Chapter 9
Nine
Dagger
The music throbs like a second heartbeat through the warehouse—louder than thought, louder than blood. The air is hot and wet with smoke, sweat, and synthetic high. Bodies crash like waves in the dark, grinding under ultraviolet strobes, drowning in bass.
And then I see her.
Blair.
Dead center of the chaos, backlit by strobe flashes and fog like some fucking hallucination pulled from neon and sin. Her split-color braids—pink on one side, purple on the other—swing over bare shoulders like they’ve got their own rhythm, ends brushing the shimmer of her back as she moves.
She’s not just dancing—she’s flaunting .
Arms raised high, tits pushed up in that iridescent bikini top, glitter catching the light with every twist of her body.
That tiny, scallop-edged skirt barely hides anything, the hem fluttering up with each spin to show flashes of chain and skin beneath.
Those ridiculous fairy boots—holographic and laced to her knees, wings flared at the ankles—stomp out a beat like she’s here to crush hearts beneath them.
And all of her?
She’s glowing. Glazed with heat and movement and whatever she took to keep herself floating this high.
But she’s not alone.
There’s a guy behind her, some rave rat in a mesh tank and dollar store sunglasses. His hands are on her hips like he owns them. His mouth moves at her ear like he’s saying something that fucking matters . She laughs. Tilts her head. Her braid brushes his chest.
My jaw ticks.
I don’t think, I just fucking move.
The crowd swallows me in strobes and smoke, the scent of cheap cologne and burnt coils thick in my nose.
Bodies press against mine, limbs tangling, but I don’t stop.
My eyes don’t fucking leave her. Not until I’m behind her.
Not until my hand is on her hip and I’m yanking her back against me like I own this.
Because I do.
The guy startles, takes one look at me—at the way I’m staring like I’ll cave his fucking skull in—and backs off fast. Good choice. I don’t even need to shove him.
Blair turns, breathless, lips parted and wet with gloss, cheeks flushed from heat and the high. Her lashes flutter when she sees me.
“Well, hey there,” she says, like she didn’t vanish on me hours ago, like she didn’t show back up floating on something I didn’t give her.
Like she didn’t take my no and chase the high anyway.
I grip her hip tighter. “So I say no, and you go get your fix from someone else, huh?”
She smirks, head tilted like a challenge. “Don’t act so shocked. You knew I’d find a way.”
Cocky. Defiant. That sharp little tongue of hers part of what dragged me in to begin with. Most girls in my world bend when you push—Blair bites back. It makes me want to break her just to see how far I can go.
“Keep talking shit,” I growl, crowding her close. “I’ll make sure your mouth’s too full to finish another sentence.”
Her brows lift, lips twitching into a bratty grin. “You wouldn’t. Not here.”
I lean in, breath hot against her ear. “You don’t know me well if that’s what you think. You really believe any of these fuckers would stop me from taking what’s mine?”
Her breath hitches, just a little. I tilt her chin up, force her to meet my eyes.
“Now tell me who sold you that shit.”
She glances to the side—barely a flick of her lashes—but I follow it. See him. Some greasy-looking runner near the wall, barely old enough to be holding, let alone slinging to girls like her.
I nod once. I’ll deal with him later.
But right now?—
I kiss her. Rough. Deep. My teeth scrape her lower lip as I tug, my grip hard on her waist.
When I pull back, her lips are glossy with spit and smeared color.
“Next time I say no,” I murmur darkly, “you listen. You don’t need that shit.”
She licks her lips, teasing. “You gonna punish me if I don’t?”
I slide my palm down her stomach. “You asking for it?”
Her lashes flutter, breath catching as I cup between her thighs, my fingers brushing the thin strip of her panties beneath that short skirt.
“Want me to show you?” I whisper, voice low and rough against her ear. “Remind you how good I can make you feel, little relapse? Want me to make you cum right here, on my fingers while the bass drops?”
She moans. Quiet. Shaky. Lips parting like she forgot where she is, like the sound spilled out without her permission.
I don’t stop.
My hand drags back up between her thighs, slow and deliberate, pressing the heel of my palm against her clit in a lazy circle.
She gasps, her hips bucking back into me, and fuck if I don’t feel my cock throb in sync with the beat.
