I can’t breathe.
It’s a coincidence, I tell myself.Vegas is full of bars. Maybe he just stumbled in.
But the way he’s watching me doesn’t feel like a coincidence. It feels deliberate. It feels like a hunter tracking prey.
Viktor would follow me. Viktor has followed me. He showed up at my gym three weeks ago, just stood there watching me on the treadmill until I fled to the locker room and called my brother to come get me.
Not every man is Viktor.
Logically, I know that. But logic doesn’t stop the cold sweat breaking out on my palms. Logic doesn’t stop my heart from beating against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Close your eyes. Breathe. You’re at work. You’re safe.
When I open my eyes again, he’s still staring.
But not at my face.
He’s looking at my arm.
I follow his gaze and my blood goes cold. The bruises are visible, just barely, peeking out from beneath my shirt sleeve. Already darkening from where Viktor grabbed me earlier. Finger-shaped shadows pressed into my skin like a brand.
Damn it.
I tug at my sleeve, but the damage is done. He saw. He knows someone hurt me.
My throat tightens, and for a second, I consider pretending I didn’t notice him. I could stay down here, serve the other customers, wait for him to get bored and leave.
But he’s sitting at my bar. He’s technically a customer. And Marcus is watching those cameras, which means I can’t ignore anyone for too long without getting written up.
So I walk over.
Every step feels like wading through wet cement.
“Hi.” I plaster on my best customer-service smile. “Welcome to The Happy High Roller. First time here?”
He nods. Doesn’t smile back. Doesn’t say anything.
Okay, then. Silent type. Fun.
I grab the drink menu and set it in front of him. “Here’s what we’ve got. Cocktails, craft beers, wines, full liquor selection. Pretty much whatever you want.”
“Coke.”
His voice is low. Deep. The kind of voice that probably sounds good saying threatening things.
Jesus, Sierra, stop.
“Getting wild tonight, huh?” I fill a glass with ice, grab the soda gun, pour him his sad little drink.
“Not exactly.”
He takes the glass. Dark tattoos and pale scars fight for space across his knuckles
I should walk away. I should smile, tell him to flag me down if he needs anything, and go busy myself at the other end of the bar.
Instead, I hear myself ask, “Not a big drinker?”
He takes a sip. Sets the glass down. “I’ve seen what it does to other men.”
