Chapter 4
ROXY
Tickled Pink has been a sensory assault since the second the doors opened.
Heat, sweat, perfume, alcohol—too many bodies moving like a tide that doesn’t care if you drown.
I barely cross the threshold before the place hits me like a slap I agreed to in theory but forgot would sting in practice.
Bass thumps like it’s wired into the floor, like it's trying to rewrite my heartbeat whether I give it permission or not.
The air’s thick. Too thick. Perfume and pheromones and the sharp, sour stench of spilled synth-liquor mingling with fog machine haze that tastes like melted plastic. I suck in a breath and immediately regret it.
I hate clubs.
They feel like someone else's memory of fun. All flash and chaos and noise where intimacy is reduced to sweat-slick limbs and shouted half-sentences. There’s no room to think.
No air to breathe. Just lights and sound and the tight coil of panic tugging at the base of my skull like it wants me to unravel.
Cynna, naturally, thrives.
She slides through the crowd like she owns it—sharp heels, sharper grin, red lips curled into something between a dare and a seduction. Her laugh cuts through the music like a siren, drawing glances and heat in equal measure. She doesn’t even need to try. The room wants her. It always does.
Meanwhile, I feel like a miswired droid blinking in the wrong frequency.
“Come on, Roxy!” Cynna yells over her shoulder, reaching back for my wrist. “You look like a hostage!”
I’m clinging to the wall like it might open up and let me melt into it, but she grabs my hand before I can escape. Her grip is warm and certain. I try not to flinch.
“I feel like a hostage,” I say, but the music swallows it.
She just grins and yanks me deeper into the swarm of bodies, dragging me through strobing lights and the smell of too much cologne.
My boots stick against the floor with every step—syrupy layers of god-knows-what trying to claim me.
People bump against me—elbows, hips, a too-close shoulder that nearly makes me spin out—but Cynna is relentless.
She’s a damn hurricane in glitter eyeliner, and I’m the debris she decided to carry.
She finds us a corner at the bar, wedged between two couples and a guy trying to flirt with the bartender by asking what “real absinthe” tastes like. Cynna orders without asking me—something pink and strong and probably sweet enough to qualify as dessert.
“You’re gonna drink this,” she says, thrusting the glass at me. “And then you’re going to unclench. You look like someone stapled anxiety to a crash dummy.”
“I am anxiety in a crash dummy,” I mutter, but I take the drink anyway.
It burns.
Not the good kind, at first. Not the smooth slide of expensive liquor, but the sharp shock of sugar and fire and fruit that doesn’t grow on any planet I’ve ever visited. I cough once, eyes watering.
Cynna’s already halfway through hers.
“To bad decisions,” she declares, raising her glass.
“To surviving them,” I reply, clinking mine against hers with a grimace.
The second sip is easier. The third goes down like my spine’s loosening, one vertebra at a time.
The noise presses in around me, thick and relentless, but now it’s a little blurred at the edges.
Like the volume got turned down just enough to make space in my head.
The lights are still too bright, but they don’t sting as hard.
The press of bodies still makes my skin itch, but the drink buzzes through me like armor—thin, fragile armor, but armor all the same.
Cynna’s watching me over the rim of her glass, one brow raised like she’s waiting to see if I combust.
“I can’t believe you’re actually out,” she says, voice pitched just below shouting.
“Don’t jinx it.”
“I’m not! I’m impressed. You look good, Roxy. You even put on real pants.”
“These are my second-fanciest pants, I’ll have you know.”
She laughs again—full-bodied and sharp, the kind that makes people glance over to see what the joke is. She’s magnetic. Always has been. The kind of woman who owns every room like she was born with a deed in her purse.
Me? I’m just trying to stay upright.
She leans in closer, conspiratorial. “You’re doing great, babe. Seriously. You’ve made it, what—eight minutes without fleeing? That’s a new record.”
I roll my eyes, but I smile. Just a little.
Eight minutes. Feels like hours.
I sip again. The drink’s halfway gone, and I can feel it now—a low hum in my bones, softening the sharp edges.
Around us, the club pulses. Music, light, movement. All of it like a living thing—loud, hot, alive in a way I haven’t felt in years. Or maybe ever.
“Wanna dance?” Cynna asks, eyes sparkling.
My body says absolutely not. My brain screams trap.
But something in me—it’s not quite rebellion, not quite longing—whispers: maybe.
