Eris laughs again, her head thrown back, throat exposed. Her eyes are bright with amusement as she glances over her shoulder once more. She finishes her drink and frowns at her cup like she wants something stronger. Like she wants trouble.
It’s only when Romily holds up her middle finger that I realize Eris has been tracking the guys at her back, the table right behind her.
My hand tightens into a fist as a man touches her forearm, but Eris moves back, shaking her head.
Jace starts toward her, his phone clutched in his hand as he looks in my direction.
I shake my head, mouthing, “Don’t.”
He changes direction, coming to stand beside me. “She looks?—”
“I know how she looks,” I cut in. “You can go closer, but stay out of sight.”
Jace’s hands curl like he needs something to hold or hit as he steps away from me. He doesn’t stop moving until he’s found another high-top table in the shadows where he can stay close to Eris without being seen by her.
I sweep my gaze across the establishment, over the dance floor, down the bar…
And that’s when I seeher.
The wicked bitch I refuse to call by any dignified name.
Sitting at the far end of the bar, where Jace was minutes ago, in a dark silk dress with red-soled heels dangling off one foot. Her hair is pinned up like she’s waiting for someone to undo it, elbows propped on the counter as she swirls her drink.
Jace hasn’t noticed her yet, or he’d be back at my side.
Eris isn’t moving from her table, at least not that I can see from my periphery.
Every instinct I have sharpens to a point as the wicked bitch glances up from her amber liquor and looks directly at me.
She doesn’t spare any attention for Eris or Jace…
She just smiles at me, her lips painted the color of expensive warnings we should have heeded the first time we met her.
If I cared, I’d reciprocate the warning, and let her know she’s not in the same war paint ourGoddess of Discordwears.
But I don’t give a fuck about her.
The wicked bitch is playing a game.
And as of today, so is Eris…
Though I can’t say if they’re playing against each other, against us, or if someone is operating on the wrong board entirely.
I’m halfway through my second drink, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on my back when something shifts in the air, cooling my skin. It’s a paranoia I don’t normally succumb to, but the crowd is dense and the music is louder than it was when we came in.
A prickle at the nape of my neck urges me to run, but the thing inside me begs for a fight.
I slowly turn on my heel.
And come face-to-face with Daniel.
Not on a screen.
Not in a text.
Not lurking outside my window like a bored ghost.
He’s here.
