My gaze drifts to the mirror. Instinct, nothing more. My curiosity is piqued.
The glass above the bar catches her face, revealing the mystery behind me. And fuck. She’s not what I expected.
She’s more.
Better.
Everything.
Her long dark hair is pulled up, baring her throat. I imagine my hand there—pressing, not choking. Not yet. The pressure would be enough to feel her breathe, to remind her who holds the power, and feel her pulse stutter against my palm.
Her eyes hide their color in shadow, but they’re calm, steady, and unyielding. They demand I pay attention.
And that mouth—God, that fucking mouth. It’s not smiling, not fully, but the curve is there. It’s the kind of mouth that could kiss or command, ruin or worship. And I’d take it either way.
I imagine her on her knees, lip gloss smeared, eyes locked on mine. That mouth parted, just enough to let the filth spill out like a prayer. Not begging.
No, this woman doesn’t beg. She negotiates, barters with pleasure, and bleeds defiance.
I’d give her what she asks for, and then shove past it, just to hear how she moans when she breaks.
She’s not built to whimper. She’d swear at me instead, curse my name with shaking thighs and a voice torn raw from holding back.
And I’d savor every second.
I’d disrupt her cadence and take the choices she pretends she doesn’t need. Hand her control by stripping it down to nothing but sensation and breath.
She hasn’t even glanced my way. Doesn’t have a clue I exist. But my body answers her—locked in and dialed sharp. She’s already under my skin.
I’ve snapped necks, crushed throats, and watched men die without blinking. None of it ever made my pulse thunder this way.
But her…this… makes me pause. Something feral stirs inside me.
Not love. No, never that. This is ownership—instinctive and ruthless—a claim formed in the space of a single reflected glance.
She doesn’t know what she’s done to me. No idea she’s already shifted something that rarely moves.
But she will.
She’ll feel it the moment she looks my way. That invisible click. The way the air tightens. The sudden awareness crawling up her spine, telling her something has locked on.
She won’t understand why her breath stutters or why the room seems to shrink around us. She won’t be able to explain why her body reacts before her mind does.
But I’ll know.
Because that’s the moment I decide she’s mine. And when I decide something belongs to me, I don’t release it. I don’t forget it.
I don’t let go.
My hand curls around the glass of bourbon. This time, I bring it to my mouth. Just a sip. Just enough to note the burn and pretend it’s not because of her.
I should stop watching and listening.
But who the fuck am I kidding? That’s not happening.
Silas Rourke still hasn’t shown, but something far more dangerous has. And I don’t think I’m walking away clean.
The girls around her are still buzzing, still laughing, still demanding the details. But she hasn’t answered. Yet.
