But the spark persists. It grows. It throbs.
The next few days become a montage of increasingly desperate coping strategies.
Cold showers. Peppermint oil dabbed under my nose. Mental redirection.Think about cocktails, think about the mundane errands, think about how horrible it would be to accidentally kill someone.
Again.
Every morning starts the same. I wake up flushed, pulsing, too aware of the seam of my panties and the friction of the sheets. And every day, I shove it back.
The first thing I do is strip and blast myself with cold water until I’m shivering so hard, I can't think straight.
Then I suit up.
More eyeliner. Thick and jagged war paint.
More spikes. Necklaces, cuffs, rings with edges sharp enough to draw blood.
I raid Snow’s wardrobe for anything that screamslook but don’t touch, because the truth is, I’m always looking. But I’m trying not to touch.
My hunger’s not a magnet. It’s a sniper scope. And every night, I’m aiming.
I clock the guy two booths down before he even opens his mouth. Tan, tatted, wearing a smug smirk like he’s a gift to the world. His body language is loud, manspreading. Everything about him is a billboard that saysI know you want it.
I overhear him as I pick up empty glasses nearby.
“She was begging for it,” he brags to his friend. “I didn’t even text her after.”
My head tilts. My stomach tightens.
He’s not my type. But he’s a snack. A cocky, careless, disposable snack. And suddenly my mouth waters.
I don’t walk away. I run.
Hours later, I’m coming back from the storeroom when all of me homes in on a different target.
The tall, gangly guy has been posted up at the bar all night with two friends and a bottle of bad decisions. Halfway through his second round of shots, I catch his voice, loud and brittle.
“She’s not even worth it,” he slurs, tossing another drink. “I’m better off. Just need to get laid and move the fuck on.” He pauses and then turns and staggers into the crowd.
He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t believe his own words. The kind of guy who’s bleeding on the inside and hoping someone will lick it up.
And I’m ready to volunteer.
Unable to help myself, I follow after a few minutes.
I find him alone, returning from the bathroom. Slow. Swaggering. Vulnerable.
As we approach from opposite sides, we are suddenly on a collision course.
I tilt my chin and let him see me.
I flip the switch. Not passively. Not accidentally. I activate. My beauty goes sharp. Predatory. The energy around me tightens, until it’s a precise and honed blade. Then I aim it straight at him.
I swaymy hips just enough the leather of my skirt creaks. One hand lifts to tug the edge of my corset higher, fingers grazing the line of my cleavage.
Then I drop my eyes as if I’m letting him in on a secret.
I push my power toward him. My beauty. I wield it, cracking it right across his instincts.
