Behind us, his friends have already made a decision.
They back away slowly, hands raised in surrender then they disappear into the crowd without a second glance.
I let out a short, breathless laugh. “Figures. Cowards always move in packs.”
Mark’s still trying to talk, but I don’t let him finish a single sentence. Instead, I tighten my fucking grip and start walking.
I drag him toward the back of the warehouse, toward the darker corridors where the lights thin and the music dulls into a distant, ugly thrum. His boots drag along the concrete. Hands clawing at my wings like he stands a fucking chance of getting free.
Not fucking happening buddy. Because the fight is over, but it’s what comes next that I’m pumped for. The big fucking climax? Yeah, that shit isn’t for the crowd to see.
8
AERI
The sink is cold under my palms, which feels rude considering the rest of me is pure heat and static, like my body forgot how to power down and just…didn’t bother trying.
The bathroom is offensively small. Not even in a cozy way, but in awho designed this, Satan? way. The air feels recycled and judgmental, thick with sweat, cheap perfume, and sex. The fluorescent strip on the ceiling buzzes faintly, like it’s personally offended by what just happened in here. On the other side of the door, the rave is still very much alive—bass bleeding through tiled walls, muffled cheers, someone shrieking laughter in the hallway outside like they’re auditioning for a fucking horror movie.
The mirror is shattered across the tile, glittering with jagged pieces. I remember the sound when it fell—sharp, loud, and absolutely final.
The timing, though? Fuzzy. Filed somewhere underwhen he was slamming into me hard enough that my spine briefly considered resigning.
Kade has me standing in front of him now, close enough that space feels theoretical. No dramatics. No show. Just his hand at my hip, firm and unmovable, like he’s anchoring me to reality whether I asked for it or not. It’s possessive in a way that makes my brain short-circuit, because restraint from him feels more dangerous than force ever could.
I catch my reflection in one of the mirror shards near the sink.
Jesus.
My face is flushed, eyes too bright, pupils blown wide from the high still crawling through my bloodstream, rewriting my sense of normal. Mascara is smudged in that very specific way that says yeah, no, I’m not fixing it, and my mouth looks swollen, parted like I forgot how to close it properly. The girl staring back at me looks wrecked.
Not ruined or broken.
But claimed.
I should probably feel embarrassed.
Maybe even regret, but I don’t.
Instead, I feel…awake. Uncomfortably so. Like every nerve ending woke up at once and decided to start shouting over each other. My hands tremble faintly. Not like fear or panic, but with residual energy.
If this whole night was a bad idea, then wow.
I really need to start making worse ones.
My gaze drops.
The cut on my thigh burns faintly. Fresh and deliberate.
His name.
I exhale through my nose. “So,” I say quietly. “That’s pretty fucking permanent for a first date.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but I feel him shift slightly behind me, attention narrowing.
“It’ll heal,” he says.
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
