You’re not doing it right.
The second the door shuts behind us, I know two things.
One, I’m seconds away from doing something that’s going to change everything.
Two, I don’t have a single instinct telling me to stop.
I get her outside fast.
Not rushed in a way that draws attention, but controlled, deliberate, my hand still firm around her elbow as I guide her away from the noise, away from the lights, away from the cluster of people inside who were starting to notice something was wrong.
By the time we round the side of the building and the sound drops off into a low hum behind us, I can feel it in her.
The aftershock.
Her breathing is uneven. Shoulders tight. Eyes too wide, even in the dark. She’s trying to pull herself back together, and I recognize that effort immediately.
I’ve seen it before.
Men who’ve been in bad situations long enough learn how to hide the cracks until they’re alone.
She’s doing the same thing.
I stop a few feet from the wall, turning toward her, keeping enough space so I don’t trap her but close enough that if she goes down, I’ve got her.
“Breathe,” I say.
She shakes her head once like she’s frustrated with her own body. “I am.”
“You’re not doing it right.”
That gets her attention just enough to cut through the spiral.
Her eyes snap to mine, a little sharp. “There’s a right way to breathe now?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, stepping a fraction closer. “With me.” I drag in a slow breath and hold it, watching her.
She hesitates. Then follows.
It takes a couple tries. The first one catches. The second stutters. The third lands a little better. By the fourth, her shoulders drop just enough to tell me she’s coming back.
Good.
I stay where I am.
Don’t crowd her. Don’t touch her more than I have to. Because the last thing she needs right now is someone taking space she didn’t offer.
She scrubs a hand over her face, frustration bleeding through. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I said I’m—”
“You’re not,” I repeat, quieter this time, but there’s nothing soft in it. “And I’m not playing along so you can pretend.”
That hits.
She goes still for a second, then looks away like she’s trying to regroup, trying to rebuild that wall she keeps between herself and everything else.
I don’t let her. “Raven.” Her name lands heavier now.
She looks back at me, and there’s something in her expression I haven’t seen this clear before.
Shame.
That gets me angrier than anything that happened inside. “Don’t,” I say immediately.
Her brow furrows. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that shit where you turn it into your fault.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You don’t have to.” I take another step closer.
Close enough now that I can see the faint tremor still running through her hands even though she’s trying like hell to hide it.
“I saw what happened,” I tell her.
Her jaw tightens. “It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was just loud and I—”
“It wasn’t the room.”
That stops her.
Dead.
Her eyes flick back to mine, searching, cautious, like she’s trying to figure out how much I actually see.
Enough. More than enough.
“You flinched before anyone touched you,” I say, voice low and steady. “You locked up when he got too close. You checked your exits twice in under a minute before that even started. You’ve been doing it since you got here.”
She stares at me.
I don’t look away. “I’m not stupid,” I add.
Something in her expression cracks just a little. Not wide open. Not falling apart. Just…enough.
Enough to let me in past the surface.
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” I continue, softer now but no less certain. “You don’t have to say a damn word if you don’t want to. But don’t stand there and tell me it’s nothing when it’s clearly something.”
Her throat works.
For a second, I think she’s going to shut down again. Pull back. Lock it all away.
Then she exhales, shaky and quiet. “It’s not…” She pauses, searching for the words and hating that she has to. “It’s not always like that.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
Another breath.
“He…” She stops again, jaw tightening like even saying his name might summon him. “Cal didn’t like being ignored.”
The name lands like a loaded weapon. I don’t react outwardly. Inside, something goes still.
“Didn’t like it when I talked to people he didn’t approve of. Didn’t like it when I went places without telling him first. Didn’t like…” She huffs a humorless breath. “A lot of things.”
Her hands twist together briefly, then still like she caught herself. “He started small,” she says. “Just…comments. Things I was doing wrong. Things I could do better. Things I shouldn’t do at all.”
I let her talk.
Don’t interrupt. Don’t push. Because this is the first real piece she’s giving me, and I know better than to grab at it like I’m owed more.
“It got worse,” she adds, quieter now.
Yeah. I figured.
“He didn’t like when I said no.”
There it is.
Simple. Ugly. Enough.
My jaw locks hard enough I feel it.
I don’t ask how. I don’t need details to understand what she’s saying.
