Page 4

Nic

I approach the bar like it’s a snake pit.

Kai is different in person. Bigger. And there’s a stillness to him that makes everything else feel chaotic in comparison.

I let my heels click against the marble floor, deliberately announcing my presence. He doesn’t turn, but his shoulders tighten.

Interesting. He’s aware of every movement around him, like someone who’s learned to watch his back.

Like the criminal he is.

I take the spot beside him—close enough to let him think I’m interested, yet far enough to give off shy vibes. My fingers drum nervously on the counter, and I shift my weight from foot to foot.

His head turns slightly, and my heart stutters when he takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare.

He’s inhaling my scent—like a fucking predator.

“Well, that’s disappointing.”

“Excuse me?” I force civility into my tone, despite wanting to scream in his face.

He takes another sip of his drink. “You’ve been watching me all night, but now that you’re here, you can’t find your tongue.”

Oh my God. He’s cocky.

I ball my fists and persevere, imagining that a man who kills women would prefer them weak and docile.

He gestures to the bar, dark eyes finding mine. “What would you like?”

How about a confession? Justice? Your throat under my hands?

Instead, I drop my gaze like a good little wallflower, even as my nails dig crescents into my palm. “I—”

“Champagne?” He offers, gesturing to the empty bar stool beside him.

Seeing no point in remaining on my achy feet, I settle stiffly into it. “I’m not allowed to drink it.”

A single eyebrow lifts behind his mask. “Not allowed to have champagne?”

“Staff rules,” I shrug.

One of your sister’s ridiculous rules, which we’ll all gladly stick to if it means getting a shot at working with the great Lana Withers.

He studies me openly, like a puzzle he wants to solve, while I only let myself steal glances. This close, I can see his eyes aren’t entirely the rich dark chocolate I thought they were. There’s a ring of hazel around his pupils.

“Have we met?” He asks.

My heart stops.

Cass and I don’t look alike, but maybe she showed him pictures of me? Then again, at sixteen, I was rail-thin and used to dye my hair brown. I look nothing like I did back then.

The bartender appears, and I blurt out, “Gin and tonic,” like it’s a life raft.

A faint smirk touches Kai’s lips. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting about gin and tonic?” I keep my voice neutral, even as I imagine throwing the drink in his face.

“That you’d choose something so . . . proper.” His eyes skim my rented Oscar de la Renta long-sleeved black dress and matching lacy mask. “When you’re anything but.”

I almost gasp at his audacity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Allow me.” He gestures to the bartender. “The lady will also like a dirty martini.”

“I don’t want a dirty martini.”

“That’s alright. You’ll have both, then you can decide what you want.”

His arrogance irritates me to no end, but I keep my features schooled.

“This is your first time working with Shine with Scars, isn’t it?” He asks after a moment of tense silence.

“What gave it away?” I snap, my careful veneer starting to crack under the need to claw that smug, assessing look off his face.

“You’ve been in a mood all night.” He takes a slow sip of his drink. “As if you’re not used to rich, obnoxious men. Or you are, and you’ve just about had enough of them.”

“What, now you’re a psychologist?”

His massive shoulders lift in a shrug. “You’ve been hard-knuckling your chart, closer to slapping it across the faces of donors than actually coaxing decent chunks out of them.”

“Maybe I’m just not used to men analyzing my every move.” I shoot back.

“Liar.”

My teeth clench against the urge to crack my glass over his head. “Excuse me?”

“You’re used to being watched. You just don’t like being seen.”

I thought I loathed this guy. Finding out he’s a raging asshole in real life just blew that out of the water.

“Your drinks, darlin’,” the bartender slides both the martini and gin and tonic toward me and leaves.

I take both drinks, suddenly grateful for the dirty martini. At this rate, it’ll likely end up on Kai’s head.

“Thank you,” I force myself to mutter.

“For what? The drinks or the observation?” Kai returns.

“I was trying to be polite.”

“You missed the polite mark by a mile.”

My throat goes dry. There’s something almost predatory about his sudden proximity, like he’s waiting for me to make a wrong move. “What do you mean?”

“Polite women don’t look at men the way you’ve been looking at me all night.”

“And how exactly have I been looking at you?”

“Like you want to tear me apart.”

Jesus.

I take a too-large sip of the gin and tonic, trying to steady myself. “That’s quite an ego you’ve got there.”

“I didn’t mean in the way you’re thinking.” He reaches for his wallet and places a check on the bar.

One hundred thousand dollars.

Fuck. Yes.

