Chapter Twenty-Two
The restof the day passes in an agonizing crawl. I start to wait around the dorm at six o’clock, lounging on the quad with an econ book that I’m not really reading. Stupidly, I didn’t give her a time to meet me, but I figure she’ll have to show up sooner or later, even if she thinks she’s headed for dinner at the student union. All I have to do is stay vigilant?—
“Political econ? I didn’t think you were the type.”
God, the way my body reacts to her voice alone is just absurd.
I close the book slowly, not raising my eyes just yet. I can’t let her know that she took me by surprise. Hell, I don’t know how she took me by surprise—I’m trained to be wary, alert of every figure coming and going in my peripheral vision, and yet Lia Morgan has manifested in front of me like an apparition.
“It’s not a passion of mine,” I say, tucking the book away, “but it pays to have a decent grasp of all the ways the oligarchy is fucking us over.”
I finally look up?—
God damn.
She’s dressed to dance, that’s for fucking sure. Black spaghetti strap top and heather gray leggings that hug the curves of her thighs like they’re painted on. Her hair is down this time, and the way its golden waves rise and fall over the swell of her breasts is nothing short of mesmerizing.
“I take it you’re not headed to the union looking like that.”
She frowns. “Looking like what?”
“Like someone who’s spending the night in the city with me.”
“I guess I’m dressed appropriately, then.”
I get to my feet. Her eyes stay locked with mine, lifting slowly upwards; when I reach my full height, she tilts her chin back to maintain our gaze.
“Want to get out of here?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Placing my hand on the small of her back, I lead her towards the front gates, her pace twice as quick to match my long strides. I can’t shake the nagging feeling that she doesn’t want to be here. A girl like Marissa would be hanging all over me at this point, showering me with innuendos—but Lia just walks quietly at my side, her face solemn and eyes distant.
What the fuck am I doing wrong?
Coming on too strong, maybe? I won’t pretend to understand much about this girl, but she’s clearly on the sheltered side. If I tone it down, play sweet around her, maybe she’ll open up a touch more. Not an easy task when I want her so fucking badly that it hurts to walk, but I never back down from a challenge. It’s not in my nature.
“You ever been to a club before?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “I’m guessing not, if you haven’t even eaten at a restaurant.”
“I’ve eaten at a restaurant now,” she points out. “But… no clubs, yeah.”
My motorcycle is waiting at the bottom of the steps, right where I told my guys to leave it. By the end of this week, that sort of work is going to be delegated to the newbies, so I won’t always be able to expect such efficiency. It’ll be a pain in the ass, just like everything else about recruiting season, but I’ll get through it. I always do.
The moment that we reach the bike, she stops in her tracks, a small smile warming onto as she watches me retrieve the helmet for her.
“You ready?” I check.
“Always am.”
Something about her tone is… off. The words on their own are innocent enough, but the look in her eyes doesn’t scream of naivete. It feels more like something I’d expect to see in the hardened gazes of the guys who work with me… or even in the mirror.
It’s jarring. Contradictory. Like she’s experienced far more in her short life than she possibly has.
Hell, everything about this fucking girl is contradictory. One minute, I think I know what I’m doing—the next, I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.
I shake the thoughts off. Time to worry about all that shit later. Right now, I need to focus on the present—handing her the helmet, lifting her onto the bike, mounting it myself and tightening my grip on the handlebars.
“Remember,” I tell her over my shoulder, “hold on tight.”
Her arms are already closing around me. Her fingers lace together at my midsection, clenched against the firmness of my abs with surprising strength, body snug against mine. Somehow, it doesn’t hurt my ribs—in fact, they feel better than they have since their altercation with my father’s cane. Her breath brushes the back of my neck, warm and achingly intimate.
I rev the engine, and we shoot off into the gathering dusk.
The light of the sunset stains the sea around us gruesomely red, like a Renaissance painter’s vision of Hell. We’re not entering the realm of Satan, though—we’re leaving it behind, trapped on an island in the guise of an old brick castle that calls itself Crimson Elite University.
The city’s no safer, of course, but its streets lead to some places that are. If I were someone else, anyone else, I could pick a direction and set off with Lia behind me, just going and going until neither of us recognized the landscape any longer. We’d never have to see the goddamned school again.
But that’s not me. Not my life. If I were to try and pull any bullshit like that, my father would find me in a matter of days, if not hours. Doesn’t matter where I might try to hide. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere, and he always will. There’s no use trying to run. To kill a snake, you need to cut off its head.
And I will cut you down, Draven Pendragon. Just you wait.
Until then, I’m stuck within the city limits—but I’ve found ways to keep myself entertained.
The Velvet Rose, for one. It’s a more secluded nightclub than most. Not a glitzy tourist trap, but a small, dark fixture on the northern side of the city, easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. I haven’t been here since last semester ended, but it looks just how I remember it as we pull into the parking lot. Black-painted cinder block walls, a single glass door with a blue curtain hung on its inside to deter any curious passersby. No signage of any sort, but if you look closely enough, you can see the shape of a blooming rose etched ever so faintly into the door.
