that.

Before I knew it, I was being led out toward the stage. The lights blinded me, the music pounded in my ears, and the leering faces of men watching me from the shadows made my skin crawl. I stepped forward, my legs trembling beneath me.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, but I barely heard him. All I could feel were hungry, predatory, and cold stares.

I froze on stage, the spotlight burning down on me. I felt like prey, standing there under the gaze of the city’s most dangerous men. 

I scanned the room, searching for some kind of escape, some way out of this nightmare, when I felt someone’s piercing gaze bore a hole in my back. 

'No, no, no, no, no! Please don't look, don't be interested,' I yapped internally.

I gulped, too scared to look in that direction and to catch anyone’s attention. But my curiosity got the better of me and I looked from the corner of my eye. 

Seated at the right corner, shrouded in shadows, his eyes locked on me with an intensity that made my stomach turn.

Before I could make sense of the moment, the music started, and the crowd's attention fell on me.

“Dance!”