Page 44

Saxon didn’t save me. Not really. He offered hope and disappeared when it counted. He’s a badge with a broken conscience and a hero complex, and he’s dangerous not because he wants to hurt me—but because he might want to try to save me again. And I don’t need saving anymore.
“I know where I stand,” I tell Lucky.
He nods once, satisfied. Then he offers me a cigarette—just holds it out, no pressure.
I take it, even though I don’t smoke. I hate the smell of cigarettes. But my hands are trembling, and holding something—anything—makes me feel like maybe I still have control over myself.
He lights it for me. The flame flares between us like a warning.
We stand there in silence for a moment—me, exhaling smoke and memories I wish I could forget, and Lucky, who’s all quiet menace as he inhales his own stick.
“I like you, Max,” he says finally. “But don’t mistake my charm for patience.”
I meet his eyes. “I won’t.”
“Good girl.”
And then he turns, slips back inside like a ghost—returning to the party, to the danger, to the world I keep telling myself I’m strong enough to face. And me? I stay out here, watching the city blink beneath me, the ember at the end of my cigarette glowing like a fuse. Because I’m not sure if I’m ready to walk back into the fire—or if I’m about to start one of my own.
19
SAXON
Maxine Andrade.
She’s the itch I can’t scratch. The wound that won’t close. The ghost that haunts me even when I’m wide awake. And now, here she is—moving through the ballroom like sin in silk, her hair swept up, her mouth painted the shade of temptation. She doesn’t look back, but I can feel her like static in the air.
Mason Ironside looked at me like he was already picking out a grave plot. And Brando Gatti? His trigger finger twitched the second I stepped into this marble-covered nightmare. Maybe I should’ve turned around. Perhaps I should’ve taken one look at the wolves watching over her and walked the hell out. But I didn’t. Because she’s here. And no matter how suicidal it is, no matter how many loaded guns stand between me and the last woman I should want—I tell myself she’s worth it. She’s worth the pain. Worth the fallout. Worth the fucking bullet to my heart. Because if I’m going to die, I’d rather do it chasing the only thing that ever made me feel alive.
She disappears down a hallway—cool and composed, like she isn’t splintering me from the inside out.
I wait a minute. Then I follow. I know I’m going to do somethingfucking stupid. But logic left the building the minute I saw her in that dress.
Scarlet. Fitted. A goddamn siren’s song stitched onto her skin. Every step she took was a dare, and every breath she took was one I didn’t deserve to witness. The slit up her thigh could drive a priest to sin, and the curve of her back where the fabric dipped low—I’ve killed men for less temptation.
I move fast, silent. No one sees me.
The door to the ladies’ room swings shut behind her, and I wait three seconds. Three. That’s all the mercy I’ve got left. Then I follow her in and lock the door with a soft click.
The room smells like jasmine. Everything is polished, too clean. Too sterile for the firestorm happening inside me.
She doesn’t see me at first. She’s at the mirror, head tilted slightly, applying lipstick with slow, precise strokes.
Petal pink.
Of fucking course.
She presses her lips together, makes that littlepopsound, and my grip on reality snaps like a tripwire.
I close the distance before she realizes she’s not alone.
My voice is a razor against her neck. “I hate that fucking lipstick.”
She jumps, the tube slipping from her hand and rattling against the porcelain basin.
“What the hell?—”
I crowd her before she can finish, pressing her back into the counter. One hand on either side of her. Not touching. But caging her in all the same. My shadow swallows hers. My silence dares her to run. My voice is rough—low enough to scrape against her spine. There’s no calm left in me, just heat and hunger and the kind of wrath that comes from wanting something you can’t fuckinghave.