Page 7

I t doesn’t register at first—the change between Sammy and me.

But ever since I stepped off that elevator, wrapped in red and reckless intent, I’ve felt it.

Like a live wire crackling between us, like the air is thicker, heavier, charged with something I don’t dare name.

For one thing?

His gaze never strays too far.

I feel it like a weight tracking my every move.

I should be flattered.

And I am.

I mean, Sammy Ramirez is fly as fuck.

Tall and broad, his body is built like sin and discipline had a baby.

A big, sexy, unattainable baby.

Tattoos snake down his arms, ink slithering over corded muscle and lethal intent.

Some stretch down to his hands, others crawl up past the collar of his shirt, teasing at the edges of his skin like secrets I want to uncover.

I haven’t seen him shirtless in years, but I remember— a tribal piece across his left pec.

Now, I can’t help but wonder what else he’s added.

What new stories are etched into his skin?

What new sins has he collected?

I want to see them.

I want to see him .

Shit.

Now I’m wet, my thighs pressing together as I wiggle where I stand.

“What’s up? Got a jam?”

Jade’s voice snaps me back to reality, her grin sly as she watches me shift uncomfortably.

I snort, rolling my eyes. “No, I do not have a jam, Mom .”

“Oh? Then why you shaking your ass like that? You fishing or something?” Jade continues, undisturbed by my snark.

Busted.

“Um, maybe because Sammy boy is making a meal of her with those hazel eyes of his,” Coral chimes in, and now I’m equal parts mortified and hopeful.

He is not.

“He is not!” I protest weakly, but I know I sound ridiculous.

Coral shrugs. “Look, I don’t see the big deal. Just go over there and say, ‘Listen up, Samuel, I’m looking to punch my V card this weekend, you up for it?’ And if he says no, fuck it—or not,” she pauses.

“Oh my God! Lee-Lee is here!”

Jade’s shriek cuts through the conversation, and I turn to see our late arrival actually got here a day early.

Leanna Volkov. Affectionately called Lee-Lee.

My favorite of all my honorary cousins.

She’s beautiful, sharp as hell, and Michaela’s little sister, so after she hugs the entire damn group, she beelines for me.

She doesn’t waste time.

“Okay. What’s going on?”

I tell her everything.

Which, in reality, is nothing.

A few lingering stares.

A few moments where it felt like the ground shifted.

But it’s enough for her to grin like the wolf she is.

All the Volkovs are wolves. And that means Sammy is, too.

“This is good,” she muses. “He’s finally seeing you as an adult.”

I blink. “How do you figure?”

She smirks, leaning in like we’re conspiring against the universe itself.

“For one thing? Every time you turn around, his eyes go straight to your ass.”

We burst into laughter, giddy with the secret thrill of it all.

But our girlfriend reunion is soon interrupted by some unwanted attention.

I’m half a margarita in, plus the wine I had with dinner, and I feel good.

Loose, warm, bold.

“Beautiful ladies, how are you this fine evening? My name is Chris, and this here is Peter.”

The taller one— Chris —smiles like he’s God’s gift to women, his voice slick with forced charm.

I glance up.

They’re not terrible looking, but they radiate cheap cologne and misplaced confidence.

I should work on my flirt game, so I give a polite smile, accepting the compliment for what it is.

“That’s sweet. Thank you.”

Chris grins wider, sensing an opening. “Just the truth. Now, how about you tell me your name?”

I scrunch my nose, because nope.

I’m not interested, and after a few seconds, I realize I can’t even pretend.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

Chris doesn’t back off.

He leans in, just enough to set me on edge.

“Come on, have a sip of your drink and relax. You’re in Vegas, Dollface.”

I cut my eyes at Leanna, but she’s dealing with Peter, who’s just as persistent.

The irritation flares hotter, because these idiots have seconds before someone from our group notices and drags them the fuck out of here.

I try one last time.

“Look, you really want to leave us alone.” My voice is even, calm but firm. “For your own good.”

Chris laughs, low and condescending.

Then he pushes my drink toward my mouth.

“Come on, sweetheart. Just a sip. It’ll make you feel better.”

Warning alarms go off in my head.

Too aggressive.

Too insistent.

This is not normal.

I turn my head just before the rim of the glass can make contact with my lips.

The sticky margarita spills down my cheek and neck, cold against my flushed skin.

I gasp, the shock hitting just as hard as the realization. This fucker is up to no good.

But that lasts all of two seconds.

Because he’s here.

Sammy.

And Chris’ world ends in an instant.

The sound of his skull smashing against polished wood is muted by the noise of the bar.

But I hear it just fine.

The crack echoes inside my ears. The sheer power, the force behind it, is enough to make my stomach drop. And my heart pound.

It is not a normal reaction to violence.

Gasps.

Squeals.

Glasses rattle against marble.

I don’t flinch.

Because my focus is only on him.

His expression is pure fury, his body tense with violence, his hand still fisted in Chris’ collar like he’s debating whether or not to finish the job.

He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in measured control, but his eyes— his bold hazel eyes are on me.

“You okay?”

His voice is low, rough, deadly.

I wipe at the sticky margarita clinging to my skin, trying to ignore the way my fingers tremble.

I nod. But my heart is racing, and Sammy sees it.

He sees all of it.

And suddenly—he’s even angrier.

The kind of anger that demands blood.

“Don’t fucking drink that. And stay right here.”

His command is sharp, absolute, and before I can respond, he’s already looking past me.

“Andrea! You got her?”

“Yeah, I got her.”

Junior’s already dragging Peter toward the side door, security swarming the area, but Sammy?

Sammy isn’t leaving this to them.

He drags the man, Chris, towards the side door and I am left standing there, mouth open.

“Here,” Andrea says, and she’s wiping my face and neck with a wet napkin.

“T-thanks,” I mutter and take over.

“What do you think is happening?”

“Whatever it is, that asshole deserves it. Look,” Andrea says, and she grabs my margarita and leans over the bar to dump the liquid into the stainless steel sink.

She shows me what’s left and I see a filmy white residue.

“He tried to drug me,” I whisper, horrified at what might have happened if Sammy hadn’t been there to save me.

And just like that, I fall a little harder.