“And did you? Ruin yourself, I mean?”
“Nah. I found myself.” He tilts his head toward me. “You ever gone full rebel before?”
I laugh. “Hardly. The wildest thing I’ve ever worn was a cocktail dress that showed my knees at a symphony gala. My mother nearly fainted.”
“Scandalous,” he deadpans. “Next thing you know, you’ll be drinking straight from the carton.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile sticks.
When we pull into Hamlin’s tiny downtown, my nerves kick in. The air smells like espresso and sun-warmed pavement, with the hum of shop chatter floating through our open windows. “I have no idea where to start.”
“Leave it to me, princess.” There’s mischief in his smile. “I’ve got plans.”
An hour later, I’m staring at a stranger in the mirror. Ripped jeans. A leather jacket that smells like smoke and rebellion. A black Pied Piper’s T-shirt that Nyxx tossed at me as we got out of the car is tied at my waist, the stylized flute twining through neon letters. The saleswoman even tousled my hair and taught me the smoky-eye trick.
He knocks lightly on the door. “You alright in there, or should I send a search party?”
“Almost done,” I call back, twisting the knot in the shirt again. “Some of us aren’t used to transforming into rock goddesses on demand.”
“Take your time,” he says. “Just don’t go back to symphony chic on me. I might not survive the disappointment.”
“You really have that much faith in your band T-shirt?”
“That, and my irresistible influence.”
“Your ego’s so big it needs its own dressing room.”
He laughs—low and real. “Finally. You’re starting to sound like someone who doesn’t mind getting a little loud.”
The tease shouldn’t land the way it does, but my pulse trips anyway. Maybe it’s the warmth in his voice. Maybe it’s the way he sounds like he actually sees me.
“You ready yet?” Nyxx calls. “Let’s see it!”
I step out—and his jaw drops.
“Holy shit.” His voice goes rough. “You look…”
“Ridiculous?”
“Incredible.” His gaze drags slowly from head to toe. “You should dress like this more often. That shirt suits you.”
I’m ready with a quip—until I actuallyseehim.
Nyxx Night, chaos incarnate, wearing a crisp white shirt, navy blazer, and slacks. His wild hair tamed except for that one rebellious blue streak.
“Wow,” we both say again and then burst out laughing.
“You clean up nice, Night,” I manage,ignoring the way my pulse flares.There’s something dangerously attractive about him like this—refined, composed, and still undeniably him. My fingers itch to mess up his hair, to slip beneath that open collar and learn what polished Nyxx feels like.
“Don’t get used to it,” he warns, undoing a button. “This thing’s choking the life out of me.” The glimpse of skin is unfairly distracting.
He runs a hand through his hair, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
As we leave the store in our new outfits, I notice a group of twenty-somethings lounging by the fountain in the town square. They’re all dressed in various degrees of grunge, many sportingblue streaks in their hair. One of them looks up, does a double-take, and then lets out an ear-piercing shriek.
“Oh my god, it’s Nyxx Night!”
Suddenly, we’re surrounded by a swarm of excited fans. They’re chattering, reaching out to touch Nyxx, completely ignoring any concept of personal space. I instinctively step back, mortified by the display.
