Quinn’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t waste time swearing. “Anyone see you?”
“Only one. Left the kid with a message and the others…” LC shrugs, a small, satisfied curl to her lip. “won’t be talking.”
Quinn sets the glass down, leaning her weight into her hands on the bar. “Get cleaned up. Meet me in Church in an hour.”
Cain nods, already moving toward the hall. Lolita follows. I hang back a second, just long enough for Quinn’s eyes to find mine.
“You alright?” she asks.
“Fine.” My voice sounds steady, but my pulse is still thrumming from the fight.
She studies me like she doesn’t quite believe it, then jerks her chin toward the hall. “Go. We’ll sort the rest in a bit.”
The words feel like an order, but I hear the unspoken part too,‘You’re running hot, and I need you sharp when we talk’.
I head to my room. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing out the low rumble of voices gathering downstairs. My cut hits the back of the chair, my boots thudding to the floor a beat later.
Every nerve in my body is still alive from the ride, my muscles humming as I step toward the bathroom. I catch aglimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink. I have a split lip, sweat matted in my hair, my eyes too wide, still burning with leftover adrenaline. I splash water on my face, but the pulse in my neck doesn’t ease.
Back in my room, I drop onto the bed, letting the weight of the day press into me. Just a second to close my eyes before church, I tell myself.
The day peels away in layers, the fight, the blood, the cold ride back, until all that lingers is Dante, pressing into my mind like a bruise I can’t stop poking. Somewhere beneath it all, I’m still on those mats, sweat stinging my eyes, his hand catching my wrist, heat sparking between us.
And then I’m there again. Only this time, it’s a dream. Sweat slick on my skin, the sharp thud of fists, Dante’s eyes locked on mine, steady, reading every twitch of muscle like he knows me better than I know myself.
The air is thicker here, heavy with something that isn’t just competition. His hand catches my wrist mid-swing, and instead of pushing me back, he holds me there. Close. Too close. The muscles in his arm are iron under my fingers. I should be twisting out, countering, but I’m not. I’m breathing him in, the sweat, the note of spice on his skin, and the raw charge that comes off him like static. His mouth curves, the barest ghost of a grin, and then, he pulls me in. The mats are under my feet one second, gone the next. My shoulder hits his chest, solid heat and heartbeat pounding hard against my cheek. And then his mouth is on mine. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s a hit in its own right, firm, claiming, like he’s been holding back and just decided he’s done. My hand finds the back of his neck without thinking, my fingers tangling in his damp hair. I should shove him away but I don’t. Instead, I lean in, chasing the heat, my pulse hammering in my ears. Every muscle in me is alive, wound tight and ready to…
I jolt upright, gasping. The room is dark except for the low glow of light bleeding under my door. My tank top is sticking to my skin, my hair damp against the back of my neck. My heart’s still kicking like I just went ten rounds. For a second, I’m disoriented. The dream feels too close, too real. My lips tingle like they’ve actually been touched. I blink rapidly, pressing my hand over my thudding heart and realize the sound is coming from the door.
A soft rap repeats from the other side, “Katana. Are you ok?”
“Shit.” I mumble to myself.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe it out. It’s not like me to get worked up over anyone, much less some cocky bastard. I don’t dream about men I barely know. I don’t lose focus like this. And yet here I am half wishing I could fall back asleep just to pick up where it left off, half wanting to scrub the thought of him out of my head entirely.
“Coming.” I force myself to respond as Silk knocks again.
I stand, pacing across the room like movement will burn it off this nervous energy. It doesn’t.
I throw on a hoodie, yanking the hood up so I feel less exposed. Like I can put a layer between myself and whatever the hell that was.
I should be thinking about Serrano. About Briggs. About the girls who’ve gone missing. But my brain keeps glitching, spitting up fragments of the spar, Dante’s hand on my waist, the way his eyes dipped for just a second before he pulled back.
It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.
I grab my phone off the nightstand, the lock screen lighting up with a dozen missed messages from the group thread. Mostly Quinn in all caps:
CHURCH NOW.
Great. I’m late.
Another knock, sharper this time. “Are you planning to make an appearance or should I tell Quinn you’re too busy drooling in your sleep?” Silk’s voice drips with that fake-sweet bite she does when she’s impatient. “We’re starting.”
I yank the door open. She’s standing there with one brow arched, arms crossed. “Finally. You’re late.”
“I noticed.” I shoulder past her, tucking my phone into my pocket.
I try to focus on anything else but I can almost feel the give of his ribs under my jab, the way he let me drive him back just far enough to make me think I was winning.
