Chapter 6
KADE
Kross notices it before I say a word.
Before I even fucking move or get a goddamn chance to commit to the decision.
She slips into the crowd, red flashing once between bodies, and my attention tracks her without effort. Automatic, precise, and already mapping all the angles and exits of this shit hole warehouse. I don’t chase yet. I don’t need to.
But Kross sees the change.
He turns his head slowly, following my line of sight, then lets out a low laugh that’s half surprise, half delight.
“Holy shit,” he says.
I don’t look at him.
“That’s new,” he adds. “That fucking look.”
“I don’t have a look.”
He snorts. “You absolutely do, and that, right there, is not your usual someone’s about to fucking die face.”
I finally glance at him. “Move.”
Instead of listening, he grins wider, clearly fucking entertained. “You fucking want her.”
“No.”
“Well, you definitely don’t want to kill her,” he corrects, tapping the side of his mask like he’s thinking it through. “That’s the difference. That’s why this is fun.”
“This isn’t some fucking game.”
He laughs outright at that. “Maybe it wasn’t, but it sure as fuck is now, bro.”
I shift my weight, irritation sparking, but Kross only leans closer, voice dropping just enough to be heard over the bass.
“I’ve said it since the alley—that girl, she’s running because she wants to get caught.”
“They all fucking run.”
“Not with a smile on their face they don’t.” His grin turns sharp. “No other girl has ever fucking run hoping we’ll catch her. None of them have even challenged us. Played with us the way she is.”
I don’t answer.
He watches me for another second, eyes narrowing like he’s studying a puzzle he didn’t expect to enjoy.
“Holy shit. You fucking like that she does,” he says.
“Jesus, even I didn’t expect this tonight.
Seeing you actually fucking embrace the chaos, the game?
Shit, you’re just as excited for this chase as she is. ”
“She’s definitely not subtle.” I smirk behind the mask.
“No,” he agrees. “But she is fucking delicious.”
I shoot him a warning look.
He raises both hands in mock surrender, still laughing. “Relax. I’m just saying, you don’t usually look at people like they’re…interesting.”
“That’s because they’re not.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but she is.”
The music surges, the crowd shifts, and she disappears completely this time.
Kross nudges my shoulder. “Well?” he asks as he pulls the mask back down over his face. “You gonna keep standing here pretending you’re not enjoying this, or are you actually going to chase the girl you told to run?”
I take one last look at where she vanished, already replaying her movement, her timing, the way she glanced back like she expected me there.
Then I step forward.
Kross’s voice follows me, amused and fucking satisfied. “Do me a favor and try not to fucking break her,” he calls. “I want another taste later.”
I toss him a grunt over my shoulder as Kross’s laughter fades behind me and I slip into the crowd.
She’s already moving, and like a true predator, I’m locked in.
The rave is everything I fucking hate, crammed into one sweat-soaked warehouse. Bass so loud it stops being music and turns into blunt-force trauma. Lights flashing so hard nobody looks real anymore—just skin, mouths, hands, grinding together like personal space is a myth and dignity is optional.
This is what raves are actually for. Getting fucked up enough that responsibility feels like someone else’s problem.
Everyone is chasing the same shit—drugs, sex, noise, pretending it’s freedom or “vibes” when really it’s just an excuse to be reckless and call it culture.
A room full of people convincing themselves the night makes them untouchable.
They think the lights protect them, and that the crowd keeps them anonymous.
Think whatever they do in here doesn’t count once the music stops.
It’s bullshit.
Places like this don’t erase consequences. They just hide them long enough for people to forget they exist, which is exactly why I fucking hate it here.
Up ahead, I catch sight of her again as she cuts through the crowd, fast and precise.
Not panicked. Not sloppy. She doesn’t shove or apologize.
She slides sideways between bodies, ducks under arms, times her movements to the beat like this isn’t her first time playing this game.
Every few seconds the crowd ripples where she’s been, a wake of disruption that closes almost immediately.
She’s good.
I slow down on purpose, letting the distance stretch. Watching instead of reacting. People always think pursuit is about speed. It’s not. It’s about patience. About reading intent and knowing where someone’s going before they do.
She glances back once, then again, irritation flashing when she doesn’t spot me. Then she veers toward the back hallway, towards the bathrooms.
She still doesn’t see me.
That’s the fun part.
I take the longer route, cutting through the parallel corridor where the bass fades into a low, distant thud that vibrates through concrete instead of bone.
