"" The bar was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock above the door. Neon lights buzzed faintly outside, casting the walls in sickly hues of pink and electric blue. Reagan wiped down the last table with slow, methodical movements. The rag in her hand had gone cold hours ago, but she kept scrubbing like it might wipe the static from her skin. The exhaustion in her bones wasn't just physical—it was soul-deep.
Skylar had left hours ago, tossing her a look that said: Call if you need me. Or if you don't.
She was reaching for the last chair when the door creaked open. The bell barely made a sound. Her entire body froze. The hair on her arms stood up before she even turned around.
She knew.
And then she saw him.
Rocco Mancini.
Heir apparent to one of the most feared mafia families on the East Coast. A man who moved like silence was his weapon and rooms were meant to bend around him.
He stepped inside, every footfall deliberate, boots landing like slow threats against the hardwood. Shoulders squared. Jaw tight. Dark eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room. In the world.
She tilted her chin in defiance, but her pulse betrayed her—racing, panicked, hungry.
He didn't speak.
Just walked forward, slow and inevitable, until he stood right in front of her. So close she could feel the heat coming off his body, like stepping too close to a flame. His gaze flicked over her face, reading her. Dissecting.
Her breath hitched.
He reached out—no rush, no hesitation—and brushed his fingers along her jaw, the callouses rough against her skin. When his hand slid into her hair, Reagan should have stepped back.
She didn't.
She grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him down into a kiss.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't sweet.
It was a collision. Desperate. Messy. Brutal.
His hands gripped her hips with bruising force, dragging her against him. His mouth devoured hers like he needed it to breathe. And God, she let him. Her teeth scraped his lip, drawing blood. He growled, low and guttural, and the sound shot straight through her like wildfire.
Her hands fumbled at his belt. Her fingers were clumsy, frantic. He batted them away and did it himself, fast and efficient, as if he'd waited all night.
The hem of her skirt bunched high on her hips, the fabric flimsy and useless. His hand slid up her thigh, parting her with ease, his fingers finding her slick and ready.
A curse left him, dark and reverent.
He didn't ask.
He gave her the choice.
His other hand came to her throat, wrapping around it—not to choke, just to hold. Just to remind her who he was. Who she was.
He paused.
His mouth brushed her ear.
"Tell me to stop."
The words shattered her.
Because no one had ever asked.
Travis hadn't.
Owen hadn't.
No one had ever given her that power.
She bared her teeth. A snarl, a challenge, a plea.
"Don't you dare."
And that was all it took.
He thrust into her in one savage motion, her body stretching, clenching around him with a gasp. Her head hit the wall behind her with a dull thud, but she didn't care. Couldn't care. He set a brutal rhythm, every movement a promise and a punishment.
Glass rattled behind the bar.
Her nails dug into his back, dragging lines down his shirt and skin. He hissed against her mouth, bit her shoulder hard enough to leave teeth.
She didn't flinch. She moaned.
Her tank top was rucked up, the thin fabric useless. His hands were everywhere—hips, ribs, breasts, throat—claiming her, grounding her.
And she needed it. Needed to feel something that wasn't fear. Needed to burn.
Her climax came fast and sharp, tearing through her like a scream. She clung to him, shaking, eyes squeezed shut.
He followed with a shuddering curse, thrusting into her once more before stilling, forehead pressed to hers.
They stayed like that.
Tangled. Sweating. Gasping.
And then his hand—still cupping her jaw—moved gently.
"You're not broken," he whispered.
She almost believed him.
Until she didn't.
The silence grew too loud. The aftershocks of pleasure turned to panic.
Her body remembered.
Hands that didn't ask.
Pain that didn't stop.
She shoved at him. Hard. He stepped back, hands raised.
Reagan scrambled to fix her clothes, hoodie yanked over her head, skirt dragged down. Her breathing was ragged, her chest tight.
"Don't do that again," she spat. Her voice cracked.
And then she was gone. The door slammed.
Leaving only silence behind.
Rocco didn't move.
He stood there, arms crossed, watching the door swing shut.
He replayed everything.
The tremble in her hands.
The flicker of something haunted in her eyes when he gave her the choice.
The way she shook, even in pleasure.
He saw it all.
He always saw too much.
And still—he didn't regret it.
Because now he knew.
She wasn't just fire.
She was survival.
And broken things had sharp edges.
He walked to the bar slowly, picked up a rag, and wiped down a clean spot on the counter. Not because it needed it—but because it was the only thing he could do without breaking the silence she left behind. And something in his chest ached with the weight of all the things he didn't say. Couldn't say.
He wanted to follow her.
He didn't.
He wanted to fix it.
