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T he lights of Las Vegas burn bright.

Too bright.

Flashing neon, pulsing LED billboards, the dizzying chaos of Sin City.

It’s loud, ostentatious, a living, breathing thing that thrives on excess.

The first time I came to Sin City as an adult, it was loads of fun. We took in shows, ate at the most exclusive restaurants, and danced like wild things with our parents there, protecting us.

The second trip was kids only, adult kids , but still the offspring of what newly married Dr. Michelle, Michaela’s bestie, lovingly calls the Volkov Clan .

She’s been one of us forever, so she’s like family, too.

Now, I’m a Fury, but I don’t mind being included in that.

My uncles Nico and Luc run Viper Enterprises with my father, Angel Fury. But I know they have a reputation as being something other than businessmen.

Heck, I’d have to be blind not to know that.

But none of it matters to me.

Angel Fury’s reputation might be fierce, but to me he’s just Dad.

I’m his and my mother’s only child, so when I say I’ve been sheltered and kept safe throughout my whole life, I mean it.

So yeah, Vegas is always a fun go-to spot for any of our celebrations. There is plenty of glitz and dazzle to entertain all of us.

But none of it compares to him.

Sammy Ramirez.

He moves through the chaos like a shadow—silent, composed, utterly unaffected.

The kind of man who commands a room without ever raising his voice.

And fuck, is he gorgeous.

Not just in the conventional way, though there’s plenty of that—tall and broad-shouldered, his body carved from the kind of discipline most men dream of but never attain.

Dark, tousled hair that always looks a little messy, like someone’s had their hands in it. It makes me jealous to think about that.

How many women have been lucky enough to touch him?

I work hard to push those thoughts away and focus on him instead.

He’s got amazing features.

A jaw so sharp it could cut glass, kissed by the barest hint of stubble.

His nose is straight. Like his teeth. Perfect and brilliant white.

And his eyes—hazel green, wrapped in a ring of amber flame.

They shouldn’t exist in real life.

Eyes like that belong in myths, in stories of gods and monsters.

He’s everything a man should aspire to be.

And one hundred percent out of my league.

Yet I can’t stop watching him.

It’s stupid.

I’m too young to catch his eye.

Too soft in all the wrong places.

Too green, too inexperienced.

I won’t say I’m dumb, because I’m not.

Having dyslexia meant years of battling not just words on a page, but the voices in my head telling me I wasn’t good enough.

Grade school bullies didn’t need to remind me—I already doubted myself. I already wondered if I was broken.

But I learned. I grew.

With the help of my parents, my tutors, my sheer stubbornness, I refused to let it define me. I worked harder, pushed myself further. I won.

I don’t let those thoughts in my head anymore.

But Sammy?

Sammy is in a class of his own.

He’s brilliant.

He went to Princeton. Made the Dean’s List frequently.

Then he walked away from it all and joined the Marines.

Not just that—he was picked for classified duty, spending years buried in the kind of work most people pretend doesn’t exist.

Under MARSOC— Marine Forces Special Operations Command —he became something more than just a soldier. We were never told exactly, but I researched it. I studied.

MARSOC made weapons of men. That’s what Sammy had been for them.

A blade.

A ghost.

But he was so much more to me. And I spent years praying for his safe return.

Not that he needed my prayers. Sammy doesn’t need anyone.

Even so, I used to write to him.

Long letters, filled with every thought I couldn’t say out loud.

I never sent them.

Because letters like that— letters that raw, that intimate —deserved to be written by hand, not typed and stripped of their flaws by some impersonal software.

And my handwriting? A disaster.

The mistakes would have been everywhere, visible, like a neon sign screaming that I couldn’t measure up. That I didn’t deserve him.

So, I kept them. Tucked them away. Let my feelings rot in the dark where they belonged.

But it never stopped the way my mind wandered to him. The way it still does.

Especially now.

Because as we check into our rooms, my stomach clenches when I see him grab his keycard right after I take mine.

His room is right next to mine.

The realization settles in my chest like a slow-burning ember, warm and dangerous.

I shouldn’t be excited.

I shouldn’t feel my pulse pick up, shouldn’t feel the heat unfurl low in my belly at the simple knowledge of his proximity.

Nothing will happen.

I know that.

I know.

But it doesn’t stop me from wanting.

Doesn’t stop my heart from hammering against my ribs, from my breath catching in my throat at the mere thought of him just on the other side of that wall.

I can’t help it.

Because being near Sammy Ramirez has always felt like standing too close to an open flame—dangerous, intoxicating, inevitable.

And I have spent years trying not to burn.

“What are you wearing tonight?”

Jade’s voice pulls me from my thoughts as she tucks her brilliant red hair behind her ear, her emerald eyes glittering with mischief.

I shift my gaze to hers, grateful for the distraction. Clothes—safe territory.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, twisting a strand of my own hair between my fingers. “I have this red thing Mom got me,” I hedge.

Even as I say it, my cheeks heat.

Because I know exactly which dress I’m talking about.

A slinky, dangerous little number—thin straps, barely there fabric, the kind of dress that whispers sin with every move.

My dad would freak out if he saw me in it. He still thinks of me as his baby girl.

But I’ve been a grown ass woman for years. I can wear a sexy dress if I want to.

And for one reckless second, I wonder what Sammy will think if I wear it tonight.

Will his eyes linger?

Will his jaw go tight the way it does when he’s irritated?

Or will he not notice at all?

