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A girl with red lipstick hooks her hand around my wrist. Another presses in at my side, smiling.

The problem is none of it helps.

Every touch feels wrong because it isn’t his.

I dance with one girl, then another. Someone wraps both arms around my neck and says something filthy I don’t even process. A blonde in silver heels presses close enough to make any normal man grateful.

I feel nothing.

Or rather, I feel irritation at how little I feel.

Because every time a hand drifts too low or a mouth gets too close to my ear, some awful traitor-part of my brain compares it to Kento, to the way he corners space, the way he touches like he already knows what your body will do.

I hate myself.

I hate him more.

I’m just starting to decide the whole night was a mistake when a hand fists in my hair, not where my stitches are, lower.

I don’t even get time to react before I’m being dragged backward through the crowd.

There are complaints. Someone says my name as the music keeps going, useless and loud, but my body instantly knows exactly who it is before my mind fully catches up.

Only one person grabs me like that.

I twist, trying to wrench free, but the grip only tightens before releasing just enough to guide, shove, command. I’m pulled down the hall, through a half-open door, and into one of the empty side rooms.

Kento stands between me and the door, dark eyes locked on mine.

He looks like a devil.

Ilya

I’ve seen him amused. Calm. Manipulative. Teasing. Arrogant.

But angry?

No.

He looks at me like he’s one second away from breaking something, and I can’t tell if he means the room, the party, or me.

His hand is still in my hair from dragging me in here, his fingers tight at the root, and the look in his black eyes steals the sarcasm from my mouth.

I wrench my head back enough to glare at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His mouth curves, but there’s nothing soft in it. “You tell me.” He lets go of my hair only to catch my wrist when I shove at his chest.

His grip slams shut around it, and pain sparks up my arm.

I grit my teeth.

He’s grabbed me before, but this is different. This time he holds so tight it feels like the bones are shifting. I already have bruises under the sleeve, open cuts from earlier that he doesn’t know about, and his fingers dig straight into them. It hurts so badly my vision blurs for a second. I bite the inside of my cheek, and my free hand shoves at him again.

He tightens his grip.

A wince slips out of me before I can kill it, and my eyes sting instantly.

No.