“Security!” I shout, backing up until I hit the wall. “We have an intruder?—”
He lunges forward, whiskey breath hot against my face as his fingers dig into my arms. “Shut up, bitch.”
I knee him in the groin and twist, but he’s stronger than his drunken state suggests. His grip tightens, and I feel the panic rising in my throat.
“Let go!” I scream, clawing at his hands.
The door bangs open. A blur of movement, and suddenly, the drunk is sprawled on the floor, blood trickling from his nose. Above him stands a man I’ve only observed from a distance—Xavier Blackwood, his knuckles slightly reddened, expression unreadable.
“Are you hurt?” His voice is quiet and completely at odds with the brutality of moments ago.
I straighten my uniform, willing my hands to stopshaking. “I’m fine.”
He assesses me with unsettling intensity. “You’re the new bartender.”
Not a question. I’ve been watching Xavier Blackwood for weeks—did he know I was watching?
“Three weeks,” I confirm. This is my chance to make contact. “Thanks for stepping in.”
“Call security next time. They get paid to protect more than liquor and furniture. Have one of them with you when entering less populated areas of the club.” He glances at the unconscious man.
He reaches for me, and the instant our hands meet, something sparks—too sudden, too intense to ignore. I’ve spent weeks observing him from afar. Being this close strips away the gaps in my surveillance: the sharp scent of his cologne, the effortless way his suit clings to him, the quiet strength behind even the smallest gesture.
“I didn’t need rescuing,” I say, withdrawing my hand but maintaining eye contact.
The corner of his mouth lifts, then stills. Whatever that was, it wasn’t a smile. “Clearly.”
He watches me with a gaze so sharp it’s like he’s reading secrets I didn’t mean to share. My heart pounds—fear or excitement, I can’t tell which, unnerved regardless.
“Mira Sullivan,” he says, and hearing him say my name sends a shiver down my spine. “You mix an impressive Blue Devil.”
He’s been watching me. The realization thrills and terrifies me in equal measure.
“I’m particular about details,” I reply. Thisencounter could be my opening. “Something we might have in common, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Xavier,” he corrects. “You’re not like the others. Overqualified to be slinging drinks.”
His perceptiveness is dangerous, and I need to redirect him.
“Maybe I’m exactly where I need to be,” I challenge. “Purgatory has quite the reputation.”
His expression remains unreadable, but something shifts in his eyes.
“Does it meet your expectations?” he asks, stepping closer. The space between us crackles with tension.
“I suspect there’s more to discover,” I respond.
The security team bursts in, breaking our moment. Xavier gives them instructions about the unconscious patron without looking away from me. When they drag the man out, we’re alone again.
Xavier’s eyes narrow as he takes a step closer, his presence overwhelming the small storeroom.
“And what exactly do you think there is to discover at Purgatory, Ms. Sullivan?”
I keep my composure, even as my heart slams against my ribs. This is the closest I’ve come to cracking the surface of my investigation.
“A club like this doesn’t maintain its reputation on overpriced drinks and a good sound system,” I reply, matching his intensity. “I’ve heard whispers about private events and exclusive gatherings beyond that door in the VIP section.”
“And what do you think happens behind those doors?” Xavier asks. “What do you think Purgatory is?”
