Chapter 3
Three
Blair
The rave turns to static.
A living, breathing pulse of neon chaos.
Lights strobe in broken flashes—acid green, UV purple, blistering red. Glowsticks swing like fireflies in a warzone, casting trails across smeared bodies. The air is syrupy with heat, thick with the bite of sweat, smoke, and artificial fog. Every breath tastes like chemicals and bass.
Sweat glues my clothes to my skin. Glitter clings to every inch of exposed flesh. The floor throbs beneath my boots, each bass drop vibrating up my spine like a defibrillator.
I don’t remember leaving the dance floor, but somehow I’ve migrated.
My legs move like they’ve got their own agenda, stumbling forward through a kaleidoscope of flashing color and skin. People push against me—half-naked, painted, pulsing with the same reckless energy.
A girl stumbles past in a plastic corset and LED wings, eyes rolling back in her skull. A guy with smeared eyeliner kisses someone mid-spin, both of them glowing like radioactive saints.
Everything is motion. Everything is blur.
I catch glimpses—white teeth, wet mouths, flashing eyes. The world bends at the edges.
My hair sticks to my face. My lips are tingling. My heart’s sprinting in my chest like it’s trying to claw its way out.
Too much. Too fast. Too loud.
And still, my feet keep moving.
Blair, you dumb bitch.
You should’ve stopped at one.
But no. No, you had to be cute about it. Flash him that smug little grin, bat your lashes like a menace, and drop a “maybe I need another” like you weren’t already five inches off the fucking floor.
He even fucking warned me. Flat-out said Cyanide hits different. That it has claws. But did I listen?
Of fucking course not.
Because apparently flirting with danger isn’t just a hobby, it’s a full-blown personality trait. And now I’m out here chasing air like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
I stumble toward the bar or at least I think I do, until someone steps in front of me. Tall. Grinning. Sweaty hands slide around my waist like I invited them.
“Where you going, little doll?”
The fuck?
I twist, but his grip tightens. And that’s when it hits me?—
I’m not inside anymore.
The bass is still thumping somewhere behind me, but it’s muffled now, like it’s underwater. The air out here’s even hotter than in there—thick and soupy, sharp with sweat, gasoline, and cheap cologne. I blink hard. Neon streaks across my vision. My pupils are doing the salsa.
Cracked pavement. A flickering bulb above. Bodies pressed along the wall—some lighting smokes, others waiting to get in, and most already half gone. A girl’s vomiting behind a dumpster like it’s a fucking performance piece, but everyone’s too fried to care.
And this guy? He’s still grabbing at me. Still talking and acting like he’s the main character in some back alley porno no one asked for.
Normally, I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t exactly say no.
I mean, I’ve got needs like everyone else.
I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve got a slutty streak wider than his jawline.
When the high hits right and everything in my head goes quiet, I’ll take whatever body’s nearby if it means I get to feel something. Or nothing. Preferably nothing.
But right now I need water. Not hands. Not dick, and definitely not some dude who fingers the hem of my skirt like we’re gonna fall in love back here.
I shove at his chest, but the sidewalk tilts. Or maybe that’s me. Everything feels like it’s melting—colors too loud, skin too tight, limbs moving half a beat behind the music still pounding inside my skull.
“Relax,” he breathes, getting too close. “You came out here lookin’ for something, right?”
“Yeah,” I snap. “Aqua. Not assault.”
He doesn’t laugh. Of course he doesn’t. Guys like him never do. Just presses me back against the brick like this is some scene he’s jerked off to a thousand times. His knee wedges between mine, body heavy, and breath sour—like rot, J?ger and poor decisions.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxes, fingers trailing up my side like they belong there. “Don’t play shy now?—”
“Oh, fuck off,” I snarl. “You seriously think I came out here to let some off-brand frat goblin dry hump me to death?”
His eyes flash. Guess he doesn’t like being told no. Shocker.
I shove him—hard, but I’m high, sweating, and the ground’s starting to feel like it’s breathing. My pulse is a war drum, and my limbs are two seconds from mutiny.
He leans in anyway. Grimy fingers sliding down and digging into my hips. His mouth hovers just over my throat.
“Get the fuck?—”
And then, like a switch flipped, he’s gone.
Ripped back with a snarl, like something wild just stepped into the alley.
Yanked.
Like the universe itself hit pause and rewrote the scene.
I blink.
Dagger.
He’s got the guy pinned against the wall by his throat, not even breaking a sweat. One arm cocked, muscles tight, eyes flat with something feral. Controlled and lethal. Like this is just routine.
