Lark’s hand waved through my line of sight.
“Dear god, just go. I can’t stand seeing you drool over a pile of metal and screws,” she said, shaking her head as I drifted half a step toward the sound.
Shifting to look at her, I shrugged. She wasn't wrong. If I had the choice between dancing and looking at these suped up cars, it was going to be the cars.Every. Damn. Time.
Nathan huffed, chewing on his lip as he looked at me with apprehensive eyes. I knew exactly what he was worried about, but this wasn’t my first time being a human around supes. I just had to keep my eyes down, avoid fighting or challenging anyone, and I’d be fine. If I acted like I didn’t exist, they’d treat me the same way—and we’d all get what we wanted. Win-win.
“I’ve got this,” I told him.
He held my stare for a moment longer, then gave a single nod.
The music cut off mid-beat.
The sudden silence hit harder than the bass ever had.
Then a deep rumble rolled in from outside—slow, controlled, powerful enough to vibrate screws loose somewhere in the walls. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned toward the entrance, and a few bodies shifted instinctively out of the center aisle.
A matte-black McLaren glided in, a cherry-red stripe slicing down the center from hood to tail. The headlights washed over the concrete and reflected off polished rims and gun smoke accents as it moved forward without hesitation.
Everyone moved out of its path without being asked or forced, giving the car a wide berth as their eyes lowered with fear or fury.
A second engine roared behind it, higher pitched, razor sharp.
A 1300cc Suzuki motorcycle followed close, maintaining perfect distance from the McLaren’s rear quarter panel. The rider leaned forward over the tank, posture controlled and deliberate, helmet visor reflecting the neon glow from beneath the surrounding cars.
The McLaren rolled into the center of the room and stopped.
Engines around the room seemed to soften in response, idles dropping a fraction. Even the faint swirl of magic overhead slowed, currents tightening inward toward the vehicle.
The driver’s door opened.
A girl with cherry-red hair unfolded from the seat, her delicate fairy wings stretching briefly before settling against her back. She smoothed down the hem of her black mini dress and surveyed the crowd, chin tilted upward. A few onlookers smirked. Others straightened subtly, eyes darting toward the still-open driver’s side.
She made a show of licking her lips and turned around before she leaned back into the car, speaking to whoever remained inside.
Whispered words. Her posture stiffened before her back went up straight. Lips tightened into a scowl.
She turned away abruptly, heels striking the concrete in sharp, clipped steps as she moved off to the side, arms crossing over her chest.
A deep, seductive chuckle drifted from within the car.
The bodies around the car edged closer by inches. Not enough to crowd, just enough to shorten the distance and be in position to receive whoever this person was.
Going on my tip toes, I craned my head to see.
Strands of moonlight hair tousled and bright beneath the warehouse lights. Next, a set of rose-gold eyes lifted, scanning the room in a slow, deliberate sweep. Wherever that gaze landed, shoulders squared or spines straightened. A few supes lowered their eyes altogether. It was the supes’ way of bowing, and that made me nervous.
My skin prickled as he stepped out, and my breath caught when the most stunning man I had ever seen came fully into view. The car door shut with a soft click, one that echoed louder than the engines, and the sound snapped me out of my daze.
He’s still a supe, Oliva.Not just any supe, butthefucking supe.
Leaning back against the hood, he reached into his pocket and drew out a thin cigarette. The flame flared briefly, reflecting in his eyes before fading. He exhaled a puff of pink smoke, its lazy spirals winding around him like a barrier between him and us. Only highlighting the difference between the rest of us and him.
Whispers threaded through the crowd.
Heads inclined toward one another. Names passed between parted lips. No one approached him directly, yet no one looked away for long.
The aisle remained clear as he stood at its center, the warehouse orbiting him without ever being told to.
