“Wow,” I mutter. “Absolutely crushed that, Aeri.”
I turn to head back inside and then I see them.
Two figures at the far end of the alley, framed by the flickering light and the red glow spilling from a cracked side door. One guy is on his knees. Very still. The other two are standing over him like this is on a checklist.
Heart-eye masks. Glowing red.
My brain pauses. Skips. Then reboots.
Oh.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, and yeah, definitely impressed.
The taller one is shirtless, chest and arms covered in ink, blood streaked across him like he didn’t see the point in wiping it off. White feather angel wings are strapped to his back—full Cupid situation—and a fake bow hangs over his shoulder like an accessory he committed to. Knife loose in his hand. Relaxed. Curious.
He tilts his head when he spots me, like I just wandered into his favorite scene.
The other one is different. Still. Solid. Shirtless too, but wearing a leather jacket open over his chest, darkened with blood where his blade’s been working. He stands close to the guy on the ground, knife steady, posture tight. No extra movement. No curiosity. Just control.
They both look up.
Both masks lock onto me.
For a beat, nobody moves.
Then I laugh—full, loud, unfiltered laughter.
I clap a hand over my mouth, half because it’s funny and half because I absolutely cannot believe my luck.
“Oh my god,” I say. “There’stwoof you.”
They don’t say a word. The red hearts in their masks just glow, unblinking.
My heart kicks up, not from fear, more from the fact that I don’t know if it’s the Cyanide, my terrible taste in thrills, or the way I’ve been low-key craving chaos since that alley, but holy shit… this is better than anything I’ve ever done on purpose.
The winged one’s gaze slides over me slowly and deliberately, like he’s stripping me down piece by piece without ever touching me. Like he’s already decided exactly what I’d look like pressed into a wall or dragged closer by the wrist. Holy shit. My thighs clench on instinct, heat curling low in my stomach, my body reacting before my brain can catch up and pretend this isn’t doing things to me.
Then the other one shoves him, hard. A quick, irritated move, shoulder checking him likefocus, like this isn’t a show, and I’m not something to gawk at. They exchange a look I don’t get, but definitely feel the weight of, tension snapping tight between them. The serious one’s heart eyes lock back onto my face, knife still steady in his hand, chest rising slow under the open leatherjacket like he’s already decided how this goes and just hasn’t said it yet.
My pulse is pounding now, not panic but anticipation. My mouth opens before common sense has a chance to intervene.
“So,” I drawl, dragging it out, rocking back on my heels like I’m not standing in an alley with two masked killers and very much enjoying it. “Is this the part where I scream? Because that feels like a lot of effort.”
Nothing.
They don’t rush or threaten me.
They just stare through their glowing masks.
Their body language remains quiet, confused, and focused.
I wait.
One beat.
Then two.
Still nothing.
