His palm slides to my waist, firm and confident, and he pulls me close enough that the warmth of him cuts through the chill. The world narrows to rhythm and light.
He spins me once, laughing when I nearly slip, then steadies me with both hands. One of them drifts up, fingers tracing the line of my neck. I stiffen when he grazes the spot near my bite mark, that faint crescent scar I try not to think about. Something shifts inside me, like the air thins, like a thread pulls taut low in my stomach.
It’s not attraction. Not exactly. It’s something stranger.
“You look surprised,” Theo says, his breath brushing my ear.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Sure you are.” His hand slides along my cheek, thumb brushing my skin. His eyes are all charm, all softness. He leans in just enough to say, “Didn’t think you were the dating type. Figured you were spoken for.”
A laugh stumbles out of me, awkward and breathless. “Definitely not.”
I’m hoping he doesn’t ask about my ex.
“Good,” he says instead, grin crooked.
I press a hand against his chest, feel the warmth there, the steady thump of his pulse. “Tonight’s just fun,” I tell him.
He nods, still smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners.
I glance toward Amara, who’s tangled up with Benny, hair plastered to her skin, eyes glittering.
Were they just making out?
My best friend catches me looking and winks, mouthing, “Told you so.”
And she’s right. I needed this. I needed to stop thinking, to stop planning, to stop waiting for the next thing to fall apart.
I needed to have fun.
The song changes to something faster. People cheer. Someone lets out a spark of charm magic that bursts into golden confetti over the dance floor. The whole quarry feels alive.
Then I hear it.
“Amara fucking Wilder.”
The music dips, and every head turns toward the source of the voice.
Damon Wilder stands at the edge of the crowd, rain streaming down his face, hat in hand, uniform soaked through. The light catches the stubble on his jaw, the cut of his shoulders, the storm-gray of his eyes.
And he looks furious.
Amara freezes mid-laugh. “Oh, shit.”
Damon’s gaze locks on her, then flicks to me. “Amara. With me. Now.”
The whole quarry holds its breath.
Amara groans, handing her drink to Benny. “I’ll be back,” she mutters, squeezing my arm before slipping through the crowd.
I stand there, trying not to stare after them. Trying and failing. Damon’s always been this looming figure in town—Amara’s cousin, the sheriff, the guy who keeps the Rift in check and scares off outsiders with a single glare. But now, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, uniform clinging to his body, he doesn’t look like law and order. He looks like trouble. Beautiful, impossible trouble.
Why is my skin so warm?
“Hey, you okay?” Theo asks, leaning close.
“Yeah,” I say, though I don’t sound convincing even to me. “Can you get me a water?”