I open my mouth to respond.
But just then someone nearby shouts, throwing their hands up, and a spray of neon-blue liquid arcs over the bar, narrowly missing Cynna’s elbow. She yelps and jumps back, knocking into me. I steady her on instinct, hands at her waist.
We laugh. Both of us. It’s stupid and sticky and loud, but for a second, it’s real.
No ghosts. No scars. Just now.
And for a moment—just a moment—the tension in my shoulders loosens, like my body forgot it’s supposed to be afraid.
Cynna’s sipping her second drink—legs crossed, lashes batting, mischief practically dripping from her like gloss—and I’m mid-sentence about maybe calling it a night when she drops the bomb.
“Alright,” she says, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “Truth or dare.”
I blink. “What are we, twelve?”
She shrugs. “Twelve-year-olds don’t wear heels like these, babe. Pick.”
I stare at her. I know that look. That’s her I-have-an-idea-and-you’re-not-gonna-like-it face. The one she wore right before convincing me to fake a relationship with a Krovian diplomat to score free dessert at his cousin’s wedding.
Still, something tight and mean in me—the part that doesn’t want to be the weak link anymore—says, fine.
“Truth,” I say.
She pouts, exaggerated and immediate. “Boring.”
“Safe.”
“Coward.”
“Fine. Dare.”
Her grin widens like a trap snapping shut.
“I dare you to approach the most dangerous man in the bar.”
The words hit like a shove.
My stomach drops, cold and sudden, like I’ve stepped off something high without realizing it. I stare at her. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“You want me to go flirt with some mercenary nightmare while drunk in my second-fanciest pants?”
“I want you to remember you’re alive.” She leans closer. “And I want to see what happens when you stop playing dead.”
I shake my head, heart pounding. “Cynna—”
She cuts me off with a look, all raised brows and don’t-you-dare-wrangle-out-of-this. Then she tilts her chin, just slightly. A whisper of movement. Barely enough to notice.
But I follow it.
My eyes track past the bar crowd, past the dancers, past the haze of light and sound.
And land on him.
He’s leaned against the bar like the room belongs to him.
Not posing, not preening—just there, solid and undeniable.
Like a mountain someone dragged indoors.
His arms are thick, scarred, crossed over a broad chest like he’s daring the air to try him.
His gaze moves slow and deliberate across the club, not hungry, not distracted—just watching. Calculating. Patient.
Like a predator that doesn’t need to pounce because it already knows the kill is coming.
My breath catches.
I can’t see his whole face from here, but I don’t need to. The energy rolling off him is pure threat. Controlled. Contained. The kind of presence that doesn’t just turn heads—it warns them.
My voice comes out smaller than I want. “That’s the guy?”
She nods, sips. “Saw him come in solo. Didn’t order anything flashy. Didn’t try to pick up a single person. He’s not performing.”
“No,” I whisper. “He isn’t.”
Cynna leans in again. “Which makes him either exactly what he looks like… or something worse.”
I’m rooted to the spot, pulse rising fast and ugly. “You want me to flirt with a serial killer.”
“I want you to pretend to flirt with a serial killer.” Her tone softens, just a fraction. “I want you to take up space again.”
I grip the edge of the bar, trying to breathe around the noise in my head. Every instinct is flaring—panic and caution and that old familiar voice whispering you’re not ready.
But I’m so tired of not being ready.
Of shrinking.
Of watching life pass like a train I keep missing on purpose.
“I’m not using my real name,” I say, throat dry.
“Obviously,” Cynna replies, already digging in her clutch. She pulls out a lip tint and tosses it at me. “Pick something fun. Something that bites.”
I apply it with shaking fingers, the color blood-dark and slightly uneven. I don’t fix it. Imperfection feels honest.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Okay.”
Cynna grins, wicked and bright. “Go get murdered, sweetheart.”
I glare, and she just winks.
I turn.
I walk.
Sort of.
It’s more like threading a needle in a windstorm. My legs don’t feel like mine, and the music is suddenly louder, more chaotic. Every step toward him is a battle against the pulse screaming behind my eyes. I’m not breathing right. I’m not thinking right.
And still—
Still I move.
The world narrows to him.
To that unbothered shape at the bar. That weight of presence. That violence curled beneath stillness.
He doesn’t look at me.
Not yet.
I don’t speak.
Not yet.
But I step closer.
And closer.
And somehow, impossibly, I don’t stop.