“Didn’t matter what I said,” she continues, like she’s forcing it out before she loses the nerve. “He always found a way to turn it around. Make it my fault. Make it…” She swallows. “Make it something I deserved.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
Control. Keep it. Because this isn’t about me losing it right now. This is about her standing in front of me trying not to fall apart while she admits something she’s probably been carrying alone for too long.
“He won’t let me go,” she says finally.
That part is quieter. More certain. More dangerous.
I meet her eyes. “He doesn’t get a say in what happens here.”
Her lips part slightly.
I step closer. Close enough now that there’s no mistaking the shift in the air between us.
“Nobody is touching you,” I say. “Nobody is cornering you, grabbing you, getting too close, none of it. Not while you’re here.”
Her breath stutters.
“And if anyone tries,” I continue, voice dropping lower, rougher, “they’re not walking away from it.”
There’s no exaggeration in that. No bluff.
She hears it. I can see it in the way her gaze sharpens, the way something steadies inside her even while everything else is still shaking. “That’s not your problem,” she says weakly.
“It is now.”
That lands harder than I expect. On both of us. The space between us tightens. Not just tension anymore.
Something heavier. Something charged.
She looks up at me, really looks this time, and I can see it happening.
The shift. The moment where fear and relief and something else entirely start tangling together in a way that’s going to end badly for both of us if I don’t handle it right.
Or very, very well.
“Joker…” she starts.
I cut her off. Not harsh. Not dismissive. Just honest.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I say. “You don’t owe me anything because I got you out of there. You don’t owe me because I see it. You don’t owe me because I want to help.”
Her eyes flicker.
“I’m not looking for that,” I add.
“Then what are you looking for?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
That’s the question. The one I should probably dodge. The one I don’t.
“You,” I say.
The word hangs there between us.
Heavy. Unavoidable.
Her breath catches.
Mine doesn’t. Because I already know where I stand.
The problem is whether she does.
I take another step closer. Close enough now that if she leans in even a fraction, there won’t be any space left between us.
“This doesn’t happen halfway,” I tell her. “Not with me.”
Her pulse jumps at her throat. I can see it.
“If you walk away right now,” I continue, “we go back to how it was. I keep my hands to myself. I don’t cross that line. I don’t make this harder for you than it already is.”
Her lips part. She doesn’t speak.
I don’t let her. “But if you step into this,” I say, voice low and steady, “you do it knowing exactly what you’re stepping into.”
Her gaze locks on mine. Unblinking now.
Caught.
“You choose me,” I finish, “I’m not letting you go.”
The words settle into the space between us like something final.
Real.
Her breathing is uneven again, but not from panic this time. From something else. Something I recognize.
“I’m not gentle,” I say.
She swallows
“Not even a little.”
That should scare her. It doesn’t. Or if it does, it’s not enough.
She takes one small step forward. That’s all it takes.
The last inch disappears.
Her hand finds the front of my cut, fingers curling into the leather like she needs something solid to anchor to.
“I don’t want gentle,” she says.
That’s it. That’s the moment. The choice.
And she makes it. She closes the distance.
The kiss hits like a collision.
Not soft. Not tentative. It’s everything she’s been holding back crashing straight into everything I’ve been holding in check since the night I picked her up.
Relief. Anger. Want. Heat.
Her mouth is warm and urgent, her grip tightening like she’s afraid I might disappear if she doesn’t hold on hard enough. My hand comes up to the side of her neck, steadying her, not controlling, just grounding, giving her something to push into.
I don’t take more than she gives. Don’t push past the line she set. But I don’t hold back either.
Because she asked for this. Because she stepped into it. Because she chose.
The kiss deepens, rougher, hungrier, her breath breaking against mine as the tension finally snaps and everything between us ignites at once.
When we break apart, it’s not by much.
Her forehead rests against mine, her breathing still uneven, her fingers still twisted in my cut.
“Say it,” I tell her quietly.
Her eyes flicker. “Say what?”
“That this is what you want.”
Her grip tightens. “It is.”
I search her face one more time. Looking for hesitation. Doubt. Anything that says she’s not sure.
I don’t find it. “Then you lead,” I say.
She doesn’t hesitate. Her hand slides down, finds mine, and laces our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on,” she says softly.
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
She turns and starts walking, pulling me with her toward the side door, toward the hallway, toward the rooms downstairs where the rest of the world feels miles away.