He doesn’t laugh.
That just makes it better.
We step inside and the noise punches through the air. The bass is loud as fuck, teeth-rattling, bodies smashed together whether they want to be or not. It’s hot. Sticky. Smells like sweat, booze, and terrible decisions. The warehouse is a disaster. Glitter in the air. Skin everywhere.
Just a giant room full of bad ideas doing coke off worse ones.
Red lights flash over masks and wings and cheap plastic weapons. Nothing looks real. Everything looks unhinged.
I melt right into it like I was born here.
Which is honestly kind of funny.
A shirtless guy with angel wings and a bow doesn’t stand out in Cupid’s Killhouse. That’s the whole point—everyone’s dressed like a bad decision.
I let the crowd shove me along while I scan. No rush. Just moving with it.
People grinding like the music owes them money. Couples making out wherever there’s a flat surface. A girl in heart pasties and fishnets passing shots down a line of hands like it’s communion. Phones up, lights flashing, everyone smiling too hard.
Red strobes, bass in my chest, bodies pressed in close enough that personal space stopped existing an hour ago.
Someone palms my chest, laughs, then freezes when they clock the mask and the knife at my hip. They mumble an apology and disappear back into the mess.
I keep moving.
Sweat runs down my sides, the wings stick to my back, and the stupid bow keeps knocking my shoulder. This place is a fucking accident waiting to happen.
Kade’s somewhere nearby. No doubt doing his usual responsible bullshit like checking exits, tracking movement, and making sure we don’t end up on the fucking news. I don’t bother keeping tabs on him. I’m not here for that.
I’m here forher.
I circle the dance floor once. Then again.
Nothing.
No red outfit or sharp mouth. No eyes catching mine like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I’m just starting to get pissed. Annoyed like someone moved my shit on purpose, when I spot her.
Right in the middle of the floor.
She’s grinding on some guy who looks way too fucking pleased with himself, his hands spread on her hips like that gives him a claim. Like touching her means something. Like she’s his just because he’s close enough. Her body moves slow and controlled, like she knows exactly how hot she looks and doesn’t need approval from anyone in this shithole. Least of all him.
And the second I clock his hands on her?—
Nothing makes sense.
Something ugly snaps in my chest. Fast. Mean and goddamn possessive.
Jealousy.
The fuck isthat?
I don’t know her. She’s not mine. I don’t do “mine.” I never have.
And yet my jaw locks, pulse kicking up, vision narrowing on the simple fact that some random asshole is touching her like he’s entitled to it, and every instinct in my body wants him gone.
Six feet under gone.
