I don’t panic. The freedom is still new enough to taste sweet. I make my way to the bar, pushing past a knot of girls in vinyl skirts, then wait for a gap to order. My mouth is dry, my head light from too much dancing and not enough water. I feel thepress of eyes on me—hungry, curious, indifferent—but I don’t care. For the first time, I know exactly who I am.
I get my drink—something blue, something that tastes like sugar and summer—and turn to scan the club for Eve.
That’s when he appears.
The man from the bar, the one who stared earlier, materializes at my side. He’s close, too close, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of my dress. His hair is dark and slicked back, his eyes are dark, eyeing me like a slab of meat. He wears a leather jacket with nothing underneath. The smell of whiskey and sweat rolls off him.
“You look lost,” he says, voice rough. His eyes flick over me, up, down, up again. He doesn’t bother to hide the way he sizes me up, lingering on my curves.
“I’m not,” I say, forcing confidence into the words. “Just waiting for my friend.”
He grins, showing too many teeth. “Your friend must not care much. Been watching you for a while now.”
I don’t reply. I take a long pull of my drink, hoping he’ll get the message.
Instead, his hand snakes around my waist, fingers splaying over my hip. He leans in, breath hot on my ear.
“Pretty girls shouldn’t be alone,” he whispers.
I freeze. I want to shove him away, but my body won’t listen. The memory of Julian’s hands—violent, certain, inescapable—paralyzes me. I hate how fast my mind goes from here to him.
This feelswrong.
The man takes my silence as permission. His grip tightens, thumb pressing into the bruise Julian left last night. He slides his hand lower, fingers curling up the inside of my thigh, brazen, careless.
I jerk back, but he’s strong. He pulls me flush against him, his mouth crashing onto mine. His lips are chapped, his tongue wet and invasive. He tastes like cheap liquor and smokes.
For a second, I choke on panic. I claw at his wrist, nails digging, but he laughs into the kiss and traps my hands between our bodies.
“Don’t fight,” he says, and it’s almost bored. “You’ll like it.”
I try to scream, but the noise dies in my throat.
The weight vanishes. Suddenly, I’m free, stumbling backward into a wall of bodies. I catch my balance and look up.
Julian.
He’s not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to want him, but the sight of him—shirt open, hair wild, eyes blacker than I’ve ever seen—unlocks something primal.
He grabs the man by the throat, hoisting him off his feet. The stranger’s face contorts, veins bulging at his temple. Julian slams him into the nearest wall, then again, and again, until a crack spiders through the cheap drywall. The music falters, clubgoers parting to make space for the violence.
Julian leans in, his voice a hiss: “Touch her again and I’ll cut off your fucking hands.”
The man spits in his face.
Julian’s fist connects with his jaw, the crack so loud the people near us scatter. Blood sprays across the wall, dots my bare legs. The man sags, but Julian doesn’t let him fall.
He punches him again, and again, until the man’s nose is pulp and his teeth litter the floor like pearls. The crowd recoils, some filming on their phones, others shouting, but none daring to intervene.
It takes three bouncers to pull Julian off. He fights them, teeth bared, chest heaving, eyes locked on me the whole time. The man is unconscious, slumped on the ground, face unrecognizable.
The bouncers drag Julian toward the exit. He resists, but the whole way out, his eyes never leave mine.
I stand there, stunned, blood spattering my thighs, my lips still burning from the stranger’s kiss.
Someone hands me a napkin. I dab at my mouth, but it doesn’t help. I feel raw, exposed, like the skin has been peeled from my bones.
Eve appears at my side, breathless. “Jesus, are you okay?”
