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“Oh… I’m not much of a dancer,” he says, eyeballing Sunday over my shoulder. I turn to follow his gaze. That bastard.

I don’t know how I know, I just do. He’s said something. Well, screw him for thinking that just because he can’t have me, that no one else can.

“Dance with me, and then I’ll let you feed from me in the bathroom.”

Chapter Fifteen

Sunday

The vibrations in the club are a living thing, digging under my skin and wending into the marrow of my bones.

It feels fucking good to be here, moving my body between smoke and silhouettes. Everything is painted in roaming lights, blues and pinks and purples that streak across the faces in the crowd.

I’m buzzed, just enough that I can give smiles freely instead of rationing them out. Sweat-slicked bodies brush against mine, but this is the only time I don’t mind it. When we’re here trying to forget about the state of the world and all its daily bullshit.

My good mood falters when the crowd parts like the Red Sea, revealing a blonde and a brunette dancing together. Two people I recognize immediately.

I don’t know which bit makes me more insane—Séverin’s hand clamped on Bellamy’s hip like it belongs there, or Bellamy’s arm looped around Séverin’s neck like he wants it there.

I’m not going to lie and say I’m not a pissy person, because I am. But the feeling that rears up inside me is nothing I’ve ever felt. Beyond jealousy, beyond anger, it makes my vision blur.

A black mist shrouds the corner of my eyesight as I start moving toward them.

I toss my plastic cup over my shoulder, not giving a fuck who it lands on, shoving my way through people. The chorus of the song comes to a diminuendo as I approach, evolving into the sexiest bridge I’ve ever heard. But I don’t feel good about it at all. I feel fucking rabid.

As the sultry riff of “So Far So Fake” by Pierce the Veil bleeds into the room, Séverin finally notices me storming toward them. His eyes widen, and his hips stop moving. I let him see all my fury, let him fill in the blanks. I told him once. I won’t tell him again.

I jerk my chin up, a warning. One that he heeds, backing away. He does me a favor in his panic, pushing Bellamy in my direction. He’s caught off-guard by the sudden shove, losing his footing and stumbling backward.

I reach for him, folding him against me. There’s nowhere for him to go as the crowd closes in, so he ends up with his back crushed against my chest. Inches disintegrate until he’s fully flush against me, my hands trying to burn off the impression of Séverin’s touch on his hips.

I tuck my cheek against the top of his head as we move in sync, arching against the press of my groin.

Fuck.

He looks so good against me. His boxy tee slips off his shoulder, revealing a strip of dark lace that looks like a bra strap, and I have to bite my lip.

There’s gotta be some kind of spark still between us because why does it feel like this? Why does the thought of another person touching him make me want to rip my own skin off? Why does my hand sliding from his hip to his bare stomach settle this burning inside me?

His belly contracts under my touch, and it takes everything I’ve got not to rut against him in the middle of the dance floor.

His head tips to the side, exposing his neck. My lips are barely an inch from the soft golden skin there, my pinky finger breaking into the waistband of his jeans.

I know I could make him feel good.

I know his body like a cartographer knows a map. Every line, every point of pleasure. I remember every one of them. I remember the sounds he makes under my hands, and the memories of those moans are better than any piece of music they’ll play tonight.

My hand travels farther into his jeans, catching on the fishnets. My fingers just manage to ghost over the soft hair between his legs when he pulls away from me.

He staggers off with a vague shooing motion, like he wants me to go away. I follow him like a hound on the scent, shooting dirty looks at the people who try to touch him, shoving one guy who manages to grab his wrist.

We burst out of the back doors of the club and into the alleyway, the cool, misty air caressing my sweaty skin. I just have time to readjust myself before Bellamy whirls on me.

“What are you doing?” He flings the words like arrows.

I scoff. “What am I doing? What are you doing?”

My vision pulses in the corners. I haven’t even drunk that much, yet I still have to blink against the throb in my skull.