Page 44 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

I can’t focus on him, though, because the place is packed. Booths crowded with tattooed men and the kind of women who look like they bite, not kiss. The bar’s shoulder-to-shoulder. Everyone’s loud. And then—

“I guess the little nuisance isn’t as easy to scare off as I hoped,” a deep voice rumbles, low and slow, and I freeze.

“King,” the man says, extending a hand.

I look at it. Then back to his eyes. Then back again.

“Does he always wear that thing?” I whisper, not giving a single shit who hears me. His eyes glint like he’s amused—at least I think that’s amusement. Hard to tell when his entire damn face is covered by a mask that looks like it was cut from a black T-shirt and turned into a war crime.

Moe clears his throat behind me, hands dropping to my waist with a subtle squeeze. I squirm. What the hell, hero , you’re using me as a human shield now?

“I do,” King says smoothly. “Gets old watching women drop to your feet everywhere you go.”

My nose scrunches as I try not to laugh—but a snort slips out anyway.

“Big ego?” I ask, and the fabric over his face shifts as he lets out a full laugh.

“Ray,” Moe says, tone exasperated but fond. “Obviously, you’ve met the mammoth—sorry, King . That man there is Jon, and—”

“Delilah’s on the table over there,” Jon interrupts, raising his glass with a shit-eating grin and pointing straight across the bar.

Sure enough, a tiny woman is dancing barefoot on top of a round table like she owns the place, hair flying, a beer in one hand and no shame in sight.

“Uh—” I open my mouth to ask what kind of fever dream we just stepped into, but Moe squeezes my hip again. Not hard. Not controlling. Just… steadying.

“I’m sure after a while, both of you will meet Larkin,” Jon says casually, like he didn’t just throw another wild name into this circus.

King grumbles beside him, “Shouldn’t’ve fuckin’ come.”

“Larkin?” Moe asks, distracted, but I’m too focused on the way King’s leaning in to whisper something to the waitress he flagged down. She nods quickly, cheeks flushed .

“I thought you hated attention,” I say, eyeing him as the woman practically runs off, dazed.

“Caught me there, Schatz,” King replies, eyes crinkling behind the mask in a way that reminds me of Moe when he smiles for real—and I hate that it makes me smile too.

“Larkin’s my boss,” Jon says, taking another long sip of his drink. “She’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but you’ll get used to her.”

He tips his head like he’s excusing himself and moves through the crowd toward Delilah, who’s now got an audience cheering her on.

I stand there in the middle of it all, still gripping Moe’s hand, trying to make sense of the strange, smoke-filled kingdom he’s invited me into.

And not for the first time, I wonder how many versions of him I haven’t met yet.

Moe doesn’t say anything as Jon disappears, just gently nudges me toward a booth with an open corner. King follows, grabbing a chair with one hand like it weighs nothing and spinning it backward to sit astride it.

The waitress he’d flirted with returns a minute later, arms full—two beers for Moe and me, and something darker for King.

I shoot Moe a look, but apparently he can't read the “what the fuck have you drug me into" look on my face because all he does is smirk.

“I figured you owed her a drink,” King adds, gesturing toward me with his glass. “For dragging her into this circus without warning.”

“Still not convinced I’m not being punked,” I mutter, but I take the beer anyway, grateful for something to ground me.

The conversation starts to loosen as the drinks settle in.

King tells some story about Jon getting kicked out of a wedding for trying to bet on if the bride would run.

Moe’s head drops into his hands halfway through, groaning through a laugh like he’s already regretting this entire night as Jon rambles about all the best things to use as make-shift weapons around us.

Turns out even a fucking napkin can be fatal .

I’m tipsy by the second round. Not drunk—just warm. My cheeks ache from smiling, and my body finally relaxes against Moe’s side as his fingers tap along my thigh under the table. Every so often, his grip shifts, anchoring me when King’s stories veer too wild or the crowd gets too loud.

Then the music changes.

Something with a slower beat—still rock, but smoother, the kind of song that makes even the drunkest asshole pause before heading for the dance floor.

King sets his glass down, eyes already on me. “Dance with me, Schatz?”

I blink. “What?”

“C’mon.” He gestures toward the open floor. “You look like the type who knows how.”

“She is,” Moe says before I can answer, voice tight but polite.

“You should see her on a bar, but I guess Delilah has her territory marked here.” His smile is plastered on, not reaching his eyes.

“Just one,” King says, rising to his full, towering height. “I promise not to step on your feet. Much.”

I glance at Moe. His hand stills on my thigh. No protest, just a shrug that somehow feels more like a challenge than permission.

I sigh and slide out of the booth. “Fine. But if I end up concussed, I’m blaming you.”

King grins like I just made his night.

He leads me to the center of the floor, one hand hovering at my waist, the other loosely catching mine. We move easily, surprisingly in sync despite his size. His hand is steady but never forceful. The rhythm is slow enough that I don’t have to think.

Yet, I do.

Because something about King feels familiar.

Not just his eyes, or broad shoulders, or self-assured way he carries himself.

It’s the way his tone softens just for me.

The way he watches everyone else while pretending not to.

The tension under the charm. It’s Moe—but older.

Rougher. Like a future version molded by fire and a few too many scars.

“You’ve got sharp eyes,” he says as we turn. “For someone who pretends not to be watching everything.”

“So do you,” I reply before I can stop myself.

He smirks. “I like you.”

I roll my eyes. “You seem to like anything as long as it's female.”

“True. You don’t trust many people, do you?”

I tense slightly. “Don’t read too deep.”

“Too late.”

He winks. It should be ridiculous—the whole mask thing, the way he towers over everyone like a damn myth—but it isn’t. There’s something magnetic about him. Not like Moe, though. Moe feels like gravity. King feels like a dare.

“You sure you’re not flirting with me just to piss him off?” I ask.

“I can't help it. He seems fun to rile up, and I think it's working.”

I laugh, shaking my head—until I see Moe weaving through the crowd toward us, all easy swagger and pretend calm. His smile is deadly.

“Mind if I cut in?” Moe asks, already slipping a hand around my waist, pulling me back into his chest like we belong there.

King gives a lazy bow and backs off, hands raised. “Be my guest.”

Moe doesn’t say anything at first—just moves with me. Slow, deliberate, a hand firm on my lower back and the other resting on my hip like he’s reclaiming what was always his.

“You enjoy yourself?” he finally murmurs, lips brushing my temple.

I hum, resting my cheek against his chest. “You’re cute when you’re pretending not to be jealous.”

His chest rumbles with a soft laugh. “I don’t pretend, baby. I just play nice.”

I lift my head. “And when you’re done playing?”

He doesn't say anything, just presses a kiss just beneath my ear, making a shiver roll down my spine .

By the time the song ends, Moe’s already guiding me back toward the door with a hand on the small of my back and a new kind of silence settling between us. Not awkward. Not angry. Just… charged.

King catches my eye from the booth, lifting his glass in a mock salute.

I don’t wave back, but I don’t look away, either.