Chapter 4
Four
Dagger
I saw red the second Noir touched her.
Doesn’t matter that I already had her against the wall. Doesn’t matter that her lipstick’s still smeared from my mouth. Doesn’t even matter that I don’t fucking know her.
It’s the way he looks at her.
Like he knows her.
Bullshit.
Every time I blink, I see her—lips swollen from my kiss, pupils blown wide, body strung tight like she was begging for someone to ruin her. The way she melted into me, the way she pulled my tongue deeper like she wanted to drown on it—yeah, that wasn’t the drugs. Not fully.
I warned her about the second dose. Told her it’d hit harder, meaner. Thought maybe she’d flinch. Play it safe.
But no. She took it like a dare. Like a fucking challenge.
That smirk on her lips, that glint in her eye—cocky, fiery, reckless. The kind of attitude that doesn’t scare easy.
The kind that speaks straight to my dick.
And maybe I should’ve been mad she didn’t listen. Should’ve walked away, let her crash and burn like every other feign I’ve handed poison to.
But I didn’t.
Because she’s different.
She’s the kind of chaos that holds my attention when most people barely flicker on the radar.
The kind I feel in my bloodstream, like a hit I didn’t mean to take.
Which is why that asshole dragging her out like he had some claim set me the fuck off.
But he’s not the real problem.
The real problem is Noir—lurking in the shadows, eyes locked on her like she’s already his. Like he’s just waiting for the right moment to drag her under.
Dragging her away from me like some goddamn knight in recycled denim. Acting like he gives a shit. Like he’s some untouchable god up there on his fucking DJ pedestal, looking down like he’s already won.
I flex my jaw as I shove a fresh zip of Cyanide into the hand of some twitchy raver with LED nails and a smear of blood under her nose. “One tab at a time,” I mutter. “Or you’ll end up in the fucking dirt.”
She nods, too fast. Not listening.
Figures.
My crew’s scattered across the floor, most of them dealing, some watching. Just like I told them. The kid from earlier, the one who laid hands on her, he’s not gonna be an issue anymore. Soon as I dragged him off her, I sent a quick text to Ruck.
One bullet. Right between the ribs.
She probably thinks I let him go. That I just walked away.
Cute.
But I’m not that fucking generous.
Not when it comes to things that I want, and make no mistake, I fucking want her.
I scan the crowd from the mezzanine, tension biting down between my shoulders like a vice. The floor below is chaos—bodies writhing under strobe lights, sweat and bass thick in the air, glow sticks flashing, colors bleeding into each other. Cyanide rave in full swing.
But she’s not there.
Not by the booth. Not behind Noir. Not where I left her.
Fuck.
I tug my phone from my pocket and shoot off a text to Stone.
"Deals smooth?"
The reply comes fast.
"Clean. You?"
I don’t respond. I don't have time.
I push through the heat and noise, cutting across the crowd toward the bar. Cass is slinging drinks with her usual bite, snapping gum between pours.
I slap the bar. “You see the girl from earlier?”
Cass doesn’t even glance up. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Dagger. I sell a lot of drinks to girls, and you deal with more than half of them.”
“The one with the split pink and purple hair. Little holographic outfit. Glitter on her cheeks. Freckles.”
Cass finally looks up, eyes narrowing, mouth twitching like she knows exactly who I’m talking about. “Oh, that , girl. You know she kinda?—”
I arch a brow. “Cass.”
She rolls her eyes. “Relax. She grabbed another drink. She looked spun as hell. I think she headed out the side door maybe half an hour or so ago.”
My stomach knots.
“You sure?”
Cass leans on the counter. “Pretty sure. You know, Dagger, you’re not the only one who doesn’t forget faces.”
I get her point, but I don’t reply because I’m already moving.
Blair might think I gave up the minute Noir dragged her away, she might think I walked away. But I didn’t, and I won’t.
The side door slams behind me, muting the bass to a low, throbbing pulse buried under brick and distance.
Out here, the night’s alive in a different way—less bodies grinding, more shadows moving.
A few smokers linger near the door, clouds of nicotine haze curling around neon cuffs and fishnets.
Some guy’s perched on a bike, cigarette between his lips, bored eyes tracking nothing.
Laughter drifts from a cluster of ravers sprawled in the grass, cheap liquor sloshing in glow-up cups.
I ignore them all.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I move forward, past a strip of overgrown grass, where a worn path winds toward the ocean. Moonlight glints off beer bottles tossed in the weeds.
