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And I want nothing more than to burn.

I want to lean in to taste those lips, to see if they feel as soft as they look. To drag my tongue over the curve of that lower bow, slide it between his teeth. Sample the breath before it leaves his mouth.

Would that change things, if I kissed him? Would it break my resolve to follow this through to the end, to focus on my mission, to be what I was born to be—if I kissed this man who smells so soft and sweet and feels like fire against my skin?

Would I lose something of myself, if I gave myself to him?

Why do I want so badly to find out?

He makes no move to close the distance between us—or to extend it. Like maybe he’s wondering the same things, or just waiting to see what I’ve got in store. Letting me lead.

I’m poised on a precipice, ready to fall.

Nick or Mystery Man?

Win the night or win . . . something else?

But I know what I’ll pick, have known it since long before the decision presented itself. I’m the Rogue, and this man would be my reaper. There is no other choice, has never been. Long before I was even Jax Winter, I decided the kind of man I want to be.

I huff out the faintest laugh and let my fingers slide from his cheek. Cock my head toward him, deal the next words with careful precision. “You want to find treasure? Find the Rogue? Go through the door there, ’cause I don’t think my partner’s scrammed that hard.”

Nah, Nick’s eager as fuck to watch me get caught.

Blondie’s brows shoot skyward. “You’re screwing with me.”

“Am I?” I let my face fall into hard sobriety, and with more effort than I’ll ever admit, I tear my eyes from the lines of his face. “See for yourself.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t offer me the chance to change my mind. Would I have, if he’d given me that barest second?

He turns.

And I do the only thing I can do.

I run.

nine

Celebration

Jax Winter wins the night.

I know that without having to watch my blond boy chase down my long-lost roomie.

I know that even before the bevy of cop cars paints the estate in a wash of red and blue, and I don’t bother to stick around to watch Nick and Co. escorted from the house. In fact, aside from calling Rachel—straight to voicemail—I barely think back on the party at all.

Honestly, I feel like shit.

Hollowed out.

Empty.

No sense of victory, no gloating. I haven’t even looked at the thing I took from Nick. ’Cause it doesn’t matter, does it? Whatever it is, whatever he was after, it means nothing to me. Has no value to me. Not anymore.

I ditch my stupid masquerade mask, though I bet my twice-beat face has all kinds of glorious bruising on the way, and catch a cab back into the city. Watch the colors blur through the window in unfocused eyes. I won, I won, I won, motherfuckers. I won. I say the words over and over like I’m hoping maybe I’ll believe them—all that hippie affirmation shit—but instead, they lose their meaning.

Not that they really had any.

Fuck, I’m in a mood. The moodiest mood that ever mooded. I need to go sit on a tower somewhere and study the world from high above all its stupid problems. Need to watch the cars turn to ants, the people disappear. Need to know that I’m above it all, shepherd to the flock perched on my hilltop.