But her scent—vanilla and something floral, something warm—it tangled with the heat in the air, curled into my lungsand sat there like a brand, climbing into my head, and didn’t let go.
And then she spoke.
“Cassandra.”
I want to hear her say it again.
Whisper it.
Moan it.
Cry it.
Jesus, pull it together.
The club around us is a haze of sweat, perfume, shadows, and pulse — the kind of place built for sin, not salvation — and somewhere in the midst of all that, she said my name like it mattered.
I haven’t seen Lola in months.
And the first thing I do is look at her friend like I’m ready to carve her name into my bones?
Weak.
Unfocused.
Unacceptable.
“Where have you been?” Lola asks me again, slapping my chest like she’s still twelve and I didn’t just come back from hell, her palm hitting the hard plates of my uniform like she’s trying to knock the desert out of me.
“Hell,” I grunt, keeping my eyes on Cassandra.
Watching her flinch when she hears my name.
Watching her break a little when she realises who I am.
That should’ve satisfied me.
Should’ve made her back off.
Should’ve returned the balance I’m used to.
But no.
All I see is her squirm.
All I hear is her breath stutter.
All I feel is my self-control cracking beneath her fucking mouth.
She’s a temptation.
And temptation is the enemy.
Temptation is death with pretty eyes.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
Not really.
