“No clue. Could’ve been yours. Could’ve been cut. But people are pointing fingers already. Saying Cyanide’s involved.”
I drag a hand down my face, jaw clenched, nerves buzzing like exposed wire under my skin. This kind of shit? Happens all the time. People don’t OD on my product because it’s cut wrong, they OD because they don’t know how the fuck to pace themselves.
They want the high but can’t handle the comedown.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not a goddamn problem. Doesn’t mean it won’t bring the wrong kind of eyes sniffing around—cops, rats, people asking questions I don’t have time for. I’ve already got too many fires burning, and now some junkie decides to die and drag all his smoke with him.
I’m not shaken.
I’m fucking livid.
Because this isn’t just noise—it’s bad for business. And worse? It threatens the silence I’ve been working my ass off to protect.
I shove the jacket into Link’s chest, already turning back toward the warehouse. “Grab the stash. Tell the crew to clear the fuck out. We meet at the clubhouse in the morning once this heat dies down. And if you see Molly, tell her to grease the pigs on our payroll. Everyone eats tonight, or we’re the ones getting burned.”
Link’s eyes go wide. “What about you?”
“There’s something I gotta take care of first.”
He stares like I’ve lost it. “D, the fuck? You can’t be serious?—”
I snap my head toward him, eyes sharp. “Did I ask for your fucking opinion? No? Then get the fuck out of here before I make you part of the goddamn cleanup.”
He doesn’t argue again.
Didn’t fucking think so.
The music’s still thumping through the walls like a dying heartbeat. I take the stairs two at a time, shoving through dazed bodies and half-drunk kids who have no idea how close they are to ending up in the same dirt as the kid in the bathroom. People are already scattering—some laughing, some screaming. One girl’s slumped near the vending machine, glitter smeared across her chest like war paint as she pukes into her designer bag.
Typical.
I move faster, eyes scanning every face, every flash of pink and purple hair, but nothing hits right. She’s not here. I hit the corridor near the bar, yelling her name, voice cutting through the static. No response. Only echoes. Only chaos.
Then I round a corner and find him.
Fucking Noir.
Leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for applause, hoodie tossed over his shoulder, black sleeveless shirt clinging to his torso, tattoos inked and gleaming in the low light. A cigarette dangles from his lips, smoke curling around him like a halo of sin. That smug, bored look on his face like this is all some private joke and he’s the only one laughing.
My fists curl before I even register moving.
“Where is she?” I snap, already closing the distance.
Noir shrugs, slow and exaggerated, like I’m not even a threat. “Haven’t seen her since I left her near the bathrooms.”
I take a step in, slow and deliberate. “Funny. You’ve been playing the white knight all night, and yet you just left her?”
He smirks. The kind that scrapes against your nerves and settles deep, like rot. “Relax. She was fine. Flushed. Glowing. Messy.” He lifts his fingers to his nose and inhales, slow and cruel. “Still smells like her.”
My jaw ticks. My fists curl tighter.
“She tastes exactly like I figured she would,” he says, voice low and dripping mock reverence. “Spicy as hell—mouth likea razor—but underneath? Fucking sweet. Like sugar laced with every fucking unholy thought I’ve ever had..” He grins, dragging the smoke from his lips. “And those sounds she makes, man... shit. I should sample ‘em. Lay her moans over a slow-drop beat. Real filthy. Let the whole world hear what she sounds like when she breaks forme.”
His eyes narrow, crueler now. A slow, deliberate cut.
“She rode my fingers like she was chasing her next fix,” he adds, tone darker, lower. “Didn’t even care who I was. Just needed it. And when I gave her the real thing?” He lets the smoke trail out with a laugh. “She took my cock like it was the hit she’d been waiting for all fucking night.”
My vision goes fucking red.
