The lights dropped low. A single spotlight cut through the darkness and landed on her.
Alena.
Fuck.
She was like something out of a fever dream I'd been having for seventeen years. Long, wild hair pulled up, heavy makeup around her eyes that made them glow—golden brown, sharp, fierce. Black feathers curled around her like wings. That black suit clinging to sweat-slick skin, feathers catching light like dark flames. She held that cane with the silver crow head like a weapon.
I forgot how to breathe.
The spotlight captured every movement—the way her fingers curled around the cane, those long black nails commanding attention. Her eyes scanned the room, daring anyone to look away. Then she stepped forward, slow and deliberate, claiming the stage like it was hers by right.
Because it was.
Her dance wasn’t just motion. It was violence wrapped in silk. A declaration of war disguised as art. Every step, every curve of her body, every arch of her back—it all screamed mine in a language I'd been trying not to speak for seventeen years.
My hands clenched into fists on the table.
She spun, and the feathers caught the light, spreading like wings. The jacket pulled tight across her chest, one button straining. I saw the pale skin of her throat—skin I’d kissed athousand times in my head, skin I’d held while she cried, skin I wanted to mark so badly my teeth ached.
My cock stirred, hard and insistent, pressing against my jeans like it had every right to react. I shifted in my seat, glad for the dark, but the desire coiled tighter, hotter, refusing to be ignored.
Every spin, every arch of her back—I felt it in my cock. Hard. Aching. Knowing every man in the room was feeling the same thing.
And hating them for it.
Every man in this room was watching her.
Every. Single. One.
Their eyes on her skin. On her curves. On the way her hips moved, the way her body arched. I could feel their want like heat against my face, and it made me want to burn the whole fucking place down.
She wasn't theirs to watch. Wasn't theirs to want.
She was mine.
The thought hit like a fist to the gut. Raw. Undeniable. True in a way I’d been lying about for years.
Mine.
I wanted to storm that stage, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her out of here. Lock her away somewhere only I could see her, touch her, have her. I wanted to strip that suit off her myself, feel her skin under my hands, hear her gasp my name the way she did in every fantasy I pretended not to have.
I wanted to fuck her until she forgot every other man who’d ever looked at her. Wanted to love her until she understood she was the only thing that mattered. Wanted to keep her so close she’d never slip away again.
But I couldn’t.
Because tomorrow, I’d be gone. And she’d never forgive me.
The music swelled. She arched back, throat exposed, body a perfect line of power and grace. The feathers shimmered. The light caught the sheen of sweat on her collarbone.
A low groan came from my left.
I turned my head slowly.
Some bastard two seats over—mid-forties, sweating, eyes glued to the stage—had his hand in his lap. Moving.
White-hot rage exploded in my chest.
I felt the old pit fighter rise in me. The one who’d broken bones for less. No one touched what’s mine. Not with their eyes. Not with their hands.
