"Miranda, stop rotting in this room like a goddamn ghost."
Calla's voice is sharp, but her grip on my wrist is gentle. Too gentle. Like I'm something fragile. Pathetic.
I haven't left my apartment in a week. Not since I found Derrick buried between the thighs of some blonde in our bed—his sweat-slicked back, her nails clawing at the sheets I'd picked out. The memory curdles in my stomach, sour as the tequila I've been drowning in.
"I'm fine," I lie, peeling my lips into a smile that feels like a crack in glass.
Calla's eyes narrow. "Bullshit. You're coming to Noir. VIP section. Now."
Noir. The new club where Manhattan's elite go to sin. I should refuse. But the thought of Derrick's smug face—"You're too cerebral, Miranda. Men need warmth."—makes me grab my heels. "Fine. Let's go get me fucked."
Calla blinks. "Christ. Who are you?"
---
THE CLUB
The bass throbs like a second heartbeat, the air thick with perfume and greed. VIP is a gilded cage of lacquered smiles and roaming hands.
"That's Mason," Calla whispers, nodding toward a man with wolfish eyes. "He knows the owner."
I barely hear her.
Because he's here.
Nicholas Stephen.
He lounges in the shadows like a king, his suit darker than the void between stars. His gaze cuts to me—through me—as if he already knows how my skin tastes. I look away first.
Coward.
Five tequila shots later, the room blurs. I dance like I'm trying to shed my skin, my dress clinging to every curve. Derrick always hated this dress. "Too revealing."
Good.
A hand grips my ass—rough, possessive. I spin, ready to slap a stranger, but freeze.
Nicholas.
His thumb brushes the dip of my spine, his voice a velvet threat: "You're too smart to drink that much around wolves, little rabbit."