Chapter 8 – Nico
I sit on the arm of the couch. Elbows on knees, mask in hand. The room smells like old perfume and fake sparkle—glitter melted into the cracks of the floor, crushed into velvet that’s seen too many seasons and too few cleanings.
Outside, the club’s still vibrating. Bass pulses through the wall like a warning shot that never ends.
She comes through the door without knocking.
Boots scuff. Chain swings. She’s dressed in all black again, tank top and jeans, hair pulled back like she’s done pretending to care how people look at her.
Except me.
She always looks at me like she’s waiting for proof that I’m not bluffing.
Tonight, she might get it.
I hold up the black lace mask. It dangles between two fingers. “Play a round with me.”
Elara arches a brow. “You serious?”
I nod.
“You’re the thief,” I say. “I’m the guard.”
“What am I stealing?”
“Whatever you think I’m hiding.”
She walks slowly into the room, toward the couch, eyes sweeping the crates, the corners, the busted light above us.
She doesn’t speak until she’s in front of me.
Then she takes the mask.
“I’m not great at rules.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
She holds the mask up. “You always carry props around for foreplay?”
“This isn’t foreplay.”
She smirks. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Then she slips the mask on.
The lace settles over her eyes. Thin. Decorative. It doesn’t hide much—just alters the view. Makes her look sharper. Like she’s testing a second skin.
She moves past me, circling the room now. Her fingers trail along an old crate, tap against the lid of a jar that used to hold tips. She plays casual, but I can see the tension in her spine.
“Let me guess,” she says, still moving. “I’m supposed to steal something and you stop me?”
“No. You steal. I catch you. The game ends when one of us gives in.”
“Give in to what?”
“Whatever this is.”
She glances at me, half her mouth pulling into a smirk behind the mask.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”
“I don’t need to.”
She leans against the crate now. Legs crossed at the ankles. Hands behind her back.
“And you’re just gonna let me… take?”
I nod. “Try.”
She walks forward, unhurried.
Stops inches from me.
Her hands come up slowly—one brushes my shirt, fingers grazing the edge of my chest. The other slips to my waist.
I don’t stop her.
Her voice drops.
“Tell me when I’m close.”
“You’ll know.”
She runs a palm flat over my stomach, fingers teasing the hem of my shirt. Her nails scratch gently, just enough to light up nerve endings.
I say nothing.
She lifts the edge of my shirt and slips her hand underneath.
Fingertips drag across my abs. Her palm presses flat to feel me breathe.
“You’re too still,” she says.
“I’m watching the thief work.”
She laughs softly. “You don’t sound like you want me to stop.”
“I don’t.”
Her body shifts closer.
Our thighs touch now. Her knee slides between mine. Her hand moves higher under my shirt.
I inhale.
That’s all she needs.
She leans up, kisses me—harder than last time. Tongue first. No hesitation.
I grip her hips, pull her against me. Her legs press into mine as the kiss deepens.
She tastes like cigarette smoke and mint. Her mouth moves like she’s done waiting.
I respond with the same energy—my hand tangling in the back of her hair, dragging her mouth harder to mine.
She bites my bottom lip. I groan.
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “Caught me yet?”
“Not yet.”
Her hands slide under my shirt again, both now. Up my chest, nails scratching lines I feel down to my spine.
I grip her shirt at the waist and pull it over her head in one motion.
She lets it go.
The lace mask stays on.
She’s braless. Her skin flush, breathing sharp.
I kiss her again.
Deeper. Slower now.
Hands on her ribs.
She gasps into my mouth when I drag my thumbs up over her breasts.
Her hips shift forward instinctively.
The couch creaks.
She doesn’t care.
I slide my hand higher, fingers brushing the peaks, circling her nipples with the edge of my thumb.
She moans softly into my mouth—quick and sharp, like it surprises her.
I kiss down her neck. Her hands are in my hair now, tugging. Encouraging.
My mouth moves to her chest. She arches.
I bring my other hand down her side, over her hip, grip her tight, then slide around.
Fingers at the button of her jeans.
She looks down at me, breath caught.
I don’t rush.
Just hold her gaze.
My fingers work the button open.
Then the zipper.
She watches me. Waiting.
I run my hand inside the waistband.
She gasps again—this time louder, raw.
My hand slides further.
Down.
Over her.
She’s already wet.
She grips my shoulder hard—like that’ll ground her.
Her voice is breathy, low.
“You want to win, right?”
I don’t answer.
I press two fingers against her gently. Then rub.
Her head tips back.
Her hips move into my hand, slowly, carefully.
