Page 4 of No One’s Daughter

Light strobed overhead in erratic bursts—acid greens, harsh reds, flashes of white that froze everything into disjointed snapshots—a grin here, a raised arm there, bodies colliding and separating in time with the rhythm.

I let myself sink into it.

No thinking. No analysing. No replaying the day in exhausting loops.

Just movement.

I lifted my arms, letting the pulse of the music carry through me, every beat loosening something tight in my soul, when I felt someone step in close behind me.

A body, warm and immediate. I started to turn, ready to shrug him off, maybe give him a pointed look that said ‘not interested’ without wasting a breath on it—

But then I saw him.

And paused.

Actually… he was really fucking hot.

Tall enough that I had to tilt my head slightly. He was dressed simply—dark jeans and a dark shirt, nothing fancy but it worked. Effortless, like he didn’t need to try. But that wasn’t what had held my attention.

It was his hair.

God, his hair.

A thick, unruly mane of dirty blond, falling past his shoulders in loose waves, almost as long as my own, catching the strobe lights in flashes. He looked like he belonged to some eighties rock band, like he should have a guitar slung low across his hips and a crowd screaming his name.

But he was looking at me.

Not vaguely. Not casually.

Directly.

The brief flicker of irritation dissolved as quickly as it had come.

Who was I to stop him?

I let my hesitation melt into the rhythm, turning fully this time and closing the small gap between us as I swirled my hips against his. If he wanted to dance then we’d dance.

His hands didn’t grab, didn’t presume—just hovered for a moment, giving me the chance to pull away. When I didn't, when I leaned into him instead, they settled lightly at my hips.

A spark shot low through my stomach.

Definitely the alcohol talking. Right?

But drunk Ailsa had always had a better instinct for fun than sober Ailsa ever dared to admit.

I tipped my head back slightly, catching the glint of amusement in his eyes as the lights flickered over us. There was something in the way he moved—confident without being overbearing, matching my pace rather than trying to control it.

Good.

I pressed back just enough to test him, letting the music guide our movements, the two us slipping into the same rhythm as if it had been decided long before this moment.

The rest of the room blurred at the edges. There was only him.

His breath was hot against the nape of my neck and one of his hands moved from my hips to further explore the curves of my body, and I let him.

Next thing I knew, I was pushing him out the fire exit to the rear of the building, with his lips firmly pressed on mine.

​The cold November air bit at my skin as we stepped outside, but it did little to quell the rising heat in me.