Just ready.
Inside, the club's atmosphere hits like a fist to the sternum. Heat, sound, light—all fighting for dominance. Smoke curls low across the floor, laced with synth-herbs that make the air taste sweet and sharp at the same time. Music thumps, deep and slow, like it’s pulling something out of the earth.
I don’t look at the stage.
Not yet.
I make my way around the edge of the floor, avoiding the sticky spots where spilled drinks mix with sweat and something sour. My boots are heavy. Deliberate. Every step says I’m here on purpose. I don’t care who watches. Let ‘em talk.
Let them wonder.
I settle into the far corner, shadowed enough to vanish, but close enough to see every inch of the stage. My usual spot. Familiar. Comfortable.
Then the lights shift.
Low amber blooms from beneath the floor grates, backlighting the smoke in a way that makes everything look unholy. The music fades into something more primal—no lyrics, just a throbbing rhythm that pulses straight through the bones.
And then she’s there.
Kelsea steps out from the haze like she was born of it, like the smoke coiled around her spine in the womb and never let go. Her skin glows under the firelight, eyes catching every flicker like twin trapfires. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.
Her gaze finds mine instantly.
No hesitation. No questions.
Just heat.
A slow, building current that drags everything else under with it.
I don’t move. Don’t shift my weight or cross my arms or let my face twitch. I hold steady, let her look. Let her know I’m here. That I’m not leaving.
She begins to dance.
It’s not just movement. It’s storytelling. Every roll of her hip, every arc of her arms, every flick of her fingers—it all speaks. And gods, it speaks loud. She doesn’t play to the crowd. They’re background noise. Eyes sweep the room, sure, but they land on me like I’m the only fixed point in her orbit.
The scarf is still around her neck. Black silk. Subtle. Dangerous. It slides with her movements, catching the firelight in flashes. I remember the feel of it—cool against my palm. I wonder if it’s still got my scent. I wonder if she kept it close or shoved it in a drawer and forgot.
But the way she wears it…
No. She didn’t forget.
Shewantsme to see it.
The tempo rises, and so does she. She spins, fast, whirling like a blade barely in control. Her body flows, all lean muscle and violent grace. My chest tightens.
I’ve seen assassins move with less precision.
Around me, the crowd is ravenous. Cheers and whistles and throws of credits fill the air, but none of it touches her. None of it breaks that gaze. She’s not dancing for them. She’s not teasing. This is something else. A message. A challenge.
What am I to her?
Protector?
Predator?
Both?
My hands are fists in my pockets. I don’t remember clenching them. My claws dig into the inner lining of my coat, and I imagine—for one brief, dangerous moment—what it would feel like to rip that scarf away and bury my face in her throat.