But I’d rather choke on glass than take the check, so I clench my teeth and grind the words out. “I don’t want your money.”

“You don’t?” He looks from me to the almost-empty pledge board. “Then why are you here?”

“A bet,” I snap. “My friend dared me to talk to you for five minutes.”

His lips curve slightly. “The one making chicken noises by the fountain?”

My mouth twitches into an involuntary smile. “That would be him.”

Kai turns to face me fully, one forearm resting on the bar top, his wool-encased thighs nearly bracketing mine. The space between us shrinks, and his scent—earthy, masculine, clean—hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Tell me what you do. Besides charity work?”

“I’m a dance and physical therapy instructor. For children with burns.” I fight to keep my mind from going to the fire he used to cover his tracks.

“Of course,” he drawls.

“Meaning what?”

“Nothing,” he says, tilting his glass. “I’m not the least bit surprised that you do something that demands endless patience. And lessons in pain.” His eyes flick to mine, unreadable. “It’s intriguing.”

The compliment lands too easily, too smoothly—like an expert stroke designed to lower my guard. And worse? Some traitorous part of me absorbs it, warmth blooming beneath my ribs before I can snuff it out.

“What do you do?” I ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to shift the focus. And to see if he’ll lie.

“Fitness. Gyms. A few other bits.”

“Figures,” I shoot back, waiting to see if he’ll take the bait.

He doesn’t bite. Instead, he watches me over the rim of his glass, then sets it down with a quiet clink.

“But what I do,” he murmurs, “isn’t really what you want to know, is it?”

My smile drops.

No. I want to know why you killed Cass. And how you got the police to keep it under wraps.

Sweat prickles along my spine, but I say nothing.

He studies me for a beat longer, then slides the check toward me again.

“I told you, I don’t want your money.”

“Ah, yes. The bet. You had five minutes. It’s been double that time, so why are you still here?”

A fucking fantastic question.

I don’t know what I expected to find by speaking to him. All he’s done is irritate me with his cocky bullshit and make me hate him even more.

Maybe the nine-year-old in me was looking for that champion Theo and I cheered for in the Beijing stadium. Or the mogul, philanthropist, the accomplished speaker, the man who wrote a book on surviving trauma.

Maybe I just wanted to put a personality to the apparition I’ve been chasing.

“You’re right. I’ve overstayed. Have a good evening, sir.”

I slide off the stool and turn to leave, but his hand closes around my upper arm—not rough, but electric. My skin prickles traitorously under his touch.

“Wait,” he murmurs. “Don’t you want an answer to the question of why you’re still here?”

His gaze flicks to my vacated seat in a wordless command.

My eyes narrow into slits, but I sit back down, anyway.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, ice clinking in the amber depths. Without warning, my eyes track the movement of his throat as he swallows, and my mouth goes dry.

“You didn’t leave because you’re tired of playing by the rules.”

I should not have sat back down.

“You know nothing about me,” I grit out.

“Don’t I?”

His fingers hook under my stool, and suddenly, I’m pulled forward, my knees nearly brushing his thighs.

He leans in, voice low, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath against my temple.

“You know what it means to survive a fire. You’re passionate enough to teach a group who will never be the best at what they do.”

His gaze drags over me—not like a man admiring a woman, but like he’s dissecting me piece by piece.

“You’re strong. Disciplined. And you wear that ring—“ his fingers barely brush mine, “a family heirloom, by the looks of it—like it’s a fucking handcuff.”

His voice drops to a whisper, his gaze settling on my lips.

“And right now?” His breath ghosts over my skin. “Right now, you’re dying to find out what would happen if you unleashed all that rage on me.”

“You’re wrong.”

Shit. How on earth did he do that—read me so well?

“Dance with me,” he whispers against my ear, as if I hadn’t spoken.

I blink, still reeling from his observation. “There’s no music. But even if there was, I’d never—”

“You don’t need music to dance.” His eyes burn into mine through his mask. “You’re wound so tight you’re about to snap.”

His index finger drags slowly along my ring finger, trailing an imaginary line up the back of my clenched fist, my lace-covered forearm, up to my tense shoulder, ending at my jaw before falling away. My mind blanks—pure sensation taking over.

“You didn’t need to touch me to prove your point.”

“Yet you proved yours by liking it.”

My heart kicks against my ribs, my pulse a wild, erratic thing as desperate words scrape my throat. “You should stop acting like a two-bit psychic, jackass.”

He leans back slightly to look at me, and I realize the hazel ring around his pupils is gone, swallowed by black.

“Your martini,” he murmurs. “Are you going to drink it or not?”

