Across the floor, Lydia Langford glared at me, her face a storm of rage and humiliation. I caught her eye and threw hera slow, deliberate wink, just to twist the knife, and she flushed, turning away to hiss at some poor bastard in a silver mask.
Let her stew.
I downed the rest of my drink, set the glass on the bar, and marched out.
Outside, the helicopter was hovering, its rotors slicing through the humid night air like a blade through silk. The pilot had timed it perfectly—Danes didn’t wait, and he knew it.
I climbed aboard, the wind tugging at my tux, and sank into the leather seat as we lifted off. The Langford estate shrank below, its lights twinkling like a child’s toy I could crush with a thought.
I leaned back, the bourbon and her scent swirling in my head, and let out a low laugh. That was a good night, one I’d carry like a scar—proud and permanent. I wondered when I’d see her again, where she’d turn up next. A smoky bar? Another gala? A dark corner where we could burn together again?
The thought sent a jolt through me, sharper than the whiskey, and I knew I’d chase that fire until I found it.
Sleep didn’t come easy that night. My mind was too wired, my body still thrumming with her touch, her taste.
When morning broke, I was up before the sun, feeling more energetic than I had in years—maybe not since I was a kid, tearing through our old house on Sullivan’s Island with Marcus, stealing cookies while Mom laughed and Dad pretended to care.
That house was still there, empty of family, but the memory hit me like a wave: salt air, creaking floors, Mom’s smile that could fix anything.
I shook it off, but the energy stayed, a restless buzz that demanded release. I needed to move, to pour it into something raw, something dangerous. Helping was the excuse, but deep down, I was hunting trouble—the kind that made your blood sing.
I threw on jeans, a faded tee, and my boots, grabbing the duffel from my closet without lingering on what was inside.
The pull was back, that itch that always led me to Charleston’s forgotten corners, where the city’s polish peeled away like old paint. I told myself I was going to help, to find someone who needed what I carried, but I knew I was chasing the edge. The woman in red had lit something in me, and I wasn’t ready to let it fade.
I hit the streets in my truck, the city stirring around me, its charm giving way to cracked pavement and desperation as I drove into the poorest part. The air was thick with the stench of garbage and despair, the streets littered with broken glass and broken lives. Boarded-up shops stood like tombstones, their graffiti a scream of anger, not art. Kids darted through alleys, dodging danger, while men leaned against lampposts, eyes tracking every move.
This was where the pull lived, where I could lose myself in something bigger than my own head.
I cruised slow, my eyes sharp, waiting for the spark that always came. It didn’t take long to find it.
Half a block down, near a tenement that looked like it was one storm away from collapsing, I saw them—three young thugs circling an old man in a wheelchair. He was frail, his hands trembling on the armrests, his face a mix of fear and defiance.
One punk, skinny with a shaved head, had a pistol tucked under his shirt, his taunts sharp and cruel. Another, broader with a scar across his cheek, grabbed the old man’s collar, yanking him forward. The third hung back, laughing, his eyes darting like he was ready to run if things got hot.
They were small-time predators, feeding on the weak, and the sight lit a fire in my gut—not just to help, but to hurt. These three needed a hospital, and not for any noble reason. I wanted to break them, to feel their bones give under my fists, and thethought of her—the woman in red, her body arching, her moans—only made it sharper.
I parked a block away, my blood humming with purpose and something darker. Helping the old man was the plan, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to crack skulls.
I stepped out of the truck, duffel slung over my shoulder, and sized them up as I approached. Skinny was the leader, his gun a problem but his stance sloppy—too cocky, no discipline. Scarface was the muscle, strong but slow, favoring his right side like he’d been hit there before. The third was a follower, nervous, likely to bolt if I hit hard.
My mind mapped the fight, but all I could see was her—red dress, black lace, the way she’d burned under me. I needed to find her again, to taste that fire.
But first, these assholes were going to learn what happens when you fuck with the wrong Dane.
I moved in, casual but deliberate.
“Hey,” I called, voice low, just enough to pull their eyes to me.
Skinny’s head snapped up, his hand twitching toward the gun. Scarface let go of the old man, turning to face me, his chest puffed like he thought he was king. The third guy took a step back, eyes wide, already halfway to running. He was high on something.
The old man looked at me, hope flickering in his weathered face, but he stayed quiet, smart enough to let this play out.
“You guys playing tiddly winks or just being assholes to this guy?” I said, nodding toward the wheelchair. “Why don’t you pick on someone who can stand up?”
Skinny sneered, his voice sharp. “Fuck off, man. This ain’t your business.”
Scarface laughed, a ugly bark that showed too many teeth. “Walk away, hero, or you’re next.”