The dude’s face goes sheet white. “Shit—Dagger—I didn’t know, man—I didn’t know?—”
Dagger doesn’t blink. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just tightens his grip enough to make the guy’s sneakers lift a few inches off the cracked pavement.
“You didn’t know, huh? Just because I deal the shit, doesn’t mean I’m going to sit back and play accomplice to assault. She said no. If I heard her, I fucking know you did. So now, you can find yourself a new dealer.”
The guy gags. “Fuck—no, please—don’t cut me off—I didn’t mean nothin’—please, Dagger?—”
Dagger lets him drop. The guy crumples, hands scraping concrete, coughing hard as he looks up like he's waiting for a bullet.
Dagger steps over him, slow. Controlled.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
And just to make it sting—he spits.
Right in the guy’s face.
Jesus .
The dude scrambles up like his legs are broken, practically tripping over himself as he runs off, blubbering like a kicked mutt. He disappears down the alley without a backward glance.
And me?
I’m standing there like an idiot, limbs trembling, jaw clenched, and still somehow— somehow —all I can think is: Well, fuck. I wish he’d spit on me like that.
Full force. Right between my thighs .
Before he?—
Stop it, Blair.
Jesus. Get a grip. You’re not gonna cum in an alley because some hot drug lord plays the filth card just right… Right?
Get it together, Blair. Goddamn.
I clear my throat, ignoring the tremble in my knees.
“I could’ve handled it,” I say, because pride’s a bitch, and mine doesn’t know when to shut up.
Dagger turns to me, finally. Eyes catching mine, cold and unreadable, but burning underneath.
“Not saying you couldn’t.”
He steps in closer. Close enough to smell the heat on his skin and the smoke on his shirt. His voice drops, slow and smooth, like honey poured over a knife.
My pulse spikes.
My thighs clench, and yeah. There goes what little self-control I had left.
He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. Fingers drag against the shell. I shiver.
“But I was watching.”
I arch a brow, still pressed against the wall, sweat cooling under my clothes. “Watching, huh?” My lips twitch into a smirk. “Why? You looking to give Yelp reviews on near-assaults now?”
His body heat hits me like a fucking freight train. My breath catches, but I don’t back down. He’s taller, broader, meaner-looking than I should be into.
Which is exactly why I am.
“You always follow girls you sell to into dark alleys,” I ask, tilting my head, letting my lips curve into something cocky and smug. “Or am I just special?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just steps in even closer—slow and dominating, like a fucking predator who already knows the ending. His chest brushes mine, lips inches from my mouth, his stare boring into me like a dare.
“No,” he says, voice low and sharp like broken glass. “Never.” A beat. “I don’t give a fuck about my customers.”
His breath ghosts across my face, and for a second, I forget how to blink. The weight of that admission hits harder than the pill did. I swallow thickly, but my throat is dry. Everything is dry. My skin. My mouth. My fucking brain.
Then he kisses me, and holy fuck.
His mouth slams into mine, and everything else disappears. The noise, the heat, the world. Just him. Dagger. Tongue deep in my mouth, hands sliding rough down my body as he pins me to the wall like he’s claiming me.
I feel the cold press of his tongue ring against mine, sharp and jarring, and it makes me moan into his mouth—fuck, it shouldn’t feel this good. He sucks on my tongue like he needs it, groaning deep in his chest like he’s trying to drink me down. Every movement is filthy.
Possessive.
He licks into me again, slow this time, letting the metal catch just enough to make me shiver.
“I can still taste it on your tongue,” he mutters against my lips, voice wrecked and low. “Fuck.”
I can’t think. Can’t breathe, and I don’t want to.
My hands fist in his shirt. My thighs clench. His knee pushes between my thighs and I roll my hips without meaning to, my body chasing friction like it’s fucking oxygen.
The kiss turns filthier. Tongues tangling, lips bruising, teeth nipping. He bites my bottom lip, hard enough to make me gasp, then soothes it with a slow lick that has my spine arching into him.
Jesus. He kisses like he owns me. Like he already knows what I look like falling apart.
The brick is cool against my back but I’m on fire, skin slick with sweat and pulse hammering out of control. I’m too high for this. Too thirsty. Too fucking turned on to care.
I moan into his mouth and he groans back, one hand sliding up my ribs, almost— almost —cupping my breast, but stopping just shy.
Cocky bastard.
My brain is a goddamn melting ice cube. Dripping. Disintegrating. All I can think is more .
More of him. More of this.
And maybe, just maybe , a goddamn glass of water before I fucking combust.
“Dagger.”
The voice slices through the night like a blade dipped in ice.