Markos swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light refracted through it like the glow of a distant fire. His fingers curled tighter around the tumbler as he tuned out the nasally drone to his left—or maybe it was to his right. Sherry? Sabrina? He honestly couldn’t remember which was which.
“… and then they had the audacity to seat me in the second row,” the one on his right said. “Can you imagine?”
He took a slow sip of his drink just to avoid replying.
You brought this on yourself.
He should have sent them away the second they slid into the booth with the predatory smiles that warned they weren’t here for the music. He wasn’t in the mood for fluff, flattery, or silicone-scented kisses.
He wasn’t in the mood for anything, really, except the noise of the club. It was almost an externalization of his turmoil. Soothing, in its own way.
His thoughts drifted, like they kept doing tonight, back to Nikos. Histwin had been… different. Restless. Intense. Almost reckless. The way he’d spoken earlier—his voice taut, his eyes burning—about a woman.
Kiki.
Markos frowned and lifted his glass again.
Kiki. The paintball girl.
Who his brother knew very little about. That made Markos uneasy. But what unsettled him more was that Nikos—controlled, calculating, easygoing Nikos—was rattled. Visibly.
And worse?
Nikos didn’t remember why.
A breath puffed out of Markos’s nose. That was the part that stuck in his gut like a splinter.
Nikos forgotnothing.
The way his brother described seeing flashes of things that hadn’t happened—thatsupposedlyhadn’t happened—made him wonder if the woman had slipped him a drug. He didn’t know what else to think. All he knew was that the tension threading through Nikos like barbed wire was real.
Sabrina—or was it Sherry?—leaned in, her perfume hitting him like a chemical spill. “You seem tense tonight, darling. Want us to loosen you up a little?”
No, he wanted her and her sister to leave him alone. He turned his head slowly, giving her a flat look.
“I’m good.”
Her lip popped out in a pout. “You sure? We could?—”
“Not tonight, Sherry. Why don’t you order something?” He tipped his glass. “On the house.”
That bought him maybe thirty seconds of silence. He sethis glass down and shifted in his seat, preparing to excuse them both when the air shifted.
A shadow cut across the table, blocking the flashing lights and wave of dancers below.
He frowned as he leaned back, taking in the woman walking towards them. She wore black jeans and a black hoodie. Her hair was pulled back, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup that he could see. It was obvious she wasn’t here to socialize.
Something in her expression made the hair on his arms rise. Not a threat. Not seduction.
Accusation.
Like he’d already done something wrong—or was about to.
She moved with a coiled grace that sent a shaft of warning down his spine and a knot in his stomach. There was a sense of danger and purpose in her that he had seen and felt far too often when he was in the service.
She was a woman out of place and utterly unconcerned about it. An enigma… and someone who shouldn’t be in the VIP lounge.
One twin said something, but her words went past him unnoticed.
