I stare.
Not because he’s threatening—though he is. Not because he’s beautiful—though the symmetry of him suggests danger in that direction too. I stare because something about him feels… familiar. Wrongly so. Like I’ve seen him before in a different context, under different light. Somewhere I wasn’t meant to notice him.
My pulse skips, irritation and unease threading together.
Where do I know you from?
I search his stance, the tilt of his head, the way he holds the space between us like it already belongs to him. The answer hovers just out of reach, teasing, infuriating.
And the fact that I can’t place him—that itticklesat the back of my mind instead of settling—makes my skin prickle with the sense that I know who this man is.
“You shouldn’t walk out here alone,” he warns, snapping me out of my daze.
“Good thing I’m not alone, then” I retort, meaning the two of them and ignoring the fact that fear is flowing through my veins.
He studies my face like he can see through the mask and bravado. “Who were you meeting?”
“A rabbit, apparently,” I say, because I’m not handing him a single real thing.
He doesn’t like that answer. I can feel the air tighten. Thebouncer shifts his weight, scanning the block in professional sweeps. Silver-and-black keeps his eyes on me.
“You come here a lot for someone who doesn’t drink,” he remarks.
“You ask a lot of questions for someone who comes here to drink.”
A pause. The bouncer mutters something to himself. Somewhere, a siren eats the distance. In the cold, my breath stutters in my chest.
“Were you supposed to meet someone here tonight?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. Then, because the truth has a way of making a fool out of me, I add “Tonight wouldn’t be the first time I’ve outlived a bad idea.”
Something flickers behind the mask. Approval? Annoyance? I can’t tell, and it bothers me that I want to.
The bouncer glances at silver-and-black, some silent exchange passing between them. “We’ll walk you to your car.”
“I took a rideshare.”
Silver-and-black’s eyes flicker.
“Organise a car for her,” he tells the bouncer, who promptly sends a text to an unknown person.
I should argue. I should insist I’m fine. Instead, I take two steps back into the shadow of the club and feel the night breathe around my ankles like a tide.
Headlights appear down the road. For a second, my heart jams in my throat. Not bunny ears. Just a car nosing its way toward my little apocalypse.
Silver-and-black doesn’t move. He stands like he could stand there forever, like patience is a weapon he enjoys using. He looks at me the way men look at a safe they intend to open—calm, certain, curious enough to be dangerous.
The car crawls up to the curb, headlights slicing through thespill of neon. I step toward it, fingers curling around the handle—then freeze. The car’s empty except for the driver. No mask. No fuzzy pink ears. No one lurking in the backseat. Still, my pulse kicks like it knows something I don’t. My reflection in the window is a blur of blonde hair and a black mask stretched thin over nerves that won’t quit.
“My driver will get you home safely,” silver-and-black murmurs behind me, his voice dipped in certainty.
I slide into the car. The door shuts with a soft click, and before I can even adjust my seatbelt, the window glides down on its own. He steps closer, hands buried in his pockets like he’s got all the time in the world.
“In the future, be careful who you get into the car with, Rowan Hale,” he murmurs. “Not everyone can be trusted.”
My throat goes tight. My eyes snap to his, wide and startled. How does he know my name? How does he know anything about me? But the question barely forms before the window seals shut again and the car rolls forward, smooth and decisive.
I twist in my seat, staring through the rear window. The bouncer is already returning to the doors, his bulk swallowed by the pulsing line. But silver-and-black remains exactly where I left him—standing on the curb, hands in his pockets, head angled like he’s listening to something the rest of the world is too mortal to hear.
