Page 168 of Dance of Defiance

“Fuck, that isnasty?—”

I laugh as I pluck it from her hand and toss it away along with mine. “C’mon, let’s?—”

I freeze as I half turn. My eyes have just locked on a black car coming to a stop out front of Doomsday.

…A black car that fuckingRomansteps out of, a giggling blonde in a too-tight dress hanging from his arm.

My chest tightens. My gut clenches. I watch her turn tokiss his fucking bicep, and something savage inside meroarsfor blood.

“Should we go back in?” Brooklyn asks, not seeing Roman before he and that slag walk into the club.

“Yeah,” I growl.

Let’s fucking go, motherfucker.

30

ROMAN

“Oh myGod,this place issoin right now?”

I genuinely don't know if that was a statement or a question. But I also don’t give a fuck.

So I ignore Anna, like I’ve been doing all fucking night, and slug back the drink in my hand. I don’t miss Bane’s piercing look as he watches me reach for the bottle of vodka in the bucket of ice on our VIP table and snatch it up. But I ignore him as I refill my glass and bring it back to my lips.

Fuck it. Right now, this is fuckingmedicinal.

Anna is still babbling away about God-knows-what. I’m ignoring her. I’m ignoring my friends, too, together with their ladies. Carmine, Lyra, Nico, and Naomi are all clustered to one side of me, making plans to head out to Carmine and Nico’s father Vito’s house out on Long Island in a week. Nero is all cozied up with Milena sitting on his lap, his hand tangled in her hair and his face buried in her neck as she giggles and blushes and only half-heartedly tries to shoo him away while she talks to Brooklyn.

Laz has some girl whose name I don’t remember—I doubt he does either—eating out of his palm as he plies her with his usual bullshit. And Bane…

Well, Bane actually pulled my attention for a second, but only because I thought the fucker was staring at my goddamn sister. But it’s not Evie he’s got his fierce gaze locked on. It’s the girl with the silvery-pink hair sitting next to her.

Interesting.

But not interesting enough to pull my attention fully away from what it isfullyengrossed in, across the club.

Him.

Specifically, him and whoever the fucksheis: the fucking brunette wearing too much eyeshadow, straddling his lap and sucking his neck.

The urge to maim or cause serious bodily harm thunders through me.

It’s been three fucking weeks since that night in the alley…my drunken and entirely cringe attempt to…I don’t even know. Push him? To what end? Or confront him? Same question.

All I know is, that night he took me somewhere I’d never been—dark, beyond where we’d gone before, as terrifying as it was thrilling.

The fucked-up truth is, that night in the alley might be the best sex I’veeverhad. It’s also the mostbrutalsex I’ve ever had.

I was sore fordaysafterward. But I was also so hard it hurt, and I’ve spent more times than I can count since that night strokingmy swollen cock, trying to recapture the heat of that moment as he fucked me against the brick wall.

But there’s no touching whatever that was. Not even close.

A week ago, deep into a bottle, I actually thought about recreating that moment more…truthfully.

AKA with an actual partner. Somehow, I forced myself to download Grindr again. But after the tenth guy in five minutes messaged me “throat my cock, daddy” or “bend me over and rail me”, I just felt…numb.

Cold.