She’s soaking through her panties, slick, hot and perfect and I’m not even inside her yet.
“You want the high?” I murmur, lips grazing the shell of her ear. “I’ll give it to you. All you have to do is ask.”
She nods but there’s that gleam again. That bratty little fire she carries like a badge of honor. Wicked. Defiant. Daring me to ruin her.
God, she makes me want to ruin her.
My fingers trail lower, curling beneath the edge of her panties, and I feel her body tense as I hook them, dragging the fabric aside like an invitation.
She’s still dancing, like we’re just another pair in the crowd, but I feel the shift, feel the way her rhythm falters, the way she leans into me like she’s begging without words.
I slide a finger inside her.
She clenches around me, and I bite back a groan, my hand gripping her hip as I pull her flush to me. My mouth crashes down on hers—hot, punishing and possessive. She moans into it, fingers curling behind my neck to hold on. Like she’ll fall without me.
Like she wants to.
“Tell me, little relapse,” I rasp, dragging my lips down her throat as I curl my finger inside her. “Do you need another hit?”
She rolls her hips down, grinding on my hand like the answer is obvious.
Like she’s beyond words now—just heat, rhythm and need.
The bass pounds through the floor, through our bones, and I fuck her with my fingers to the beat of it—deep, relentless, like I’m trying to replace whatever high she’s chasing with something she’ll never forget.
Her breathing turns ragged, chest heaving, sweat slicking the curve of her neck. My name slips from her lips in a whimper. Twice. Three times. And then she tightens around my fingers—hips stuttering, thighs trembling—and I feel her break.
She cums for me.
Right there. Right in the middle of the floor.
And fuck, she’s gorgeous like this. Wild, unraveling and fucking mine.
I keep my hand on her, letting her ride it out, grinding softly as her body twitches, as the wave crashes and recedes. I press a kiss to her jaw, then her mouth, swallowing the wrecked sound she makes.
My cock is painfully hard behind my jeans, but I don’t move. Not yet.
Not until she opens her eyes and looks at me like that.
Like I’m the only thing tethering her to the ground.
She doesn’t know it—but she’s my fix, too. My addiction. And when I finally take all of her, really fucking take her—I know I’ll overdose.
And I’ll do it gladly.
I bring my hand to my mouth, sucking each finger clean—slow, deliberate. Her taste coats my tongue, heady and addictive. She watches the whole thing, pupils blown wide, her smirk curled like sin.
Like she knows exactly what the fuck she just did to me.
We dance for a while—longer than we should.
Long enough to forget the shit under our skin and in our blood.
Her hands tangle in my hair, nails grazing my scalp, lips brushing my neck like a tease with every sway.
She moves against me like she’s trying to fuck me through fabric—slow, filthy, and without a care who’s watching.
And I let her.
Because right now, she’s not chasing the high.
She’s chasing me.
And fuck if I don’t want to be caught.
We melt back into the crowd like nothing happened. Like I didn’t just make her cum while half the warehouse watched through the strobe and smoke. Like her panties aren’t soaked and my fingers don’t still tingle from being inside her.
She’s chaos in a little skirt that rides high and a split-toned crown of braids that swing like she’s being dragged by the beat.
And fuck me if it isn’t the hottest shit I’ve ever seen. I want her just like this. Wild and free but tethered to something that won’t kill her.
Shit I want her tethered to me .
I don’t get like this. Not with anyone. Not since?—
Fuck.
I bite the thought off before it finishes.
She wasn’t mine. I cared, yeah. But not like this.
Not the way I watch Blair like I’m waiting for the world to take her from me.
Not the way every little mouthy look she throws has me ready to snap someone’s neck if get near her.
Blair’s different. Wilder. Unafraid.
She moves against me like she’s made to be there—hips rolling, fingers tugging at my shirt, ass grinding into my thigh until my jaw’s clenched and my blood’s heating like I’ve just downed a shot of liquid fire.
Every beat drops like a war drum, and she rides it like sin in motion, dragging me into her chaos. Into her orbit.
Fuck.
She’s high, but she’s coming down. I can feel it in the way her rhythm softens, the way her muscles start to slack just a little, like her body’s crashing but she’s still chasing the spark.
