And I know what she’s chasing. I see it in her eyes when they flick up to mine—wild, needy, a little lost. She doesn’t want connection. She wants combustion. Wants to be taken apart, filled up, rewritten.
And I want to do it.
Right here. Right now. On the fucking floor with all these people watching. Let them see who shereallybelongs to. Let them see what it looks like when she finds the high she’s always searching for—with me buried so deep inside her she forgets her own fucking name.
I want to make her feel it. The rush. The fire. The way I’d ruin every inch of her and still not have enough. Not even close.
She presses back, teasing. Grinding harder, like she can feel what I’m thinking, like she wants it too.
I fist her hair, drag my mouth to her neck, and fuck me, I nearly lose it.
She fits me.
And maybe that’s the fucking problem. Because a girl like this, with heat in her blood and danger in her smile? She doesn’t know how easy it is to vanish. How fast the world can eat you alive.
And I don’t want to lose this one.
Not her.
Hours pass like minutes. Sweat slicks her skin. The crowd thins and thickens, waves of neon light casting shadows across her face like warpaint. I keep her close. Keep her safe.
But eventually, reality claws its way back in.
“Yo,” a voice cuts through the noise. “We got a problem.”
I turn, jaw tight, as Link steps up beside me—shoulders broad, black hoodie stretched tight, gold chain peeking from the collar. His lip’s split, knuckles raw, and I already know it’s bad.
He jerks his chin. “Same as last time. Guy’s dead. Skull carved into his fucking chest. Stash gone. Clubhouse wants eyes.”
Motherfucker.
I let go of Blair—reluctantly.
She frowns, grabbing my wrist like she thinks she can anchor me. “Where are you going?”
“Gotta handle something,” I mutter, eyes still scanning the crowd.
Her lip juts out, full of that bratty pout I usually enjoy too damn much. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now.” I brush a strand of her hair back, fingers sliding down her cheek before I lace mine through hers and lead her toward the bar.
She drags her feet, grip tight, like she’s not ready to let go just yet and fuck if I don’t feel the same. But I keep moving. No choice.
The music’s a little duller behind the bar, but the adrenaline still hums through my veins. Cass moves fast—pouring shots, taking cash, slinging drinks like she’s got demons nipping at her heels.
I step in close, slide a folded wad of bills across the counter. “She’s coming down. Let her burn the rest off, then put her in an Uber. Make sure she gets back to the motel safe.”
Cass glances at Blair, then gives me a knowing nod. “Got it.”
Blair slumps into the stool, lips still pushed out like I just kicked her puppy. Her eyes are glassy but clearing, body loose with the aftermath of the high.
I grab a cold bottle from the fridge, crack it open, and press it into her hand.
“Drink,” I say, low and firm. No room for argument.
She rolls her eyes but takes it, lips wrapping around the rim slow, dramatic, like she wants to make me regret leaving.
And I already do.
