She led him to a corner table where the light was low and the air felt less like being punched in the face. The bottle she brought matched her dress—cheap, potent, enough to strip paint. He poured and downed it like he was trying to cauterize something inside.
The woman leaned against the table, smirking at his bandaged hands. “You like them rough?”
He didn’t answer. Tossing back another shot, he let the burn carve its way down. The haze of the room thickened, blotting out everything but the thud of music and the bite of alcohol. Here, he didn’t have to think.
She draped herself across his lap and traced a finger along his jaw. “I could make you forget all about this,” she purred, lips close enough to taste the booze on his breath.
Her boldness snagged somewhere inside him, turned the drink sour in his gut. She was too much like everyone else, thinking they had him figured out before he even opened his mouth. His fingers clenched around the glass until it threatened to shatter.
“Cat got your tongue?” she purred. “Or are you just saving it for later?”
He shifted back, an inch that felt like retreat. “Looks like you’ve got other customers,” he said, nodding to a group of rowdy patrons.
She pulled back, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face before she smiled, slow and sultry. “I’ll be back,” she promised, sliding off with a deliberate sway of hips.
Symond poured another drink, but the sharp edge of the room dulled as he watched her disappear into the crowd. Across the chaos, someone caught his eye—another woman working a table. Dark hair and pale skin, with an underlying smugness that made his blood run cold. She looked just like Elora.
His vision tunneled, the noise collapsing to a dull roar. It didn’t make sense, but nothing seemed to make sense lately. He blinked. She was still there, smiling too sweetly as she took drink orders from a pack of leering men. One of them drew her onto his lap, and she laughed, the sound digging into his skull.
Perfect.
This was exactly what he needed. Proof. Evidence that what happened in the barn was just normal, healthy desire for a woman who happened to look like Elora. Nothing twisted about it. Nothing broken.
Symond shoved to his feet, rattling the table and spilling half his drink. The alcohol hit him all at once, spinning his head as he barreled through the crowd. She turned to look at him as he approached, her eyes meeting his. Up close, the differences were more obvious—her nose was pointier, her eyes slightly heavier-lidded.
“Looking for company tonight?” she asked.
This is normal,he told himself as heat coursed through him at the sight of her.This is what men do. They want women. They take what they want.
“Yeah,” he said. “Somewhere private.”
She led him to a backroom with a lopsided bed and not much else. The shit light played tricks on his whiskey-soaked brain, blurring her face just enough that he could almost see Elora staring back at him. Yeah, he could make this work. This would prove everything.
He pulled out a handful of coins and tossed them at her feet. The gesture felt powerful, commanding. Like he was in control. This was his choice, his desire driving him.
The woman laid on the bed, hiking her dress up, and spreading her legs wide for him like she thought she was a holiday feast waiting to be devoured. No prudishness, no semblance of self-respect or modesty. But her eagerness felt wrong somehow, too easy. It threatened to break the fantasy he was trying to build.
“Cover yourself. I’m not interested in that.”
She raised an eyebrow but obeyed. “What do you want me to do?”
He stalked over to the side of the bed, each step vibrating with what he told himself was raw, masculine desire. The woman’s eyeslocked onto his with an expression of disturbing excitement. Maybe even anticipation.
This is what it means to want someone,he convinced himself.This intensity. This need to dominate. It’s normal. It’s natural.
Without wasting time on formalities, he clamped his hand down hard on her arm, dragged her off the bed. Her surprise broke out as a sharp yelp at the unexpected action, but she bit it back quickly.
See? She likes it rough. Women like strong men who know what they want.
“On your knees,” he whispered, a command that barely needed words. She sank onto the stained rug, almost too eagerly, reaching up to undo his belt like she knew exactly how this was going to go.
He swatted her hands away. “Don’t be so willing.”
That’s better. More like how it should be. More like...
He pushed the thought away. This wasn’t about anything else. This was about him wanting her.
She nodded, withdrawing her hands, more cautious this time. He unbuckled his belt and let his trousers drop to his ankles without ceremony. His cock sprang up, and he felt a surge of satisfaction at his body’s response.See?This was working. This was proof.