There’s no outward indication that this place is under Lombardi protection. Doesn’t need to be. The only people who don’t know it are the ones who don’t matter.
I have to play my cards carefully here. Can’t let Lia know the other reason why I’m in the city tonight. Making the trip alone would have been smarter, but staying away from her is growing more impossible by the day.
All I have to do is get in a few private words with the bartender. He knows me, knows how to get me the information I want.
Then, for the next few hours, there’ll be nothing to distract me from her.
“This is it?” Lia asks as I help her down. “It looks… closed.”
“It never closes,” I assure her. “Just doesn’t want to stand out too much. It keeps the crowds small.”
She still seems wary, but follows me willingly enough when I make for the door. This time, she knows what to do when I hold it open for her, she gives me one last quick, careful glance before stepping inside. My hand finds the small of her back once more as I follow behind her, a small but meaningful gesture of possession towards anyone who looks our way.
“Oh,” she breathes, “okay. Wow.”
I close the door behind us, shutting out the last of the natural light, and it’s as though we’ve passed into another world.
The club’s one big room, with blue velvet couches and crystal tables lining the edges. The mirrored bar in the back has a slim black light bar mounted above it, but aside from that, the only illumination comes from a thousand tiny, twinkling bulbs dangling from the ceiling like a sea of stars. Their reflections glint off the dark wood of the dance floor, lending the illusion of an endless, glittering abyss.
“It’s gorgeous,” Lia says.
She’s gorgeous, eyes wide and lips parted, the lines of her body kissed with soft silver. There are only a handful of people in the club at this point, most of them seated on the couches, and their gazes follow her as she takes a few slow, dreamy steps towards the dance floor. I keep close at her side, glaring down the few idiots who dare to meet my eye. Lia has no idea how alluring she is, but I sure as hell do, and I’m ready to break the wrist of anyone who so much as tries to lay a finger on her.
The bartender, a guy in his mid-twenties with a shaved head and a black septum piercing, gives me a wave from across the room. His name’s Ike or Isaac or something—he told me once, but I couldn’t quite make out his voice over the pounding bass music, and I never bothered to ask again. Nice enough guy even without the added bonus of being an informant. For the most part, he minds his own business—and he knows my order by heart, which is why a neat double bourbon is waiting for me on the bartop when I get there, Lia hanging close by my side.
“Haven’t seen you around for a while, Pendragon.”
“Been busy.” Wrapping my arm around her waist, I pull her closer to me, catching her attention as her eyes meet mine. “What are you having?”
“Is there a menu, or?” she replies, biting her lip.
“You name it, I’ll mix it,” the bartender assures her.
I take her lost look as a cue to intervene. “He makes one hell of a Negroni.”
“Sure—yeah, that sounds good.”
“Coming right up.” He nods, quickly getting to work.
I lean against the bar as we wait, sipping my own drink and savoring the view of the body that, just minutes ago, was pressed so tightly against mine. Her hair is mussed from the wind, floating over her bare shoulders in a golden cloud.
She catches me watching her, her eyes gleaming hazel beneath thick, dark lashes. The shy smile that rises to her lips stirs up an internal groan of desire.
“I’m pretty out of my depth here,” she admits. “I knew places like this existed, but I’ve never experienced it myself.”
“You must have had one hell of a stifled upbringing.”
“My father is about as overprotective as they come. I never would have been able to come here—to go to any school at all, really—if not for…” She shakes her head. “Not that you care about that.”
“I care about what you have to say,” I counter. “Go on, tell me.”
Before she can, the bartender slides over her finished cocktail—amber and enticing, finished with a perfect twist of orange peel. She picks it up at once, perhaps eager at the excuse to avoid my question.
Lifting it to her mouth, I watch as she takes a slow careful sip. Her tongue darts out to run across her lips, and her eyes rise to mine, glittering with excitement. “How is it?” I ask after she’s taken a careful swallow.
“Good,” she replies, taking another sip. “Citrusy.”
“Is that right…” Stepping forward, I pull her in once more by her waist. Her breath hitches at the close proximity of my body to hers, only to be taken away the moment my lips descend onto the soft plump pink of her own—tasting and savoring the citrus flavors that still linger there.
Pulling back, her eyes meet mine. Lips parted, chest rising and falling with every breath.
“Delicious,” I mutter, watching a soft blush fall over her cheeks.
More patrons fill the dance floor, and I can feel something building, a kinetic thrill in the air. This place always brings out a sort of hunger in me, an invigoration—now more than ever.
God, I can’t wait to see her dance.
Lia watches the small crowd over the rim of her glass, eyes wide—whether with eagerness or trepidation, I can’t quite tell.
“Want to hit the floor?” I suggest.
“Do we just leave the drinks here?” she asks, glancing at her glass before looking back at me.
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” the bartender tells her. “Nothing’s getting tampered with on my watch.”
Taking a long swallow, Lia steels herself, before setting her glass on the mirrored countertop. “Okay. Sure. Let’s dance.”