Huddled in a dark corner like a wounded animal, wearing a black lace mask she must have grabbed from the same table I did. Still shaking. Still alive because I made the first mistake of the night by not pulling the trigger when I had the chance.
I need to finish it. Walk over there and put a bullet in her before anyone notices.
But even as I think it, I know a bullet is too obvious. Too loud. Too many witnesses even in a club this packed and dark.
My knife is quieter, but getting close enough to use it means getting close enough for her to see me. To recognize me. To scream and make a scene that brings attention I don’t need.
I could wait until she leaves. Follow her outside and handle it in an alley where there are no cameras and no witnesses.
She looks up suddenly, her eyes sweeping across the crowd. Looking for threats. Looking for anyone who might be hunting her. Her gaze lands on me and stops.
She sees me.
Not me specifically. She can’t possibly recognize me through the mask and the distance and the flickering lights. But she sees someone watching her with too much intensity.
Look away. Blend back into the crowd and wait for her to leave.
But I don’t. Instead, I hold her gaze, letting the tension build, and I see the exact moment something shifts in her expression. Caution fading, replaced by something else entirely.
What are you doing? Don’t. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it.
But she stands up and starts walking toward me.
No. This is fucked up. This makes everything more complicated,I think with annoyance.
She moves through the crowd with purpose, her hips swaying to the music, her eyes locked on mine through both our masks.
Every step brings her closer and I’m frozen. Caught between what I should do and what I’m actually doing, which is standing here like an idiot waiting for her to reach me.
When she stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell blood and soap mixed with her perfume, every muscle in my body goes rigid.
“You’ve been watching me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Bold considering she should be terrified of every man in this club right now.
I should lure her away now and finish this.
“Maybe,” I grunt.
“Why?”
Because I’m trying to decide how to kill you.
The truth is right there on my tongue, but what comes out is, “You’re interesting.”
Her lips curve into something that’s almost a smile. “Interesting. That’s one word for it.”
She reaches for my hand and I know I should pull away, finish her right here, and deal with the consequences. Literally do anything except what I’m doing, which is letting her fingers wrap around mine.
“Come. Dance with me.”
I’m follow her onto the dance floor like I’ve lost complete control of my own body.
The music shifts to something darker, heavier, and she presses against me without hesitation. Her body fits against mine and I’m acutely aware of every point of contact.
Her hands slide up my chest, exploring, and I catch her wrists. More to stop myself from pulling her closer than to stop her.
“Careful.”
