Doesn’t matter that I already had her against the wall. Doesn’t matter that her lipstick’s still smeared from my mouth. Doesn’t even matter that I don’t fucking know her.
It’s thewayhe looks at her.
Like heknowsher.
Bullshit.
Every time I blink, I see her—lips swollen from my kiss, pupils blown wide, body strung tight like she was begging for someone to ruin her. The way she melted into me, the way she pulled my tongue deeper like she wanted to drown on it—yeah, that wasn’t the drugs. Not fully.
I warned her about the second dose. Told her it’d hit harder, meaner. Thought maybe she’d flinch. Play it safe.
But no. She took it like a dare. Like a fucking challenge.
That smirk on her lips, that glint in her eye—cocky, fiery, reckless. The kind of attitude that doesn’t scare easy.
The kind that speaks straight to my dick.
And maybe I should’ve been mad she didn’t listen. Should’ve walked away, let her crash and burn like every other feign I’ve handed poison to.
But I didn’t.
Because she’s different.
She’s the kind of chaos thatholdsmy attention when most people barely flicker on the radar.
The kind I feel in my bloodstream, like a hit I didn’t mean to take.
Which is why that asshole dragging her out like he had some claim set me the fuck off.
But he’s not the real problem.
The real problem is Noir—lurking in the shadows, eyes locked on her like she’s already his. Like he’s just waiting for the right moment to drag her under.
Dragging her away from me like some goddamn knight in recycled denim. Acting like he gives a shit. Like he’s some untouchable god up there on his fucking DJ pedestal, looking down like he’s already won.
I flex my jaw as I shove a fresh zip of Cyanide into the hand of some twitchy raver with LED nails and a smear of blood under her nose. “One tab at a time,” I mutter. “Or you’ll end up in the fucking dirt.”
She nods, too fast. Not listening.
Figures.
My crew’s scattered across the floor, most of them dealing, some watching. Just like I told them. The kid from earlier, the one who laid hands on her, he’s not gonna be an issue anymore. Soon as I dragged him off her, I sent a quick text to Ruck.
One bullet. Right between the ribs.
She probably thinks I let him go. That I just walked away.
Cute.
But I’m not that fucking generous.
Not when it comes to things that I want, and make no mistake, I fucking want her.
I scan the crowd from the mezzanine, tension biting down between my shoulders like a vice. The floor below is chaos—bodies writhing under strobe lights, sweat and bass thick in the air, glow sticks flashing, colors bleeding into each other. Cyanide rave in full swing.
But she’s not there.
Not by the booth. Not behind Noir. Not where I left her.