But some things didn't fix. They just scarred over.
--
Reagan slammed into the apartment like the hallway was on fire. Her hands shook as she fumbled the lock. Her hoodie was inside out. Her skirt was crooked.
She didn't care.
She just needed to get inside.
Skylar sat on the couch, blinking at her like she'd just risen from the dead.
"You look like a crime scene."
Reagan didn't answer. Just moved stiffly, clumsily toward her room.
Skylar raised a brow. "That bad or that good?"
A beat.
Reagan froze.
Then slowly, she turned.
"I think I just broke something."
Skylar's smile faded.
"You? Or him?"
"Both."
They stared at each other.
And then Skylar, softly: "Was it Rocco?"
Reagan nodded.
Skylar exhaled like she'd been punched.
"Jesus, Rae... you know who he is."
"I know."
"Do you? Because that man doesn't just touch people. He owns them."
Reagan flinched.
And Skylar saw it.
But she didn't push.
She just patted the couch. "Sit. Breathe. Talk. Or don't. Just... don't bleed alone."
Reagan sank down beside her, hands still shaking.
And for once—she didn't pretend to be fine.
She just leaned.
And Skylar stayed.
Skylar gently nudged a cup of lukewarm tea toward her. "He scared you?"
Reagan didn't answer right away. She stared at the cup, eyes unfocused.
"No. Not exactly. It's not him. It's what he woke up in me."
Skylar leaned back, folding her arms. "The past?"
"The power. The loss of it. Then suddenly having it again. I didn't know what to do with it."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Skylar whispered, "You deserve to be asked. Every time."
Reagan's throat tightened.
"He asked."
"I know. That's what makes it worse, doesn't it?"
Reagan nodded. "Because it made me feel... like I mattered. And that's terrifying."
Skylar scooted closer, linking their fingers together. "Then we face it. Whatever it becomes. Together."
Reagan let out a shaky breath.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel alone.
Even if her heart was a battlefield.
Even if she wasn't sure which side she was on.
Skylar gently nudged a cup of lukewarm tea toward her. "Did he scare you?"
Reagan didn't answer right away. She stared at the cup, her eyes unfocused, her hands still trembling.
"No. Not exactly," she said slowly. "It's not him. It's what he woke up in me."
Skylar leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. "The past?"
Reagan's voice was barely above a whisper. "The power. Or the lack of it. And then suddenly having it again. I didn't know what the hell to do with it."
Silence wrapped around them, thick and familiar.
"You deserve to be asked, Rae," Skylar said softly. "Every time. No exceptions."
Reagan swallowed hard. "He asked."
"I figured," Skylar said. "And that's what makes it worse, huh?"
Reagan nodded. "Because it made me feel… like I mattered. And that's terrifying."
Skylar reached out and linked their fingers together, grounding her like always. "Then we deal with that. Whatever it becomes, whatever it stirs up—we deal with it. Together."
Reagan let out a shaky breath, her throat tight, her pulse still too fast. But the weight in her chest lifted slightly, and for the first time in what felt like years, she didn't feel like she was drowning alone.
Even if her heart felt like a battlefield.
Even if she wasn't sure which side she was on.
Skylar tilted her head. Her tone was teasing now, a shift in energy, just enough to ease the tension. "So… was it good?"
Reagan blinked. "What?"
"The sex," Skylar said bluntly. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not your mom. I'm your best friend. Was it good?"
Reagan groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "You're impossible."
Skylar grinned. "You're avoiding the question."
Reagan looked up at her, cheeks flushed. "It was… intense."
"Intense like 'what the hell did I just do' or intense like 'I want to do that again in every position known to man'?"
Reagan hesitated, then sighed. "Both. Maybe. I don't know."
Skylar's face shifted, her smile faltering just a bit. "Rae… I warned you about him."
"I know."
"He's not just some hot guy at a bar. He's Rocco Mancini. That name carries weight. And danger. And blood."
"I know," Reagan said again, quieter this time.
"I'm not judging you," Skylar added quickly. "But I've seen what men like him do. What they're capable of. I just… I don't want you to be another story that ends with regret and bruises."
Reagan nodded, staring down at her hands. "I wasn't scared of him, Sky. I was scared of myself. Of what I wanted. Of how much I wanted it."
Skylar was quiet for a long moment, then said gently, "Then don't lie to yourself about it. But don't let it swallow you either."
Reagan offered a tired smile. "Thanks."
Skylar leaned her head against Reagan's shoulder. "You're still my favorite disaster."
Reagan huffed a laugh. "You're such an asshole."
"And yet, you love me."
Reagan didn't answer.
She didn't have to.