She groans—barely restrained.
The mask shifts on her face.
But she doesn’t take it off.
She stays in character.
And so do I.
Her breath is hot against my mouth. My fingers are still inside her jeans, pressed against soaked lace. She shifts into my touch, not rushing, not coy. Her eyes stay on mine, even through the lace. Her body’s warm. Alive. Present.
We’re not playing anymore. Not really.
She’s letting me touch her without asking for anything in return.
I’m not rushing to take more.
The game’s changed.
Then the door slams open so hard the hinges groan.
Everything snaps.
She startles, just slightly—but doesn’t move away.
I turn fast, rising to my feet in one motion. She steps back just enough to give me space, hand going instinctively to her waistband like she’s reaching for a weapon she doesn’t carry.
The guy in the doorway stumbles in, wild-eyed, breathing hard. Gun in his right hand. Safety already off. He’s shaking, like he didn’t plan to make it this far.
“Drago!” he shouts, gun lifting.
Too slow.
My blade’s out before the barrel clears his hip.
I move through the space like I was built for it.
One step.
Two.
I slam the edge of the blade into the inside of his arm. Tendons split. The gun clatters to the floor.
He opens his mouth, probably to scream.
I bury the knife under his ribcage before he can make a sound.
He folds forward. I grab him by the neck, twist him to the side, and drive him into the stacked crates. The wood cracks beneath the weight. Bottles spill. Glitter puffs up like ash.
He gurgles once—then stops.
His body crumples.
Blood pools fast. It leaks under the bottom row of crates. The color’s too bright under the buzzing light.
My hand’s soaked.
I look up.
She’s still standing in the middle of the room.
Her mask is half-shifted, hanging crooked across her nose. One strap’s pulled loose from the motion, but she hasn’t touched it.
Her shirt’s still off.
My fingerprints are on her skin.
But she doesn’t step back.
Not from the blood.
Not from me.
I let out a slow breath.
“Elara,” I say.
She lifts her chin.
“Yeah?”
“It’s safe now.”
It’s not true.
We both know that.
But it’s all I can offer in this second.
She looks down at the body, then at my hand, still holding the knife.
Then at my face.
Her mouth curves—not a smile. Something sharper.
“That guy seriously thought he had a shot,” she says.
I kneel, wipe the blade on the dead man’s jacket, then stand again.
“He never had a plan,” I say. “Just bad timing.”
I move past the body, step toward her.
The mask is still hanging from her ear. I lift a hand and adjust it—sliding it back over her eyes, gently tying the strap at the side again.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t stop me.
“You alright?” I ask.
She nods once.
“He almost ruined the game,” she says.
I tilt my head. “We’ll finish it later.”
She gives me a look through the lace.
“Only if I win.”
I brush a hand down her side. Stop at her hip.
Her skin’s still warm. Still responding.
“Then you better be ready,” I say.
“I’m always ready.”
We stand like that.
The music outside still pounds faintly. Bass, rhythm, laughter.
But in here?
It’s just us.
And a body cooling behind a stack of broken crates.
“You want me to clean it up?” she asks.
“No.”
“You trust me in here with a corpse?”
“I trust you anywhere.”
She stares at me.
Hard.
Then nods once.
Not for me.
For herself.
I watch her walk across the room, grab her shirt off the crate, and slip it back on.
Her hands move steady. No shake. No hesitation.
I clean the blade. Slide it back into its sheath under my jacket.
She looks at the door. Then at me.
“You know they’re gonna keep coming, right?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“They think I’m just leverage.”
“They’re wrong.”
She walks toward me again. Stops close. Close enough to feel.
“What do you want me to be, Nico?”
The question isn’t soft. It’s not romantic.
It’s survival-level.
She needs to know what I see when I look at her.
I don’t sugarcoat it.
“Sharp. Dangerous. On my side.”
She exhales.
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
Her hand brushes mine.
The contact is quick. Intentional.
“Okay,” she says.
I tilt my head. “Just like that?”
“No.” Her voice lowers. “But I’m tired of pretending I’m not already in it.”
“In what?”
“This.”
She lifts her mask and meets my eyes, bare again.
“This game wasn’t a game,” she says. “It was the start of something we don’t have a name for yet.”
I reach up, push her hair behind her ear.
“But you’re in it.”
“So are you.”
We stand like that another second.
Then I gesture to the door.
“We can’t stay long.”
She nods.
Takes one last look at the body.
Then slips the mask into her pocket.
We walk out together.
This wasn’t just a game.
This was a line crossed.
One I don’t plan on stepping back from.
And neither does she.