Silas watches me approach with those storm-gray eyes that see straight through me. His hands rest on his knees, but I can see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his jaw ticks as I come closer.
I take his hand and bring it to my cheek. His palm is warm and callused, dangerous. I guide it down my throat with agonizing slowness, over my collarbone, stopping just before the curve of my breast. His control fractures just enough for me to see the man beneath.
“Firefly,” he growls, and the nickname sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I lean in close enough that our lips almost touch, close enough to taste the whiskey on his breath, to feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“Still think I’m just Charlie’s little sister?” I whisper against his mouth.
The sound he makes is half growl, half prayer. His free hand grips the bench so hard I hear the wood creak. His thumb traces my bottom lip with devastating gentleness.
“You’re going to destroy me,” he says, voice rough with restraint.
But it’s Jace who makes my desire burn into a full-blown ruin. I want to ruin him. I want him to ruin me. I want to break. Not just his control, but myself against him, like glass meeting stone — violent, inevitable, and beautiful in its destruction.
Heart pounding, world spinning, breath catching on need so fierce it feels alive — like completing an electrified circuit the moment I reach Jace.
He sits perfectly still, watching me with eyes like shattered glass. His hands are white-knuckled on the bench, every muscle locked in restraint like he’s physically holding himself back from something irreversible.
I take those clenched fists, pry them open finger by finger. His hands are scarred, strong, and when I place them on my waist, he resists for just a moment before his grip tightens. Possessive. Desperate. His thumbs press into the bare skin between the costume pieces, and the contact sends shockwaves through me.
My fingers card through his dark hair, tilting his head back to expose the column of his throat. I lean down until my lips brush his ear, my body pressed against his chest, and I can feel his heart pounding against mine.
“Am I still a princess, Moreau?” I whisper, letting my teeth graze his earlobe.
The growl that rips from his chest vibrates through me, primal and possessive. His hands tighten on my waist hard enough that I know I’ll have bruises tomorrow. Ten perfect fingerprints branded into my skin. His control slips completely, and I see something feral flash in his dark eyes.
“You’re mine,” he breathes against my neck, and the words sink into me like a brand.
The song builds to its crescendo, and something shifts inside me. Some wall crumbling, some defense falling away. The crowd screams, but all I can hear is their breathing, harsh and uneven around me. All I can feel is the heat of their hands, the weight of their attention, the way they’re looking at me like I’m something precious and dangerous and theirs.
The song ends like a thunderclap, lights cutting to black as I drop to my knees between them. My chest heaves, my entire body trembling from adrenaline and something much more dangerous.
In the darkness, with their breathing harsh around me, and the crowd screaming for more, with my skin still burning from their touch and my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.
9
SILAS
The club throbs with bass that makes the ice in abandoned drinks dance, purple and gold lights cutting through smoke that tastes like vanilla and bad decisions. The bachelor/bachelorette party has devolved into exactly what you’d expect, but there’s an undercurrent of something else tonight. Something that has my skin crawling with the need to finish what we started on that stage.
I find Cal in one of the private booths, black sheer curtains pulled halfway closed. He’s nursing a glass of water instead of his usual whiskey, and his hands are still shaking slightly. We’re all feeling it—the aftershock of what just happened under those lights.
“Water?” I slide into the booth across from him. “Smart choice. I’m not sure I trust myself with anything stronger right now.”
He doesn’t smile, just rotates the glass between his fingers. “After what just happened up there...” He trails off, shakes his head. “Fuck, Silas. Did you see her face when the lights went down?”
The image flashes through my mind again—Parker on her knees between us, chest heaving, eyes wild with something that looked dangerously close to surrender. The way she’d whispered in Jace’s ear, the way her body had moved against mine, the electricity that crackled between all of us under those lights.
“She ran,” Cal continues, voice rough. “The second the curtain dropped, she bolted backstage.”
“Can you blame her?” I lean back, scanning the crowd through the gap in the curtains. “We just claimed her in front of half the wedding party.”
“We told her to dance for us. She delivered.” Cal’s amber eyes are dark with something dangerous.
What do we do now?
Before I can respond, the crowd erupts in applause. The bridal party files in, dressed for clubbing now, but when Parker appears, the cheers become deafening. She’s changed into a black dress that hugs every curve I just had my hands on, and she’s trying to smile through what’s clearly panic.
