I slide out of the booth, straighten my dress and take a deep breath. Just get to the exit. Don't make eye contact. Don't slow down. Don't think about how much Sebastian would hate this place, with its chaos and noise and lack of control. Don't think about Sebastian at all.
Dammit. Even here, in this temple to sensory overload and bad decisions, I can't escape thoughts of him. And that, more than anything, tells me it's definitely time to go home.
"Leaving so soon?" The voice is smooth, practiced, with that particular timber of confidence that comes from never being told no. Its owner—tall, conventionally handsome in that finance-bro way—smiles down at me, white teeth gleaming under the club lights. His dark hair is slicked back with enough product to qualify as an environmental hazard, and his watch probably costs more than my monthly rent. "The night's just getting started."
I stop short, clutching my purse closer like it might shield me from unwanted attention. "Just heading out," I say, already attempting to sidestep him.
He mirrors my movement with the casual grace of a man who's done this dance before. "I'm Ryan," he offers, extending a hand that's clearly seen more manicures than manual labor. His eyes travel from my face down to the hemline of my dress and back up again, lingering in places that make my skin prickle. "And you're the most interesting thing I've seen all night."
"Mia," I reply automatically, good manners overriding my instinct to keep moving. I accept his handshake briefly, then try again to step around him. "And I really need to—"
"One dance," he interrupts, his smile widening as he steps closer. He smells expensive—designer cologne with notes that probably have pretentious names like leather accord and midnight amber. "Just one dance before you disappear. What's the harm?"
I hesitate, mentally calculating my options. The exit is still twenty feet away, through a crowd thick enough to qualify as a fire hazard. Ryan is blocking my direct path, and I've already noticed the guy from the bar watching our interaction with interest. Maybe one dance is the path of least resistance—dance for two minutes, make an excuse, and slip away when he's distracted by the next woman in a short dress.
"Fine," I concede, not bothering to inject enthusiasm into my voice. "One dance."
His smile shifts to something triumphant as he places a hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the dance floor. The touch is light but proprietary in a way that immediately makes me regret my decision. Still, I let him lead me into the mass of bodies, the music swallowing us whole as we find a small pocket of space.
The song is something bass-heavy with lyrics I can't distinguish, but the rhythm is easy enough to follow. Ryan begins to move, his body a respectable distance from mine as we find our groove. His dancing is actually decent—smooth, coordinated, and without the desperate grinding that many of the surrounding couples are engaged in. For a moment, I allow myself to relax fractionally. This isn't so bad. One song, then freedom.
"You're good at this," he says, leaning closer to be heard over the music, but not close enough to trigger my internal alarm system. "You come here often?"
I almost laugh at the clichéd line. "First time, actually."
"I knew it." He grins. "I'd have remembered you."
The line is cheesy but delivered with enough charm that I offer a small smile in return. See? This is fine. Normal. Just two adults dancing in a club. Maybe Laney was right, maybe I did need this.
The song shifts into something slower, more sensual, and Ryan takes it as an invitation to move closer. His hands, which had been respectfully at his sides, now settle on my hips. Not inappropriate, exactly, but definitely more familiar than I'm comfortable with from a stranger. Still, I don't immediately pull away. This is what people do in clubs, right? This is normal.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, his mouth too close to my ear. His breath is warm, tinged with expensive whiskey. "And that dress is incredible."
"Thanks," I reply, subtly increasing the distance between us as the song continues. My body feels stiff now, no longer moving with the easy rhythm of before.
Ryan doesn't take the hint. His hands slide lower, from my hips to the curve where my ass meets my thighs, pulling me against him with a sudden, deliberate movement. I feel the hard press of him against my stomach and immediately step back, removing his hands from my body.
"That's enough," I say firmly, no longer caring about politeness or the path of least resistance. "I'm going to go now."
His expression shifts, the charming smile replaced by something harder, more predatory. "Come on, don't be like that," he says, reaching for me again. "We're just getting to know each other."
I step back, but his fingers close around my wrist, tight enough to make my pulse jump against his thumb. "I said no," I repeat, my voice steady despite the adrenaline now flooding my system. "Let go of me."
"One more dance," he insists, tugging me closer, his other hand settling on my waist with fingers that dig into the thin fabric of my dress. "Stop playing hard to get."
My free hand curls into a fist as years of self-defense classes flash through my mind. Groin, throat, eyes—the vulnerable points I could strike to break his hold. I'm calculating the angle I'll need, mentally preparing for the scene that will follow—security, possible ejection from the club—when Ryan's suddenly body jerks backward.
For a split second, I think he's lost his balance. Then I see the large hand gripping the back of his neck with controlled but unmistakable force. My eyes travel up the arm attached to that hand, past broad shoulders and a familiar strong jawline, landing on a face I'd know anywhere, even in this dim, chaotic light.
Sebastian.
Chapter 14
Sebastian
My fingers clamp around the back of his neck hard enough to make him stiffen and his bravado wilts. I don't need to look at his face to know the exact moment fear replaces his arrogance, I can feel it in the sudden rigidity of his muscles, the slight tremor that travels from his spine to my grip. What I do need to see is Mia's face, those green eyes wide with shock as they lock onto mine across the small space between us. The club lights paint her skin in alternating shades of blue and purple that can't hide the flush of anger coloring her cheeks.
"Let go of me, man," the guy protests, his voice pitched higher than it probably was when he was whispering in Mia's ear. He tries to twist away, but I simply tighten my grip, pressing my thumb into a pressure point that makes him grimace.
