Page 185 of What We Burn

She pulls back and studies me, like she isn’t sure whether I’ll scold or crown her. Her lips are wet. Her pulse jumps at her throat. There’s a swelling at her temple she’s combed her hair over, and she’s keeping her weight off one knee.

“You hurt?”

Fury shakes her head slowly. The crowd shifts behind her, but most of my attention stays on her face.

She knows it, too. It makes her reckless. Makes me want to see what she’ll do next.

“Which him?” I ask, voice low.

Her eyes flick to the stage, then to the double doors where Holden went. “The one you wanted to get rid of. Stine. I used the knife.”

Weeks of that file sitting in a drawer, and she closed it in a night. It hits me all at once—the savage, ugly thrill of it mixed with the white-hot spike of pride. “Messy or clean?”

She tips her head, all tease. “Messy. Really, really messy.” She lets me close the gap until our noses almost touch. “You mad?”

I can’t help the smile. “No.” I touch her face, thumb grazing her lip—just enough pressure to leave the memory of touch. “How’d it feel? First time on your own?”

She closes her eyes, savoring the question, then slides them open with a look that’s hot and bright. “Like I can finally breathe.”

The music pulses around us, and she lets it roll through her body with deliberate abandon. She’s all animal tonight, pain and pleasure and danger in a black dress and silver mask. I want to taste that wildness, want her so bad it hurts. But as soon as I reach for her, she slides sideways, just out of reach, her eyes flashing with a dare.

“Don’t,” I say.

She looks up at me. Wide-eyed. Innocent. The same face she made when I caught her stealing fries off my plate last week, like she couldn’t possibly be doing the thing she’s obviously doing.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything. I’m just dancing. Enjoying the ambiance.” Her hips sway as her eyes drift to the main floor, where the domme on stage has moved from the crop to something that involves rope and the redhead’s ankles. The crowd has shifted closer, drawn in by the quiet intensity of it. Fury watches with her lips slightly parted and her pupils blown wide, and I can see the night catching up to her—the kill, the blood, the adrenaline that hasn’t fully metabolized. She’s a live wire looking for a circuit.

“Fury,” I warn.

“Knoxie.” She smiles and disappears into the crowd before I can catch her wrist.

I almost laugh.

She thinks the bodies and noise make her hard to find. They don’t. I know every exit, stairwell, and blind corner in this building. I know how Fury moves.

I key my radio. “All stations. Brunette. Silver mask. Black dress. Nobody touches her. She doesn’t leave the building.”

She’s already slipping through the crowd, a streak of bare legs, wet hair, and chaos cutting across the main floor. Male gazes follow her.

That dress is borderline illegal, even by club standards. It’s so tight that it’s obvious there’s nothing between her skin and the fabric. A hush follows her every step. She doesn’t notice, or she does and she’s weaponizing it.

I shadow her without closing the distance. She wants to be chased.

She grabs a glass from a passing tray and looks back at me. I nod. The drinks on the floor are controlled.

She downs it, and the liquor sharpens her grin. Then she sets the empty glass on the ledge and takes another, swirling the stem between two fingers as she surveys the room. She doesn’t drink this one. She only holds it while condensation beads across her palm.

The domme is binding the redhead to the post in a configuration I’ve seen before—legs splayed, tension focused on the inner thighs, maximum exposure without cutting off circulation. I know the type of rope, the knots, the points of failure. I could have done the rigging blindfolded, but watching Fury watch it is its own kind of exhibition. The way her focus narrows, the flush that moves up her throat, the way she bites her lip and tries not to show she’s reacting.

As I pass the bar, Micah catches my eye, tilts his head in question. I hold up one finger, a gesture to let him know I’m on it. He nods and goes back to pouring.

I follow her, but not close enough to pin her. She’s arcing through the edges of the room where the regulars keep to themselves and watch the stage show. The VIP corridor is minor league compared to what some of these men and women get up to after hours. I recognize most of the faces behind their masks. Two lawyers, a surgeon, a man who owns half the marina.

Fury glances over her shoulder and catches me watching. She lifts her chin like I’m a challenge. Like she wants me to be the problem she solves tonight.