“But now?” he continues. “Now I realize I don’t need to.” His mouth curves, dark and knowing. “Because you’re not like them. You’re already a little fucked up.”
I grin, sharp and unashamed. “Yeah,” I say. “Guess I come by it naturally.”
The water keeps running and yet the air stays tight.
Outside the bathroom, the bass continues its relentless pulse. Life carrying on like nothing significant happened behind this door. Someone knocks once, clearly irritated by how hard their fist is coming down on the door.
Neither of us reacts at first.
I shift, wincing faintly, then glance back at him with a crooked smile.
“Just saying,” I murmur, “but maybe next time you have a one-night stand with a girl, you could give her a little warning before you carve your name into her.”
He laughs low, amused, and cocky as hell.
“One-night stand?” he repeats, like the phrase personally offended him.
I lift a brow. “What? Is that not what this was supposed to be?”
He steps in, close enough that the air tightens between us. “You really think this was a one-off?” His hand settles at my hip, confident, unbothered. “Nah,” he says. “That’s not how this works.”
I open my mouth to argue—out of habit more than conviction, but he cuts in first.
“This is one hundred percent going to happen again,” he continues, voice easy, dangerous. “And again. Because you already know no one else is gonna give you what we can. No one else is going to understand your fucked up little kink, and think, shit, let me bring it all to life for her.”
That lands. Harder than I’d like to admit, especially because I know he’s right.
“You’re not a fluke,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “You’re a repeat fucking offense. And in case you forgot, little valentine—I’m a serial killer. I don’t do anything just once.”
My pulse jumps.
He reaches up, grips my chin firmly with his hand, and tilts my face up until I’m looking straight at him. “Besides, we both know you want it to happen again,” he says quietly. “So don’t bother pretending you don’t.”
He kisses me hard, claiming, all confidence and promise, like he’s sealing something we both already agreed to.
Then, the knocking comes again, louder, and he finally releases my chin, breaking the kiss. The night doesn’t fucking wait.
I straighten fully this time, jaw setting. “We should probably get out of here.”
He nods once, clearly as annoyed with the knocking as I am.
As he reaches for the door, he looks down at me, “Stay close,” he says, and I don’t argue. He shifts—subtle, and controlled, like a blade sliding into place. His hand settles at my waist again and flicks the latch. It clicks, and Kade pulls the door open.
The noise surges in all at once—bass slamming through the space, lights strobing harder, bodies shouting and laughing somewhere just outside. The bathroom shrinks instantly, the outside chaos forcing its way back in.
And standing there in the doorway, perfectly at ease in the middle of it all, is Kross.
The feathers of his wings are all fucked up and bent the wrong way, like he’s been bulldozing through bodies that had no idea how fucking close they probably came to becoming another carved up body on the ten o’clock news. They’re scuffed and ruffled, probably stepped on at least once, proof the crowddefinitely tried him. But judging by the smug fucking smirk on his face, it’s pretty clear they lost. Badly.
Like the rave was built for him. Like noise, heat and bad decisions are his natural fucking habitat.
His posture is loose, almost lazy, shoulders slouched like this is all just another fun little side quest.
The mask covers his whole face—no tells, no expressions, but honestly? He doesn’t need them. The way he’s standing says everything. Confident and mildly entertained.
And then I notice he’s holding someone.
It takes my brain a second to catch up, because of course this is how he shows up.
