She walked into my territory with a drug I didn’t approve, watched it swallow the penthouse whole, and then held herself together like she was immune to the world she created.
Bold. Stupid. Interesting. But fully unacceptable.
I close the folder, the decision already made.
“Find her,” I say. “Before someone else realizes what she’s worth.”
Mav nods once and leaves without another word.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel something almost like anticipation.
Chapter 6
He Didn’t Even Touch Me
Violet
Light filters through the blinds in thin stripes, warm and irritating, doing absolutely nothing for the pounding in my skull. My head throbs in a specific way that only comes from one drink too many and absolutely no impulse control. Last night was too much and somehow still not enough. Noise everywhere, lights dripping down the walls, bodies folding into each other like they were melting, and the bass hitting hard enough to rattle bone. I should’ve left hours before I did, but I couldn’t make myself walk away.
I shift beneath the sheets, and the fabric skims over my skin like it has a mind of its own, tugging at nerves that already feel too exposed. Every small movement sends little crackles of memory sparking up my spine. And then there’s him.God. Him.
Tall, and still, like the center point in a room spinning off its axis. He didn’t have to move. People just shifted around him like they knew better than to get too close. Sharp features, all carved angles and expensive arrogance—the kind of face that would look obscene on anyone else, but somehow works on him because he clearly knows exactly what he’s doing. His hair was perfect, of course it was. It was the dark slicked-back kind that probably never dares fall out of place unless someone pulls on it. And those eyes—that impossible ocean-storm blue—cold, endless, and sharp, like he saw straight through me and didn’t mind letting me know it.
He didn’t belong in that room. Not with the sweat, the sound, and the raw need threading through the air. And somehow he owned the whole fucking thing anyway.
He didn’t even look at me for long. Just long enough to wreck me.
I let outa slow breath, pretending my body isn’t already reacting like it learned him by touch instead of sight. That low pulse of heat blooms anyway, stubborn and hungry, curling down low in a way that makes my thighs press together without me thinking about it.
I should get up. Shower. Drink water. Pretend to be a functional adult. But I don’t move. I can’t.
My hand slips beneath the sheets, brushing down my stomach, slow and hesitant like I might talk myself out of it, except we both know I’m not going to. My skin is still warm— though if it’s from sleep or from everything I refused to feel last night, I’m not sure. My fingers drift lower, teasing close to the ache that’s been simmering since I stumbled through my front door. When I finally touch myself, I suck in a breath, sharp and shaky.
I drag my fingers through my slick heat, barely there at first, then a little deeper, chasing the pressure I’ve been desperate for without wanting to admit it. My back arches as my hips lift into my hand, breath catching on every exhale. And he’s there again—not in the room, but in my mind—using restrained violence in the way he watches me, like he knows what I’d taste like, like he decides which parts of me he’d ruin first.
I imagine his voice—low and rough at my ear—and the thought alone makes my hips jerk. I picture his weight pinning me down, and the scrape of stubble at my throat, his hand around it, not tight, just enough to make me still. He’d know exactly what to do—where to press, when to hold back, and when to push until I broke apart for him.
My free hand twists in the sheets as my fingers circle my clit harder and faster, chasing a rhythm my body needs. In the fantasy he doesn’t touch me at all—he just stands there watching, lips curled in that slow, devastating smirk, like this was always going to happen, like I’ve belonged to him since the second he looked at me.
The tension coils fast—too fast—heat building, breaking, and building again until I can’t hold the sound in, so I bite my lip hard enough to sting as the release crashes through me. Hot, sharp, and overwhelming. My whole body goes tight, then loose, trembling under the wave of it.
It fades, leaving warmth, shame, and something dangerously close to longing in its wake, one thought sticks like a thorn:
I don’t even know his name.
Chapter 7
She Thinks She’s Alone. She’s Not.
Asher
Violet's background file sits on the passenger seat beside me like silent judgment. I’ve read it twice already, but I flip it open again, pretending I’ll find something new buried between the lines.
Violet Cole.
Age twenty-eight.
Legal guardian to a sixteen-year-old sister.
