I open my mouth to respond.
But just then someone nearby shouts, throwing their hands up, and a spray of neon-blue liquid arcs over the bar, narrowly missing Cynna’s elbow. She yelps and jumps back, knocking into me. I steady her on instinct, hands at her waist.
We laugh. Both of us. It’s stupid and sticky and loud, but for a second, it’s real.
No ghosts. No scars. Just now.
And for a moment—just a moment—the tension in my shoulders loosens, like my body forgot it’s supposed to be afraid.
Cynna’s sipping her second drink—legs crossed, lashes batting, mischief practically dripping from her like gloss—and I’m mid-sentence about maybe calling it a night when she drops the bomb.
“Alright,” she says, setting her glass down with a softclink. “Truth or dare.”
I blink. “What are we, twelve?”
She shrugs. “Twelve-year-olds don’t wear heels like these, babe. Pick.”
I stare at her. Iknowthat look. That’s her I-have-an-idea-and-you’re-not-gonna-like-it face. The one she wore right before convincing me to fake a relationship with a Krovian diplomat to score free dessert at his cousin’s wedding.
Still, something tight and mean in me—the part that doesn’t want to be the weak link anymore—says,fine.
“Truth,” I say.
She pouts, exaggerated and immediate. “Boring.”
“Safe.”
“Coward.”
“Fine. Dare.”
Her grin widens like a trap snapping shut.
“I dare you to approach the most dangerous man in the bar.”
The words hit like a shove.
My stomach drops, cold and sudden, like I’ve stepped off something high without realizing it. I stare at her. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“You want me to go flirt with some mercenary nightmare while drunk in my second-fanciest pants?”
“I want you to remember you’re alive.” She leans closer. “And I want to see what happens when you stop playing dead.”
I shake my head, heart pounding. “Cynna?—”
She cuts me off with a look, all raised brows and don’t-you-dare-wrangle-out-of-this. Then she tilts her chin, just slightly. A whisper of movement. Barely enough to notice.
But I follow it.
My eyes track past the bar crowd, past the dancers, past the haze of light and sound.
And land onhim.
He’s leaned against the bar like the room belongs to him. Not posing, not preening—justthere, solid and undeniable. Like a mountain someone dragged indoors. His arms are thick, scarred, crossed over a broad chest like he’s daring the air to try him. His gaze moves slow and deliberate across the club, not hungry, not distracted—just watching. Calculating. Patient.
Like a predator that doesn’t need to pounce because it already knows the kill is coming.
