His answer sits between us like smoke, and for the first time tonight he doesn’t smile. He just looks. The noise of the bar fades, drowned out by the sound of my own breathing. His fingers stop tapping. Stillness fills the booth like a trap snapping shut.
“You think this is a game,” I whisper, but the words don’t sound like mine anymore.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low enoughthat only I can hear, cutting through the bass like a scalpel. “No. Games end. This doesn’t.”
My throat tightens. I force myself not to back away, even though every part of me wants distance. His gaze flicks down, catches the tremor in my hand on the table. He doesn’t call it out. Doesn’t need to. The silence says enough.
“You don’t get to walk in here every week and pretend you’re untouchable,” he says, softer now, almost gentle—the kind of gentle that makes you realise you’re already bleeding. “Not with me. Not anymore.”
The booth feels airless. I can’t tell if I want to shove him away or lean closer just to hear what else he’s going to say, to feel the heat radiating off him like a dying star.
“You don’t even know me,” I snap, but my voice cracks, and I hate myself for it.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing like I just handed him the weapon he’s going to use to finish me. “Don’t I?”
The space between us is a breath, a heartbeat. Too small. Too dangerous. And then, without moving his hands, without touching me at all, he leans just close enough that I can feel his breath when he speaks?—
“Tell yourself whatever you need to, Darling. But you came here for me.”
His breath ghosts over my cheek; it smells like smoke and rain, like every back alley I swore I’d never run down again. He doesn’t move any closer, but somehow the space feels smaller, like he’s already under my skin, nesting in my marrow.
“I didn’t come for you,” I manage, but it’s a whisper, not a snarl. My fingers tighten on the edge of the table until my nails squeak against the wood.
Peter’s mouth crooks—not a smile, not quite a smirk. More like the shape of a wolf tasting the wind. “Then leave.”
My heart stutters.
“Go on.” His voice is low, steady. “Stand up. Walk out. Pretend this didn’t happen.”
I hate him for it. For making it sound so easy. For making it sound like a dare I’m too terrified to lose.
“I’m not scared of you,” I lie.
“You should be.” His eyes don’t harden; they go soft in a way that’s worse, a deceptive, inviting calm before the slaughter. “But you’re not. Not really. That’s what gets you hurt.”
He leans back, stretching one arm along the booth again, tattoos shifting like snakes across his skin. He’s giving me an exit and making it feel like a trap.
“You don’t get to do this,” I snap, throat tight. “You don’t get to show up and?—”
“And what?” His voice drops lower, almost a growl. “Sit across from you? Watch you drink sugar and pretend you’re not starving?”
Heat licks up my neck. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” He tilts his head, blue eyes cutting into mine. “I know you’ve been staring at that door since you walked in. Counting exits. I know you haven’t touched a man in two years. I know you always order the pink drink because it tastes like a lie.”
My pulse hammers. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
The words hit like a slap. My breath hitches. His grin sharpens into something feral, but he still doesn’t reach for me. He just watches, thumb dragging once over his lower lip,a slow, hypnotic movement that makes my stomach drop.
“You’re going to hate yourself later,” he says softly, almost kindly. “For staying. For looking back. For wanting.”
“I don’t—” The word dies in my throat. My knees press together under the table, aching with a need I can’t name. “I don’t want you.”
“Sure.” His voice is a razor wrapped in velvet. “Then why haven’t you stood up yet?”
Silence fills the booth. Outside, the club roars—bass, laughter, glasses clinking—but here it’s just the two of us and the sound of my heartbeat trying to escape my chest.
