“You don’t know what this place is,” he says. “You don’t know the kind of men who come here.”
“And you do?”
“I am one,” he snaps.
“Then what’s the problem, Dax? That I’m here—or that you found me here?”
His eyes darken.
“You think this is a game?”
“No,” I whisper. “But you’re treating me like I’m some fucking disappointment because I make money in a dress you don’t like.”
“It’s not the dress,” he growls. “It’s what it means.”
“It means I pay my bills.”
“It means you don’t understand the danger you’re in.”
“I’ve been in danger,” I snap. “I’ve lived danger. Don’t you dare pretend you’re the only one who’s been to hell.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Pain.
Memory.
Recognition.
Gone too fast.
Then he says, quieter. “I came here to prove I could walk away from a kiss.”
“Then walk.”
He looks wrecked for half a second.
But only a second.
Then he steps in, breath ghosting my mouth.
“You’re playing with fire, butterfly,” he says. “Difference between you and me? I’ve already been burned.”
Then he turns.
And disappears into the shadows like the ghost he insists he is.
Leaving me with shaking hands, burning cheeks, and the bitter taste of goodbye.
Again.
I don’t even realise I’ve moved until I’m behind the bar, gripping the surface so hard my knuckles ache. The ghost of his voice crawls up my spine like he left it there on purpose.
Breathe.
Smile.
Work.
