Page 12 of Overdose

Ripped back with a snarl, like something wild just stepped into the alley.

Yanked.

Like the universe itself hit pause and rewrote the scene.

I blink.

Dagger.

He’s got the guy pinned against the wall by his throat, not even breaking a sweat. One arm cocked, muscles tight, eyes flat with something feral. Controlled and lethal. Like this is just routine.

The dude’s face goes sheet white. “Shit—Dagger—I didn’t know, man—I didn’t know?—”

Dagger doesn’t blink. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just tightens his grip enough to make the guy’s sneakers lift a few inches off the cracked pavement.

“You didn’t know, huh? Just because I deal the shit, doesn’t mean I’m going to sit back and play accomplice to assault. She said no. If I heard her, I fucking know you did. So now, you can find yourself a new dealer.”

The guy gags. “Fuck—no, please—don’t cut me off—I didn’t mean nothin’—please, Dagger?—”

Dagger lets him drop. The guy crumples, hands scraping concrete, coughing hard as he looks up like he's waiting for a bullet.

Dagger steps over him, slow. Controlled.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

And just to make it sting—he spits.

Right in the guy’s face.

Jesus.

The dude scrambles up like his legs are broken, practically tripping over himself as he runs off, blubbering like a kicked mutt. He disappears down the alley without a backward glance.

And me?

I’m standing there like an idiot, limbs trembling, jaw clenched, and still somehow—somehow—all I can think is:Well, fuck. I wish he’d spit on me like that.

Full force. Right between my thighs.

Before he?—

Stop it, Blair.

Jesus. Get a grip. You’re not gonna cum in an alley because some hot drug lord plays the filth card just right… Right?

Get it together, Blair. Goddamn.

I clear my throat, ignoring the tremble in my knees.

“I could’ve handled it,” I say, because pride’s a bitch, and mine doesn’t know when to shut up.

Dagger turns to me, finally. Eyes catching mine, cold and unreadable, but burning underneath.

“Not saying you couldn’t.”

He steps in closer. Close enough to smell the heat on his skin and the smoke on his shirt. His voice drops, slow and smooth, like honey poured over a knife.

My pulse spikes.