Cole’s still dying.
I lean into Damian’s shoulder, laughing so hard I might actually pass out. Shane’s wheezing across the table. Mats claps like he watched a circus act.
Viktor reaches calmly across the table, plucks his glass back, and finishes the drink in one smooth, unbothered sip. “Don’t steal from Russians,” he says. “Lesson one.”
“I could take you,” Shane says, chin tilted, cheeks already a little pink from whatever monstrosity he’s been drinking. His fork points across the table, wobbly but determined.
Viktor doesn’t even blink. “In a fight, yes. In drinking? No.”
“Oh-ho-ho,” Cole cackles, slapping the table. “You’ve doomed us.”
Shane straightens like he’s being knighted. “Bring it, comrade.”
Viktor raises one eyebrow and reaches under the table.
I freeze. Everyone freezes.
What emerges is a steel hip flask. Matte black. Heavy enough to kill a man. He sets it down between them with the weight of judgment day and unscrews the cap with a casual flick.
I lean toward Damian and whisper, “This is how Shane dies, isn’t it?”
Damian doesn’t answer. Just sips his water like he’s watching a car crash in real-time.
The first shot goes down easy…for Viktor. Shane wheezes, blinks hard, and thumps his chest. The second shot? Worse. Bythe third, his face has gone red, his pupils are on vacation, and his hair somehow looks drunk.
Cole starts chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” because he’s chaos incarnate and this is his fault.
Shane doesn’t chug. He sways. “I'm fine,” he slurs, elbow slipping off the table. “Just...adjusting my blood-alcohol... settings.”
“You look like you adjusted them into a coma,” I chirp, hand still warm against Damian’s thigh.
Viktor finishes his fourth shot, calm as the void, and says, “Done?”
Shane groans. “I concede. You’re terrifying. Take my liver. Take my soul.”
Viktor smiles. “Already have.” He doesn’t even blink. He tips his head slightly, watching Shane wilt like a dying flower, then says in that flat, knife-edged voice of his, “Now you can’t take me in a fight either.”
Shane groans louder and slumps over the table. “RIP me. Tell my hamster I loved him.” Cole starts giggling, head thrown back, until Viktor shifts his eyes ever so slightly, and that is when I see it.
Cole freezes—it’s subtle, barely there, but I know that look, that face, like someone just licked the rim of a live wire. His eyes lock on Viktor with the kind of heat that says he’s ready to commit war crimes with his tongue, right here, under the tablecloth, in full view of Coach McClellan’s ancestors.
And Viktor? Stone cold. Absolute poker face. Still sipping death-vodka like he didn’t just send Cole’s hormones into a tailspin.
I narrow my eyes and slowly slide my foot under the table, kicking Cole’s shin with all the grace of a silent assassin.
He yelps quietly and jerks upright, grabbing for his fork and pretending to be fascinated by mashed potatoes. I lean intoDamian’s side and smirk across the table when Cole finally dares glance up and glares at me.
Oh, it’s on, Hollywood. I see you.I see you.
I slide my phone out under the table like a spy and type with one hand, thumb flying while Damian’s fingers brush lazy patterns against the back of my neck.
Me:How long, Hollywood?
It takes all of five seconds before Cole's phone buzzes. I watch his soul leave his body. He doesn’t even try to hide it, just tilts the screen down and types like a man on trial for his life.
Hollywood:Shut your piehole, puppy.
I snort loud and inappropriate. Half a breath away from choking on my soda.
