When I step back into the hallway, I feel… covered. Not fixed, not calm—just less exposed. My sneakers squeak faintly against the tile as I walk, each step taking me further from the heat of the club.
Outside, the air hits cold, causing my breath to fog. The parking lot’s slick with mist, neon reflections bleeding into puddles. I walk to my car, shoes on, jacket zipped tight. It’s grounding. Real. I need that.
The drive home’s short. Quiet. I keep the windows cracked just enough to let the night air blow through. By the time I pull into my spot, the adrenaline’s faded to something softer—tired, messy peace.
The lights are low. I shut the door, lock it out of habit, and lean against it for a second, breathing. My skin still feels too tight. I unclasp my necklace, letting the tokens fall into my palm.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Gideon: You at Velvet tonight?
Another message right after.
Gideon: Be good.
Gideon: Or be bad and tell me about it later.
I type and delete twice before I settle on,
Me: Kept to myself tonight. Call you tomorrow.
The dots appear, vanish, then come back.
Gideon: Hold you to that, Little Menace.
I set the phone face down. My reflection catches again in the mirror: messy hair, lips bitten pink, eyeliner smudged. I grab a wipe and clear the makeup away, watching the day melt off in streaks. My skin feels raw, cleaner, real. I should feel powerful. Instead, I just feel... off.
I crawl into bed, pull the blanket up, and close my eyes. The silence here should feel safe, but it doesn’t. It feels like he followed me home, breathing somewhere just out of sight.
And I hate that part of me wishes he had.
Chapter Twelve
SILAS
Halfway through buttoning my shirt,I stop. Something doesn’t sit right.
Velvet will be in full swing tonight. I can already envision the hum of bass, the smell of perfume and heat, the promise of release. Normally, that’d be enough to get me moving faster. But not tonight.
Tonight, the idea of going there, of touching Penelope in that space again, feels backward. Too small for what I actually want.
I don’t want her pressed up against a wall under red lights. I want her across a table, laughing, tipsy, flushed from wine instead of adrenaline. I want her to know I’m serious—about her, about this—whatever this ends up being.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and call her.
She answers after the second ring, voice warm, a little amused. “Hi, Silas.”
“Hey, Angel,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “Listen, I’m not going to the club tonight. And I don’t think you should either.”
“Oh?” she teases. “Why’s that?”
“Because I want to take you out. Tonight, not tomorrow. I want to wine and dine you before I—” I grin into the phone, “—ruin your lipstick again.”
A laugh bubbles through the line, soft and sinful. “Such a gentleman. Will there still be ruining after the wine and dine? Because I could use a release.”
“That could be arranged.”
“Pick me up at eight. I’ll text you my address.”
