Chapter 31 Julian #2
“I’m too famous to move,” I slur, half-laughing, already sliding off the table, letting my knees bend into it because the floor feels like it’s getting further away. “Make the peasants come to me.”
“I am coming to you,” Luca chirps, spinning me into him with a laugh that’s too bright for how feral his eyes still are. He’s all sharp edges and flirty venom, but he moves soft now—like he’s dancing for ghosts, not syndicates.
The music's slowed to something dirty and slow. Somebody must’ve queued it on purpose. Vlad probably. Bastard’s got good taste.
Luca’s hands slide around my waist and we start to sway. Lazy. Loose. His grin crooked. My pulse crawling out of rhythm.
“You’re such a little tease,” he murmurs into my ear, grinding against me just to be annoying. “No wonder Rafe walks around like a man who hasn’t slept since the Cold War.”
I smirk. “You jealous?”
“Not of him,” Luca breathes, dragging a nail down my spine. “Of you. He never held me like that.”
I let my head tip back and laugh, a low, syrupy sound that tastes more like heat than humor. “He could. But you’d cry.”
From across the room, I catch Rafe and Kai sharing the exact same moment—the same unimpressed expression, two pairs of eyes rolling so hard it could trigger a small earthquake. I raise my glass in salute, grin wide with lips parted, and purr, “Daddy disapproves.”
“Which one?” Luca whispers beside me.
I never get the chance to answer. The floor shifts—just a little, just enough for the edges of the room to peel away like a glitch.
The music drags the walls sideways without warning my body it’s coming, and my knees go soft while my vision fuzzes at the corners.
Luca tightens his grip instinctively, almost gentle.
“I think I drank too much,” I purr, the words slurring into silk, flirty on pure reflex.
“You think?” Luca raises a brow. “You’re looking at me like I’m your next fix.”
“Aren’t you?” I grin, fingers dragging along his chest until my nails hook into his collar. “Dark hair, dangerous mouth, terrifying when pissed—sounds like my type.”
Luca snorts, but whatever comeback he has gets lost because he’s already spinning me—graceful, quick, probably to show off or just to make me giggle. My body doesn’t catch up. I twist, stumble, and fall—straight into someone’s arms.
Strong. Warm. Familiar.
I blink up, head swimming, lashes sticking together. “Rafe?” I murmur.
But the mouth that answers isn’t his. The breath is wrong, the scent is wrong, the body too narrow. “Nope,” the voice says.
I giggle. “You shaved.”
The arms tighten. “Still not Rafe.”
“Hmm.” I smile and press closer, lips brushing a collarbone that feels too high, too sharp. “I missed you anyway.”
The voice laughs softly. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s sit you down.”
I don’t move. I just cling. My legs are soup, my brain cotton, my eyes unable to track anymore—everyone’s blurring, the lights stretching, the room tilting toward some truth I never agreed to sign up for. A hand touches my cheek, soft.
“Fuck, I love when you touch me there,” I whisper.
“Julian…”
“I’ll be good,” I murmur, and then I’m twisting again—someone else grabbing my hand, spinning me back into a different chest.
“You’re mine, baby” I whisper before I even look up.
It’s Finn.
“What the fuck?” Finn chokes out, face flaming red, but he doesn’t pull away. He’s laughing—sort of. “Did you just call me baby?”
I tilt my head. “Don’t be shy, Daddy.”
The entire room explodes into howls.
Luca collapses into Kai’s chest with a scream. “OH MY FUCKING GOD—RAFE, COME GET YOUR WHORE!”
Kai just blinks. “I’m not paid enough.”
Misha’s already howling. Bishop’s on the floor. Even Vlad is grinning like a man watching the earth spin off its axis.
I try to speak again—something about Rafe’s hands, about the rough edge of his voice, about how fucking hot it gets when he growls my name—but the words tangle into static before they can leave my mouth. My knees buckle again, this time harder, and I fall.
Voices blur into a distant hum. Lights melt and smear.
Someone’s calling my name—sharp, urgent—but it sounds more like a scream warped into a song.
Breathing gets harder. The air thickens, turns syrupy, like someone melted oxygen into molasses and poured it straight into my lungs just to watch how slowly I’d drown.
My head fogs over, brain swimming in heat that coils tight around the base of my skull and squeezes with every throb of the music.
The lights stretch and bleed. The walls seem to breathe.
The room spins in wide, drunken circles—not the glitter-dizzy kind, not the fun kind. This is wrong.
My chest rises too fast, ribs shaking. My mouth won’t close properly.
My hands feel stupid—heavy, disconnected, like they’ve forgotten they belong to me.
“Rafe?” I try to say it normal, sharp, with that bratty little lilt he pretends to hate.
Instead it comes out a whimper—weak, wet, wrecked. “Rafe…”
My knees slam into the floor. Hard.
The impact clangs through my bones, but the pain stays distant, far away, like it happened to someone else.
Like someone else is collapsing under too many drinks, too many shots, too many hands and laughs and slow, sticky breaths.
Everything sounds underwater now, like the world sank when I wasn’t looking.
Then I hear him.
“KAI!”
The roar tears through the fog—a command, a threat, pure thunder. Rafe’s voice. But it echoes warped and muffled, trapped in syrup, distant even though he’s close.
Motion erupts—boots, knees, hands—someone grabs me, hauls me up, lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. Mmm. That smell. Sugar. Salt. Smoke. Rafe.
I smile, sloppy and slow, and slur against his shoulder, voice soft and wrong. “Sugary home…” I purr, the words melting out of me, dizzy and fond and stupid. “You smell like… cotton candy and knives.”
“Jules!!” He barks it this time—sharp, loud, too loud. I flinch. My eyes roll back once before struggling to focus. His face swims into view: storm-gray eyes, black hair, blood and panic and everything I’ve ever wanted.
I grin—lopsided, sloppy. “Hi,” I whisper. “Fuck, you’re hot.”
“Julian. Look at me.”
“You wanna fuck me right now, don’t you?” I murmur, leaning forward even though my body refuses to cooperate. “Admit it. You miss my throat when it’s not gagging.”
His grip tightens, fingers digging in. “You’re not—Julian, what the fuck did you take?”
“I dunno,” I whisper. “But you’re pretty. You’re so pretty, Rafe.”