I freeze halfway to my car. The voice is deep, rough around the edges, carrying easily in the quiet outside the clubhouse. I don’t have to turn to know it’s Blade.
I take another step toward the driver’s side door, but his footsteps follow, steady and unhurried.
“Carrie, wait,” he says again, closer this time.
I turn, my hand already on the door handle. He’s only a few feet away now, the porch light behind him throwing his tattoos into stark relief. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and there’s something unreadable in his face—something between concern and calculation.
Before I can say anything, he reaches for my hand. His palm is warm, calloused, the contact grounding and startling all at once.
“What?” My voice comes out flat, brittle.
“You’re shaking,” he says, his thumb brushing across my knuckles without him seeming to notice. His eyes search mine, sharp and assessing, but not unkind. “What happened in there?”
I glance toward the clubhouse, the music still thumping faintly from inside, then back to him. My throat works, but the words don’t come. If I say it out loud, it’ll be real.
“I just need to leave,” I murmur, pulling my hand slightly, but he doesn’t let go.
“Not like this,” he says, voice low. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
I don’t answer him.
The light from the clubhouse door spills over his shoulders, catching on the ink winding up his forearms.
Before I can move, his hand closes over mine. Warm, rough, solid. “You planned this party. Where do you think you’re going?” His eyes narrow slightly, scanning my face like he’s reading more than I want him to. “You don’t look done. You look like someone who could use a drink.”
“I’m not?—”
“Come on.” His tone is softer now, coaxing. “Just one. Sit with me for a bit, then you can go if you still want to.”
I glance back toward the open door. The bass from the music is steady, laughter spilling into the night. Part of me wants to run far from it, but Blade’s hand is still around mine, and for some reason I don’t pull away.
“I don’t think?—”
“It’s just a drink, Carrie.” He tilts his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “And maybe the company of someone who isn’t an asshole.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips despite myself. “That’s a low bar.”
“Lucky for you, I clear it.”
I sigh, the fight in me faltering. “Fine. One drink.”
He releases my hand only to guide me back toward the doorway, his palm warm against the small of my back. As we step inside, the noise swells again, and I let him lead me through the crowd toward the bar.
I tell myself it’s nothing—just a drink, just a moment. But part of me knows that sitting down with Blade is the first choice I’ve made all night that wasn’t about Jinn.
Blade gets the bartender’s attention with a nod, and two short glasses of amber whiskey land in front of us. I wrap my hands around mine, letting the warmth seep into my fingers before taking a cautious sip.
We haven’t been sitting long when JC appears, his expression as steady as ever, though there’s a question in his eyes. Wrecker follows behind him, broad-shouldered and silent, leaning a hip against the bar like he’s there by accident.
“You okay?” JC asks, his voice low, almost lost under the noise around us. He’s always been the practical one, the one who cuts through drama instead of feeding it.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to make it sound believable.
“You don’t look fine,” he replies, but there’s no judgment in it.
“I don’t need you to fix me, JC,” I say, lifting my glass again. “I can handle myself.”
Blade’s gaze flicks between us but he stays quiet, nursing his drink. Wrecker, on the other hand, studies me openly, his brows drawing together. “You disappear upstairs, then come back looking like that. Now you’re drinking with Blade.”
