“I—uh—sorry.” My voice cracks. My brain is static. My whole body’s on fire.
“Don’t be.” He steps closer. Too close. His thigh brushes mine. “I like being watched.”
Jesus Christ.
I am going to combust.
Right here.
In front of the bar.
In front of this god of war with ocean eyes and a scar that’s begging to be licked.
His gaze dips to my mouth.
Lingers.
Then climbs back up slowly, like he’s cataloguing my sins one by one.
“What’s your name?” he asks, voice low enough to thread through my bones.
My lips part. Nothing comes out.
He leans in closer, and now I can’t look away. Those blue eyes hold mine hostage.
“I said,” he murmured, “what’s your name, butterfly?”
“Cassandra.”
He hums as if it tastes good in his mouth.
Like I taste good.
“Pretty name.”
Then he reaches out, one hand brushing a strand of hair from my cheek like he has every right to touch me.
Like I’m already his.
“Oh, you found him.”
Lola’s voice cracks through the atmosphere like a firework, sharp and bright against the low bass. “Where the hell have you been?”
She jumps into his arms, and the whole room tilts because I watch — stunned, breathless — as he wraps his arms around her body with an ease that suggests history, familiarity, blood.
Never once does he take his eyes off me.
Not once.
It’s like he’s holding her because she expects him to, but he’s looking at me like he’s already decided I’m the one who matters.
Once he lets her go, she slaps his chest. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Hell.” He grunts the word, low, rough, a sound that vibrates through the thick, dim air.
“Funny,” she smirks, flicking his shoulder with the casual confidence of someone who’s known him their entire life. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”
Fuck.
