The bartender looks up, the same one as before. He nods, vague and uninterested. No flicker of recognition.
Perfect. Last night, I ordered bourbon. Tonight, it’s rye.
“Neat,” I say.
He pours without blinking. Doesn’t even glance twice.
Good. Let him assume I’m just another ghost dragging his sins into the dark. Not the kind that opens men from throat to gut and watches what spills.
The glass hits the bar. Amber and untouched. I don’t lift it. The burn I need is already crawling in my chest, licking up the inside of my ribs.
I glance in the mirror, then at the door and the time. Still early. Rourke won’t show yet. He prefers to be late, convinced it makes him important, as if the world holds its breath for his entrance.
Let him believe it. Let him strut in here, smug and slow, thinking he’s the star of the fucking show. Let him keep thinking it until the moment I end him.
The bar is quiet tonight. Just a few clusters of regulars, one couple too wrapped up in each other to care. Good. Calm is easier. Quiet means I can focus.
Because tonight, everything has to be clean.
The door opens, and I glance in the mirror. Reflex, nothing more. But my gaze snags on something it shouldn’t.
Her.
Laurette.
Fuck me.
She doesn’t walk—she claims the room. Her gaze sweeps the space with the same courtroom ferocity I saw in the research photos.
My head dips, gaze fixing on the glass of rye in front of me as I avoid eye contact. I want to watch without being noticed.
She slips onto a stool two seats to my left. Close—too damn close.
Close enough for her scent to reach me—vanilla, jasmine, and citrus. Feminine and bright, edged with something sharper that won’t yield.
So fucking delectable.
It cuts through the haze in my chest, vibrating with pressure I cannot shake. My pulse spikes. Not a flutter. Not nerves.
Somethingworse.
Because I don’t get shaken. I don’t get moved.
Not this way.
Not like someone just reached into my rib cage and closed their hand around something I never give away.
My grip tightens around the rim of the glass. A flicker of adrenaline flashes down my spine and blooms in my chest.
Not fear. Not surprise.
Hunger.
The urge to move closer, to lean toward her, to fall into her, tears through me, splitting me wide from the inside out.
But I can’t, so I stay still.
This is too damn much. Too fast. Too fucking soon.