The air back here is cooler, stale, reeking of old beer and piss.
My grip loosens around the switchblade in my hand, thumb resting easy against the spine like muscle memory.
She reaches the bathroom door and pauses, scanning the hallway with narrowed eyes. She’s smart, careful. Good. Then she pushes inside.
I count to three.
A girl stumbles out just as I reach the door, mascara smeared, grin already forming when she clocks me. “Hey,” she slurs, hand drifting toward my chest. “You look lost. Here let me—”
I don’t break stride.
My shoulder knocks her arm away hard enough to send her back a step. “Get the fuck out of my way,” I snap.
She recoils, then bristles. “Wow. Fuck you, asshole.”
I don’t even look at her as I step inside.
The bathroom is loud, crowded, echoing with laughter and the muffled bass bleeding through the walls. I let the door swing shut behind me and raise my voice just enough to cut through it.
“Everybody get the fuck out.”
A few people laugh, thinking I’m joking.
I lift the knife, just enough for the light to catch the blade.
“Now,” I say calmly. “Unless you feel like testing me.”
That fucking does it.
Stalls slam shut, shoes squeal, and someone swears under their breath as bodies rush for the exit. I don’t hurry them. I don’t need to. Fear does that just fine.
I move down the row of stalls, kicking them open one by one. Empty. Empty. Empty.
The last one swings open hard.
There she is.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t flinch. She leans back against the stall wall, arms crossed, chin tipped up like she’s been waiting.
“Took you long enough,” she says, mouth curling.
I grab her wrist and haul her out in one smooth motion, backing her into the sink hard enough to rattle the mirror. Not brutal but controlled.
She grins anyway. Smug and fucking challenging.
“I thought I told you to run fast,” I say, head tilting beneath the mask, disappointment threading my voice like I actually give a shit.
She snorts and points at her heels. “Yeah, well, in case you didn’t notice, these aren’t exactly built for fucking cardio or parkour.”
I don’t answer her right away.
Instead, I take my time looking around the bathroom. Grimy tiles. Flickering light. A cracked mirror barely holding on behind her. The place is a shithole. My shoulders loosen anyway, the way they always do when I settle into a space I can control.
She watches me do it, like she knows exactly what I’m clocking. Like she enjoys it.
“So this is where you end up?” I ask, dry as hell. “A filthy bathroom. A fucking dead end.” My gaze slides back to her. “Gotta say, valentine, I expected more effort.”
She laughs—bright, unapologetic, irritating in the way that makes my mouth twitch. “Oh, I put in effort,” she says. “Just not on the whole running-for-my-life part.”
That gets my attention.
I feel it immediately—the shift, the recalculation. She sees it too. Her smile sharpens like she just scored a point.
“Instead,” she continues, stepping past me. “Instead, I put the effort into the location.”
The lock clicks behind us. Loud. Final.
“I figured,” she adds casually, “with all that frustration you keep claiming you have, it made more sense to let it out somewhere we wouldn’t get interrupted. Or draw unwanted attention.” She shrugs. “Seemed smarter. Considering…”
A short, humorless laugh slips out of me as I step back into her space, close enough that she has to tip her chin up to keep eye contact.
“So this was intentional,” I say.
She tilts her head, grin pure trouble. “You did tell me not to make it boring. Bet you didn’t see this coming, did ya, big guy?”
I study her through the mask, slow and deliberate. “Careful,” I murmur. “That kind of planning makes it sound like you actually wanted to get caught.”
She lifts her hands in mock surrender. “Right, sorry, let me fix that. Oh no,” she says lightly. “Mister Cupid Killer is gonna get me.” Her eyes flick to my mask. “Maybe don’t kill me, though,” she whispers with a smirk/ “At least not until after you fuck me.”
I dip my head just enough to let her feel how close I am. Fed up. Amused. Very aware of how fucked this is.
“You’re playing a risky fucking game,” I tell her.
She smiles wider, unapologetic as hell. “You’re the one who wanted to play.”
“Hmmm. Is this the shit you’re into? These fucked up little games,” I say quietly.
“You know,” she says lightly, “for a guy who literally decorates bodies with messages, after you chase, and kill them, you’re awfully quick to kink-shame.”
“Not kink shaming. It's just stating that you’re quickly becoming a problem.”
“Oh yeah? For who?”
“For me.”
That shuts her up for a beat.
I step closer, heat building, tension tightening like a wire pulled too far. I don’t cage her in. I don’t rush her. I just exist in her space, unavoidable.