I can barely hear him over the roar of blood in my ears. My tongue darts out, dampening my lips. “No,” I snap. “I told you—I don’t want it.”

“Alright.” His finger returns, crooking under my chin. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends electricity racing down my spine. “Give me the olive, then.”

A command. A dare.

My heart kicks against my ribs, my mouth scrambling for a scathing response, but to my horror, my fingers are already moving, fishing out the olive and holding it out to him.

His mouth parts. Waiting.

He wants me to feed it to him?

I should throw it in his face and walk away.

I swallow what can only be revulsion as my hand moves again. And then I’m pushing the olive into his mouth.

His lips close over the olive. And over my index finger.

My gaze snaps to his when, instead of letting go, he applies suction.

And then I feel it—the slow, wet swirl of his tongue along my fingertip. Again. And again. My breath stutters, heat rushing between my legs, my thighs clenching in response.

And then—he bites down. Hard.

I gasp, my hand instantly flying across the jerk’s face, but he catches my wrist just in time. In one fluid motion, his fingers tangle in my ponytail, fisting tight as he forces my head back.

Rage erupts inside me, clawing for release. His lips hover a breath away from mine—full, taunting, too damn close.

I want to make them bleed.

As if he hears my thoughts, he growls, “Come on!”

Something inside me snaps. I lunge, crashing my mouth against his in a brutal collision. His grip tightens in my hair as I sink my teeth into his lip, and the sound he makes—low, rough—shudders through me like a live wire.

The moment I taste blood, the fight leaks out of me. I try to pull back, to breathe, to apologize, but his grip on my nape tightens, angling my head as his mouth claims mine, deep and unyielding, like he’s been waiting for this. Like he knew exactly how to break me. And I let him. God help me, I let him.

A sound claws out of my throat—desperate, starved—and I feel him smile against my lips. His other hand slides down my spine, pulling me closer until I’m flush against every hard, unforgiving inch of him.

I should stop this. I should remember why I’m here.

But then his tongue slides against mine, slow and deliberate, the metallic tang of his blood lingering between us, and eight years of pain shatters like glass dust.

Everything narrows to sensation—the scrape of his stubble against my chin, the bruising grip of his fingers on my nape, the heat rolling through my belly like wildfire.

I need to be closer.

As if I said it out loud, he growls and drags me fully onto his lap. My dress rides up as I straddle his thigh, and his hands slide to my ass, gripping tight as he grinds me against him.

The kiss turns from punishment to possession to pleasure. The shift is seamless. Shocking. One moment, we’re devouring each other like enemies trying to destroy, and the next, he moans—a deep, low sound that rumbles in his chest, raw and unguarded.

Heat bursts through my veins as my fingers fist in his shirt, as if anchoring myself to something real and solid while he kisses me like he never wants to stop.

And I don’t, either. I let him take and take, reveling in the way he consumes me—until my breath stutters. He lets me catch it, his mouth lifting off mine just enough to trail down my jaw, then lower, dragging heat and shivers in his wake. His teeth scrape my pulse point, and I tip my head back with a sharp inhale, giving him more.

The bar, the music, the crowd—all of it fades until there’s only this. Only him.

Someone laughs nearby. Too close. The sound pierces through my haze like a slap.

Reality crashes back with a vengeance.

What the actual fuck?

I’m grinding on a man in a public bar with people sitting less than ten feet away. A bar where I’m supposed to be working.

My horrified gaze drops to his face—and my stomach lurches.

Kai’s lips are swollen and red, the lower one still bleeding. His now-black eyes are unfocused. He looks . . . wrecked.

Because of me.

Because I bit him and fucking crawled into his lap like a bitch in heat.

Bile burns up my throat. I wrench away from him so fast I nearly topple to the floor. His arm whips out to steady me, but I stumble back, my legs trembling in these stupid heels.

“Hey—”

“Get the fuck away from me, you bastard!”

I snatch up my clipboard with badly shaking hands and shove through the crowd, past all the amused glances.

Across the room, I catch a glimpse of Barry.

From the look on his face, I know he saw everything.

He’s rooted to the spot, jaw slack, mask dangling from his fingers—like he needed to rip it off to better see me shoving my tongue down a complete stranger’s throat.

Except he’s not a stranger, is he?

The cold rain hits me as I burst through the doors. But it’s not enough to wash away the scent of him. The taste of him. The rich, metallic tang of his blood.

A sudden gag wrenches through me, morphing into dry retches. I bend over, giving myself up to it. But nothing comes up.

Nothing but shame.

What have I just done?