Not when she looks at me like that—like I’m something she shouldn’t touch but wants to, anyway.
Like I’m sharp, and she’s stupid enough to bleed just to see if it hurts.
And fuck, I want her to hurt.
Just a little.
Just enough to know she’s mine.
She’s trying not to stare, failing miserably.
I see the flick of her lashes, the way she bites down on the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her expression neutral—like she isn’t imagining what my hands would feel like on her throat.
She has no idea what she’s asking for.
I tilt my head.
Step closer.
Just to watch her throat move when she swallows.
I shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t be looking at her.
Shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
She’s Lola’s friend.
Some sweet, soft thing from a life I don’t touch anymore.
But I can’t look away.
And the way she spoke about me — “This. Is. Your. Brother.”
It looked as if someone had slapped her with it.
Like she had been picturing something very different before she found out who I was.
Good.
Let her choke on it.
Let her remember it.
Now that she knows—now that she sees what’s behind the pretty uniform and the shiny medals—she should run.
She should be smart.
But she’s still standing here, fidgeting under my stare like a guilty little thing who liked what she saw and doesn’t know how to unsee it.
“I’ll be at the bar,” Lola says, and I already know it’s a lie.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
She leaves us there, alone, in that slow-thick air humming with bass and sweat and whatever the hell is crackling between us.
Cassandra looks at me like she’s waiting for the punchline.
