I lean in close so they can’t hear. “You were drugged two days ago.”
Olivia’s face tightens, but it’s not anger at me this time. It’s the reality of having those words said out loud.
Tessa’s expression softens. “Liv…”
“I’m okay,” Olivia says quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine.” She isn’t. But she wants to be. That counts for something.
“One drink,” I repeat, quieter now.
She holds my gaze, then nods. “Fine.”
I don’t like the word. I accept it.
They move toward the bar, and I move with them. Olivia doesn’t complain when I stay at her back. Good. The crowd presses in from every side, and each time someone gets too close, I shift just enough to make space without making a scene. Most people move when something darker than them enters their path.
The bartender makes their drinks. Tessa talks too fast. Mia asks Olivia questions she dodges with a skill that tells me she’s been protecting her family from panic all day.
“I swear, I just got sick,” Olivia says.
“Then why is he staring at everyone like they owe him money?” Tessa asks, jerking her chin toward me.
Olivia glances over her shoulder. Our eyes meet. She smiles. Small. Private. “He always looks like that.”
Tessa looks me over again. “That must be exhausting.”
“It’s not for me,” I say.
She laughs, startled. “He speaks.”
“Rarely,” Olivia says.
“Treasure it,” I tell her.
Mia snorts into her drink.
Olivia’s smile widens, and something in my chest shifts.
Fuck. This is why I said yes.
Not because the risk got smaller. Because she looks alive. She moves to the music before she even realizes she’s doing it, shoulders loosening, hips swaying just slightly. Tessa grabs her hand and pulls her toward the dance floor, and Olivia looks back at me. Question. Reminder. Promise.
I nod once.
She goes. Not far. Close enough.
Eli shifts near the edge of the floor. Connor moves to the other side. Tate stays near the path to the front.
I don’t dance. I don’t drink. I watch.
Olivia lets the music take over in small pieces at first, careful movements, testing herself. Then Tessa says something that makes her laugh, and Mia spins her, and for one second, the fear falls off her face. Not all of it. Enough. She dances like she remembers who she was before men with folders and needles tried to rewrite her life. That should make me feel better. It doesn’t. Because every perverted fucker in the room sees it too. Their eyes drag over her. Legs. Mouth. Hair. The way she moves.
They watch her like prey. They don’t know what they’re looking at. They don’t know she already belongs to a man standing fifteen feet away who has counted every exit, every face turned too long, every hand that gets too loose near her body. They don’t know that wanting what’s mine is a dangerous hobby.
My jaw tightens.
A guy near the bar says something to his friend and nods toward her. His friend laughs. Neither moves.
They can live.