And I know what she’s chasing. I see it in her eyes when they flick up to mine—wild, needy, a little lost. She doesn’t want connection. She wants combustion. Wants to be taken apart, filled up, rewritten.
And I want to do it.
Right here. Right now. On the fucking floor with all these people watching. Let them see who she really belongs to. Let them see what it looks like when she finds the high she’s always searching for—with me buried so deep inside her she forgets her own fucking name.
I want to make her feel it. The rush. The fire. The way I’d ruin every inch of her and still not have enough. Not even close.
She presses back, teasing. Grinding harder, like she can feel what I’m thinking, like she wants it too.
I fist her hair, drag my mouth to her neck, and fuck me, I nearly lose it.
She fits me.
And maybe that’s the fucking problem. Because a girl like this, with heat in her blood and danger in her smile? She doesn’t know how easy it is to vanish. How fast the world can eat you alive.
And I don’t want to lose this one.
Not her.
Hours pass like minutes. Sweat slicks her skin. The crowd thins and thickens, waves of neon light casting shadows across her face like warpaint. I keep her close. Keep her safe.
But eventually, reality claws its way back in.
“Yo,” a voice cuts through the noise. “We got a problem.”
I turn, jaw tight, as Link steps up beside me—shoulders broad, black hoodie stretched tight, gold chain peeking from the collar. His lip’s split, knuckles raw, and I already know it’s bad.
He jerks his chin. “Same as last time. Guy’s dead. Skull carved into his fucking chest. Stash gone. Clubhouse wants eyes.”
Motherfucker.
I let go of Blair—reluctantly.
She frowns, grabbing my wrist like she thinks she can anchor me. “Where are you going?”
“Gotta handle something,” I mutter, eyes still scanning the crowd.
Her lip juts out, full of that bratty pout I usually enjoy too damn much. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now.” I brush a strand of her hair back, fingers sliding down her cheek before I lace mine through hers and lead her toward the bar.
She drags her feet, grip tight, like she’s not ready to let go just yet and fuck if I don’t feel the same. But I keep moving. No choice.
The music’s a little duller behind the bar, but the adrenaline still hums through my veins. Cass moves fast—pouring shots, taking cash, slinging drinks like she’s got demons nipping at her heels.
I step in close, slide a folded wad of bills across the counter. “She’s coming down. Let her burn the rest off, then put her in an Uber. Make sure she gets back to the motel safe.”
Cass glances at Blair, then gives me a knowing nod. “Got it.”
Blair slumps into the stool, lips still pushed out like I just kicked her puppy. Her eyes are glassy but clearing, body loose with the aftermath of the high.
I grab a cold bottle from the fridge, crack it open, and press it into her hand.
“Drink,” I say, low and firm. No room for argument.
She rolls her eyes but takes it, lips wrapping around the rim slow, dramatic, like she wants to make me regret leaving.
And I already do.
She does, reluctantly.
“Dagger…”
I lean in and kiss her—deep, slow, possessive. She melts, just for a second.
“I’ll swing by when I’m done,” I promise.
“You better.”
I smirk and tug the end of one of her braids, watching her swat at me with that pretty little scowl she wears so well. Then I step back, let the space grow between us even though every part of me wants to stay.
As I turn, my gaze lifts to the DJ booth out of habit expecting to see him there, watching. But it’s not Noir behind the table. Some other guy’s taken over, head bobbing to the beat, lights strobing across his face.
Weird.
But whatever. Not my problem tonight.
I push the door open and step into the night, air cooler than the heat still clinging to my skin. My boots hit pavement. I swing a leg over my bike, tug on my helmet, then my gloves. A couple of my guys are leaning against the fence—Slick and Javi. I bump knuckles with each, no words needed.
They know the drill.
But my mind’s already somewhere else.
Another dead dealer. Second one this week. Same calling card—skull carved into his fucking chest, stash ripped clean.
Whoever’s behind it, they’re making a statement.
And it’s aimed at us.
I gun the engine, steel and fury in my veins, and peel off into the dark—toward the clubhouse, toward answers, toward blood.
Something’s coming.
And I’m ready for it.