I shove the thought down, forcing a nonchalant shrug.

Jade gasps and claps her hands. “Ooooh! Red looks amazing on you! I’m so jealous. I can’t ever wear it with all this ginger I’ve got going on.”

She snorts, flicking her hair dramatically over her shoulder.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh, stop. You always look gorgeous.”

She preens, unashamed.

“I also have that black jumper I wore for New Year’s,” I add, in a bid to anchor myself back to reality. “You know, as my safety.”

“That’s pretty too. Cora’s wearing black, so you’d match.”

I nod, pretending to care, pretending my mind isn’t already made up.

Jade chatters on about her outfit choices, but my thoughts keep drifting—to him.

To what he’ll think when he sees me in red.

“You know,” Jade’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, her grin downright wicked. “Wearing that red might help you find that thing you’re looking for.”

My stomach plummets.

Because we’re in a freaking box—a goddamn elevator—and I know he can hear her.

I feel his attention shift before I even see it.

My worst fear is confirmed when I look up.

Sammy is watching us.

Head cocked slightly, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Curious, maybe? Amused?

Shit.

I glare at Jade, who just smirks like the evil little goblin she is.

And then he speaks.

“You lose something?” His voice is smooth, deep, too damn knowing as he dips his chin in my direction.

Oh my God. Kill me.

“Not yet,” Jade jumps in, fucking delighted. “But she sure is trying.”

I elbow her. Hard.

She yelps. “Ow!”

“Shut up, Jade,” I whisper.

Her laughter fills the elevator, while Sammy’s gaze lingers on me for one beat too long.

And just like that, the game I swore I wasn’t going to play officially begins.

The hotel is one of those exclusive resorts I’ve been visiting my entire life—marble floors that gleam under crystal chandeliers, walls lined with gold trim, the air thick with wealth and power.

The kind of place that should make me feel comfortable.

But right now?

Right now, I feel like every second in this space is etching itself into my skin.

The elevator hums beneath my feet, smooth and silent, a masterpiece of modern engineering.

And yet, I can hear it.

Or maybe that’s just the pounding of my heart, the roar of my blood rushing through my veins.

What the hell was Jade thinking, talking about that in front of him?

Being a twenty-four-year-old virgin isn’t exactly something I want announced to the entire world— especially not to Sammy Ramirez .

My face still burns from the mortification of it all.

Then, as if the universe just wants to make things worse, he reaches out and plucks my weekend bag straight from my hand.

My pulse riots.

But then—he takes Jade’s too.

So, it’s not a big deal. Right?

He’s just being polite. Helpful.

It means nothing.

When the elevator doors glide open on our floor, he stops at Jade’s door first, setting her bag down.

“Thanks, Sammy!” she calls, already slipping inside.

He nods at her in that effortless, silent way of his.

Then he turns to me.

His presence is a force, heavy and all-consuming, even in something as mundane as a hallway.

“Got your key, Pixie?”

My stomach flips.

Pixie .

I forgot he used to call me that. I used to wear my hair short, in like a bob. I’ve grown it out the past two years and now it hangs past my shoulders in a thick, straight line.

But the nickname still wraps around me like a phantom touch, and I feel myself freeze under the weight of it.

My tongue darts out to wet my lips, my mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“Yeah,” I murmur, lifting my key card.

I expect him to step back, to leave me fumbling with it, but instead, he takes it from me—his fingers brushing against mine as he unlocks the door.

His gaze?

Never leaves me.

My breath stutters as he pushes the door open, stepping inside just enough to drop my bag.

“Inside, Pixie. Now.”

The words shouldn’t do what they do to me.

But my brain goes static, my body frozen in place, like some part of me expects him to follow me in.

What the hell am I waiting for?

For him to kiss me goodbye?

Jesus. What is with me today?

I blink, forcing my legs to move, stepping inside like an idiot who forgot how doors work.

Before I can say something truly humiliating, he halts me again.

“Don’t leave this room alone, okay?” he says.

I frown. “What? Yeah, okay,” I say, confused as hell.

Why is he even telling me this?

His jaw tics, but he doesn’t clarify.

Instead, his gaze lingers—just a beat too long, a second too heavy, like he’s considering something he has no business considering.

“Wear the red.”

His voice is deep and gritty. The words slam into me, knocking the air right out of my lungs.

Before I can process them, he steps back.

And closes the door on himself.

I stand there, staring at the space where he was, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Wear the red.

What the hell just happened?

“Holy fuck,” I whisper aloud.

My heart is beating me to death. But I know better than to let myself think about him romantically.

I have spent most of my life tucked neatly into the periphery of his vision.

A kid.

A little cousin.

An irritant at worst, a background fixture at best.

Usually, I make myself scarce when he comes home.

The few times he’s been back, I either stick to the shadows or place myself firmly in the center of the girls and their chaos, letting the sheer volume of their antics drown me out.

A self-imposed invisibility cloak.

And it worked.

Mostly.

I dated a little, flirted just enough to seem normal, but never let anything get serious.

Because deep down, I was still waiting.

Still holding on to the foolish, pathetic hope that maybe—just maybe—he’d see me.

That Sammy Ramirez would finally notice me.

But this time?

This time, I absolutely know better.

This trip is about me. About my achievements.

I fought for this degree. I earned this.

And I refuse to waste another second mooning over a man who will never see me as anything other than a distant shadow in his orbit.

Sammy Ramirez might be the only man I’ve ever wanted.

But it’s time I start living.