I didn't see him at first.
The club was loud—one of those underground places with no name, no rules, and no lights bright enough to judge you. Everything reeked of sweat and smoke and money. Someone was screaming lyrics into a mic, bodies moving like they'd forgotten pain, and I was already three drinks past good decisions when I pushed through the crowd, heels digging into sticky concrete, trying to pretend I still had control.
And then I felt it.
Not a touch. Not a word. Just a shift.
Like the air itself had stopped moving. Like something bigger than me had decided I was worth noticing.
I turned.
And there he was.
Leaning against a wall like the shadows belonged to him. Cigarette between his lips. Eyes already on me. Unmoving. Unsmiling. Unholy.
I didn't walk to him. I didn't need to.He was already on his way.
He didn't say his name. Not at first. He just circled me, close enough for me to feel the brush of leather against my bare arms, the heat of his breath on my neck, the scrape of his voice when he finally said—
"You don't belong here."
I should've walked away. I should've laughed, flipped him off, told him to go fuck himself.
But I didn't.
Because there was something in the way he looked at me—like he'd already undressed me, fucked me, broken me, and stitched me back together, all before I even knew his name.
We didn't talk.
We collided.
In the alley behind the club, where the walls were wet with condensation and the sky looked like it might collapse on us. He pushed me against the brick so hard my shoulder screamed, but I didn't tell him to stop. I tilted my chin up and stared him down, even when his hand came up around my throat, even when his thumb brushed the hollow of my pulse like he was searching for the weakness beneath my skin.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
But my lips were already parting.
His mouth crushed mine—rough, unpracticed, angry. Like he hated that he wanted me. Like every inch of him was wired to ruin and he couldn't fucking help it.
He tasted like whiskey and war.
And when he yanked my skirt up, when his fingers found skin that shouldn't have been that ready, that wet, I moaned into his mouth like a goddamn sinner in church.
"You don't know what you're doing," he growled.
And maybe I didn't.
But I knew what I wanted.
I wanted the bruises. I wanted the sting. I wanted to wake up tomorrow morning still aching from the way he handled me like I was a problem only pain could solve.
He didn't fuck me.He wrecked me.
One hand in my hair, the other pinning my hip like he had to hold me still just to keep from tearing me apart completely. And when I came, I swear it sounded like begging. Like prayer. Like surrender.
And he didn't kiss me after. Didn't speak. Just zipped up, stepped back, and lit another cigarette like I hadn't just handed him something no one else had ever touched.
Only when I turned to leave—legs shaking, thighs sticky, pride shattered—did he speak again.
"Lexa."
Just my name.
Like he already knew it.Like he'd always known it.Like I'd never be able to forget his.