Chapter 5 #2
I keep dancing anyway because fuck them.
Loose and lazy, hips rolling like they’ve got their own agenda, shoulders relaxed, and my head tipped back while I laugh at something Luna says that I barely even process.
I slow just enough to feel smug about it, letting the beat keep my body moving while my awareness sharpens around the edges.
I don’t turn right away. Whoever it is definitely wants me to notice, and being the absolute brat that I am, I make them wait. Let them stare. Let them wonder if I’ve clocked it yet.
When I finally glance over my shoulder, all casual and unbothered, there they are.
Those glowing fucking heart eyes again.
I smirk, slow and crooked, because of course it’s him.
Because tonight was meant to be a clean little revenge tour, and instead the universe went, nah, let’s blow this up in the most unhinged fucking way.
I roll my hips once more just to be a bitch about it, already buzzing, amused, and so fucking ready for the night to get even more fucking interesting.
He’s a few rows back, just standing there like he owns the space.
Shirtless, obviously, tattoos everywhere, angel wings strapped on like he knows exactly how ridiculous and hot it looks and decided not to fight it.
The heart-eyes glow every time the lights hit him, and he’s not even pretending to dance.
He’s just watching me, calm as fuck, and completely unbothered.
Which is fucking annoying.
Because my stomach does that stupid little flip again.
Not nerves. Definitely not fear. It’s that other thing. That smug, traitorous rush you get when you know someone’s looking at you and you like it way more than you’re supposed to.
I smile anyway, slow and intentional, because if he thinks I’m about to pretend I don’t see him, he’s lost his damn mind. We already played this game once tonight, and I know exactly what it did to him.
He likes that I’m not scared. Likes that when I move away, it’s playful, not panicked. That I’m choosing this instead of being chased into it.
It’s fucked up. A little twisted. Probably a red flag with a pulse.
But honestly? I’ve never been great at pretending I don’t like the things I like. I can’t even lie, it’s turning me on just as much as it is him.
So yeah.
I lean into it.
I turn back to the music and dance like I'm putting on a show just for him. Because let's face it, I am. Slower now, hips rolling on purpose, dragging it out just to see how long he’ll hold himself back. Fuck being subtle. This is me daring him to make the first move. I glance back over my shoulder, just as the space between us disappears. It happens so fast I don’t even register it at first. One second I’ve got room to move, the next he’s right behind me.
Luna’s drifted off a few feet away without me even noticing, already wrapped up with some tall rave guy who looks exactly like her type.
Brown hair, sweaty, tattoos everywhere, smiling like he just won the lottery because she picked him.
She’s laughing, hands in the air, hips moving like nothing else in the world exists.
Good. She’s occupied.
Suddenly, his hands slide onto my hips like they’ve been there before, solid and sure, pulling me back into him without even pretending to ask.
Not rough or rushed. Just confident in a way that makes my brain hiccup for a second.
And holy shit. I knew he was big—I felt it when I grabbed him, but having it this close, grinding against my ass, presses a whole different set of feral buttons.
Everything spikes at once. Louder, hotter, and so much fucking better.
The bass hits deeper, and my skin feels way too sensitive, like the drugs turned my nerves up past max and snapped the knob off.
Every little movement feels huge, amplified, and yeah, having him right there behind me is doing absolutely nothing to help my self-control.
I bite my lip without thinking, because apparently my body’s in charge now, and lift my arms back to hook around his neck.
I sway into the music and into him on purpose, slow and deliberate, just to see what happens.
Spoiler alert—I feel it. Feel how turned on he is, how much attention he’s paying to every fucking move I make.
That rush hits my head immediately. Because control like that? It’s power, plain and simple. The kind that makes me feel invincible, a little feral and way too pleased with myself.
I grin to myself, cocky and satisfied. I’m high, I’m reckless, and I’m fully aware I’m driving him a little fucking crazy.
And honestly?
Good.
He leans in, mouth brushing my ear, his voice low and rough through the noise. “You really do get off on danger, don’t you?”
I snort, rolling my hips back into him on purpose, slow and deliberate. “Or maybe I just like knowing how much of an effect I have on you. After all, weren’t you the one who invited yourself into my dance and pulled my ass back against you?”
