LUCY
The fresh air outside is exactly what I need, though it comes with its own complications.
There is a sea of bodies out here too—scantily clad women pressed against the men they came with, waiting in the queue while the bouncer checks IDs. They are completely unashamed, chortling and blushing under the rhythmic strobe of the entrance lights.
In a way, the chaos is its own kind of shield. I can disappear even while standing a few feet away. They are far too absorbed in their own worlds of lust to notice me.
I find a stretch of cold stone wall several yards from the queue and rest my back against it, drawing slow, deliberate breaths until my mind begins to clear. The earlier thoughts still linger at the edges, stubborn and persistent.
Who was watching me while I was dancing?
My fingers twitch restlessly at my sides. I find myself wishing I'd brought my drink out with me.
I exhale, tilt my head back against the wall, and close my eyes, letting the muffled thump of the bass vibrate through the brickwork.
"Hey. You here alone?"
My head snaps left. Eyes open. The voice is far too close.
The male standing beside me is human—dressed in an oversized white polo covered in graffiti print and baggy black joggers. A pair of sunglasses sits low on the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes, though dark, curly bangs fall carelessly over his forehead.
Ringed lip. Tattooed neck. An air of bad company written into the very way he stands.
I ease away from the wall, instincts sharpening. "No, I'm not," I answer, gesturing vaguely toward the club as though my friends are standing just behind the door. "My friends are inside."
I hope he takes the hint and moves on. He doesn't. He reclines against the wall with practiced ease and produces a box of cigarettes from his pocket.
"Interested? You look like you need it."
How right he is.
I've never smoked before in my life—but I watch him slide a cigarette between his lips, and something about the ease of it, the quiet ritual of it, makes me lick my own.
He seems to read my silence as a no.
And Curiosity gets the better of me.
I've heard it quiets the mind. And haven't I already survived the alcohol tonight? I'm still standing, after all.
"Let me have one," I say, keeping my inexperience to myself.
He offers the cigarette without comment. I accept it, lean back against the wall, and slip it between my lips. A lighter appears almost instantly, a small flame catching the end of the tobacco.
Seconds later I am doubled over, coughing so violently my eyes water. I yank the thing from my mouth.
The hell! This isn't quieting anything! It's just setting my lungs on fire.
"Easy," the male says, his voice threaded with amusement. He nudges his sunglasses up, revealing eyes the color of dark honey. "You should have told me you haven't tried this before."
I scoff, still coughing into my free hand. "I'm fine."
"Want to go again?" He nods toward the cigarette hanging limp between my fingers, then takes a long, effortless drag from his own.
I lick my lips. The thought of my friends' faces if they could see me right now makes me smile—and that small surge of defiance is exactly the confidence I need. I bring the cigarette back to my mouth.
"Don't just swallow the smoke," he says, stepping closer until the scent of tobacco clings from his clothes to the air between us. "Draw it into your mouth first. Let it sit. Then take a short, shallow breath of fresh air to pull it down. Exhale slowly."
I follow his instructions. This time, I manage not to hack up my lungs.
"How do you feel?"
I consider. "Not bad."
I continue pretending not to notice the way his gaze moves over me—over the way the emerald silk clings—unhurried and unashamed.
"What's your name?"
I'm about to say Lucy when Amara's voice surfaces in my memory, clear as a bell.
Never give your real name. It spoils the fun and invites consequences if your errors follow you home.
"Martha," I say, barely keeping my face neutral. It is such a spectacularly bland name for a girl in a club.
"Martha…" He draws it out in a low hum, like he's tasting it and finding it unconvincing.
I look at him again—really look. The sharp line of his jaw. The way he tilts his head back when he exhales, sending a slow plume of smoke curling into the night air. It is, against my better judgment, undeniably attractive.
This time, when his dark honey eyes find mine, I don't look away. I hold his gaze and let him see the interest there.
Who knows—maybe a night with a stranger is exactly what I need to scrub the memory of Tavric and his confusing, maddening kiss from my mind.
He drops his cigarette a moment later, stamps it out beneath his boot, and turns to face me fully. I mirror him.
"You want a kiss, Martha?"
"Yes… ?"
"Cole," he supplies, catching my raised brow.
Something flickers across his face in the space of a second—a scowl, quickly smoothed away.
Cole. That isn't his real name either. We are two people lying to each other in the dark, and somehow that feels perfectly fair.
He tilts his head toward me… and then I notice it.
The smell of smoke gives way to something else entirely. Dark pines. Damp earth. The deep, cool breath of a forest at night.
Why does a city boy smell like the deep woods?
But the thought dissolves before I can hold it, because his lips graze mine.
I flinch. Just slightly. His lips are cold—not the cool of the night air, but something deeper. Unnatural. Unusually, unnaturally cold.
"Do you want to get out of here?" he murmurs, his hand settling around my waist.
His hands are just as cold as his lips. A distant part of my mind registers this as wrong—registers it loudly, urgently, like a door being slammed somewhere deep in my chest.
But I nod anyway. My will is slipping through my fingers like sand, my thoughts growing soft and blurred at the edges, and I cannot seem to stop it.
I follow as he leads me away from the bright lights of the entrance, around the side of the building, toward the back.
Into the dark.