“Yo,” one of my guys calls from the edge, hoodie up, eyes bloodshot. I tip my chin at him. He nods, goes back to scrolling.
I follow the breeze.
Down the slope, toward where the air shifts—thicker with salt, cooler, wilder.
And then I see her.
Sitting in the sand like she’s part of it. Toes buried. Her platform boots lie abandoned beside her, forgotten like they didn’t just walk her through hell and back. Hair whipping around her face in pink and purple braids. Glitter catching in what little moonlight slips between clouds.
Still high, and glowing.
Still the only fucking thing out here I want to look at.
Blair.
I still haven’t said her name out loud. Don’t know what it’d do to me if I did. Like naming it would make this real. Make her mine.
She glances over her shoulder before I’ve even stepped close. Felt me coming—of course she fucking did.
“You stalking me now?” she calls, voice teasing but tinged with breathlessness. Like maybe part of her hoped I would.
I smirk, slow and dark. “You’re the one who wandered off again. High as hell. Thought you OD’d on your own curiosity.”
She turns to face me, the moon lighting her from behind like some hallucinogenic goddess.
“I was hot,” she shrugs, like that explains everything.
I arch a brow. “Could’ve told someone.”
“Why? You jealous you didn’t get to cool me down yourself?”
“No,” I mutter, darker now. “But I am pissed that after some fuck tried to drag you out like a toy, you’re still out here alone, high off your ass. You looking to see how far you can push it? Or do you just like playing bait?”
She smirks, that defiant little curl of her lip that does something violent to my chest. “It’s not your job—or anyone’s—to babysit me. I can handle myself.”
“I know you can handle yourself,” I say, voice low, steady. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like the idea of watching out for you. Just in case someone’s dumb enough to try you again.”
She’s flushed, pouty lips still a little swollen from earlier. My mark. Fuck.
I shouldn’t be looking at her like this.
Shouldn’t be thinking about pressing her into the sand and swallowing every fucking sound she makes.
But I am.
She smirks, head tilting just enough to be a dare.
“Oh yeah?” she says, voice thick with heat and defiance. “That just for safety or are you the jealous type?”
Like she doesn’t already know.
Of course I fucking am. Especially when it comes to her apparently.
Which is why I can’t fucking stand that Noir is watching her too. I fucking hate it. The way he looked at her when he interrupted our kiss. The way he pulled her up on his booth like she already fucking belonged to him.
He’s not careless, though. I’ll give him that. He’ll look out for her, to a point, sure but not for her sake. For his own twisted interest. His own fucking guilt.
And that’s the part that pisses me off the most.
The silence between us crackles like a fuse I don’t remember lighting, and for the first time all night, she doesn’t fill the silence with some smart-ass line.
She just stares at me. Like maybe she’s finally starting to believe I don’t say shit I don’t mean.
My eyes trail down her bare arms, and that’s when I see it.
Goosebumps. A tremble she probably hasn’t even registered yet. The ocean’s wind is colder out here, licking over her glittered skin, making her look more fragile than she’d ever fucking admit.
Without a word, I shrug out of my jacket and lean in closer. She tilts her head, watching me like she’s waiting for one of my usual cocky punchlines. I don’t give her one.
I drape the jacket over her shoulders myself, tugging it gently into place. She looks up at me, half suspicion, half curiosity sparkling in her deep brown eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you my jacket,” I murmur, one corner of my mouth twitching. “Isn’t that what they do in the movies when their trying to be all romantic and shit?”
Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to decide whether to roll them or kiss me. “Why?”
“Because you’re so cold you’re shaking,” I say simply.
Her gaze drops to her arms like she’s just now noticing. “Oh.”
That single syllable hits harder than it should. Soft. Uncertain. Like the pills in her system are so strong she’s not even aware of her own body.
She pulls the jacket tighter around herself, burying her fingers in the sleeves like she’s anchoring herself to the warmth I left behind. Her eyes drift toward the ocean, lashes fluttering, high still blooming in her cheeks.
And I fucking hate it.
Normally, I’d get off on this kind of thing. Watching the fall. The unraveling. That last hazy blink before someone tips over the edge.
But not her.
I don’t even know her. Haven’t known her for more than a breath. But something about seeing her like this—floaty, far away, drowning in whatever chemical cocktail she chased down—I hate it.
Hate how wrong it looks on her. Hate that I care.
She’s not just another comedown. She’s not supposed to crash. Not her.
She doesn’t thank me, but she doesn’t need to.
Because the way she holds onto that jacket like it means something?
That nearly undoes me.
No one wears it. No one touches it.