His grip tightens instantly, fingers digging into my hip like he’s done pretending this is accidental. “So you don’t want this?”
There’s something in his tone—amused, dark, and cocky, that makes heat spark through me.
One of his hands slides down my stomach, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.
His thumb slips under the waistband of my thong, moving side to side, teasing, testing, seeing how far I’ll let him go.
My breath stutters despite myself. Every place his callused skin touches feels too sensitive, like my body’s already primed and he’s just pressing where it reacts the hardest. “You have no idea what I want,” I mutter.
“That so?” he murmurs.
His hand drifts lower, beneath the jeweled fabric, and I gasp when his fingers find exactly where I’m already slick and aching. The bass drowns out the sound that slips from my mouth as our bodies keep moving together, grinding like the music was built for this.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my ear, his teeth pulling on my lobe softly. “That’s a lot of confidence for someone who’s this fucking wet.”
It’s then I realize his mask is gone.
One hand never leaves me, still working me with slow, controlled precision, while the other lifts away.
When I glance back over my shoulder, hazy and flushed, I finally see him—bright red hair damp with sweat, sharp eyes dark with hunger, a nose ring and lip ring catching the strobe lights, tattoos crawling up his neck like a warning.
He looks dangerous in a way that feels fucking intentional. Not that I’m complaining.
His hand cups my jaw from behind, firm enough that I don’t have a choice, and he pulls my mouth to his.
The kiss is hungry and unapologetic, like he’s done holding back.
I cling to him as his fingers keep moving, circling, rubbing, and pushing me higher while the drugs, music and the heat twist together inside me.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips almost brushing mine. “Tell me again how I don’t know you want this. I fucking love hearing you lie, little valentine.”
My body tightens, breath catching, nerves lighting up all at once. Every touch drags me closer to the edge, his control absolute, his focus unbroken.
And the worst part? He doesn’t fucking stop.
Not when my breath starts to hitch and my legs shake. Not even when I realize how exposed I am with bodies packed around us, lights flashing, bass drowning out everything but the way his hand is working me like he owns the fucking right.
One arm keeps me pinned back against him, solid and unmovable, like I’d have to break myself just to prove a point. The other keeps moving between my thighs, hungry and unapologetic, like he’s done pretending this is accidental.
“I—fuck. God,” I moan, because my body folds instantly, melting back into him without even asking my permission. He works me in that perfect, overwhelming way that makes thinking feel optional.
He chuckles low. ‘“Oh fuck no. God isn’t doing this” he murmurs. “It’s my hands that are making you feel good. Don’t give him credit for what I’m doing to you.’”
The words sink in slow, heavy, settling somewhere deep and dangerous, and my laugh comes out breathless and wrecked as the bass swallows whatever smart thought I might’ve had next.
Everyone around us keeps dancing like this is just another rave, lights flashing, bass pounding, completely fucking clueless that one of the city’s serial Cupid killers has his fingers inside me in plain sight.
The very same hands that spill blood, that carve those sick little love notes into the flesh of his victims, are now pulling pleasure out of me like it’s nothing. And I know exactly what his hands have done. I know there’s probably still blood on them from tonight. I know exactly what he is.
I just…don’t care.
Not when he’s touching me like this, and my body reacts faster than my brain can keep up. Not when the drugs have everything turned up too high for fear to get a word in. If anything, the fucked-up contrast only makes it worse, makes the whole thing hit deeper, sharper.
Yeah. I know I should care.
“Oh fuck,” I breathe when his fingers curl just right, hooking into that spot that makes my knees threaten to fold.
He feels it immediately.
His mouth drops to my ear, teeth grazing before a low, pleased laugh. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That sound you keep trying to choke back. Don’t. Fucking give it to me.”
My pulse stutters.
“Fuck,” he adds quietly, like he’s savoring it, “you’re so tight. Sweet little cunt squeezing my fingers like it’s been starving.”
My breath comes out shaky, uneven.
“Like you’ve been waiting all night for someone to finally pay attention,” he continues, voice lazy, cruel in the way he drags it out. “Cupid noticed,” he says softly, almost amused. “I always do.”
Holy fuck.
Is this how all killers talk when they catch their victims? Because if this is what happens before I die, I will literally walk into the afterlife smiling.