Chapter 1 #3
Her mouth twitches, small and quick, like she catches herself before giving me too much. “You were in the way of the shot.”
I huff a laugh. “I was the shot.”
“Were you?”
“You had that lens pointed at me the whole fight.”
“Maybe you kept walking into frame.”
“Liar.”
Her eyes sharpen, but she doesn’t look away. “You don’t know me well enough to call me that.”
“Not yet.”
The words come out too easy.
Too smooth and honest.
Something shifts between us, not heavy enough to crush the air, but sharp enough to cut through the noise around us. She notices it. I know she does, because her fingers tighten around the camera strap, just once, before she goes still again.
Interesting.
She’s not scared of me.
But not impressed either.
She’s careful, but not in the way people usually are around violence. She isn’t backing up. Isn’t looking for an exit or pretending the blood on my jaw isn’t there.
She’s studying it. Studying me.
Like she wants to know what kind of damage made me and whether it left anything worth finding underneath.
That’s the part that hooks.
Not her pretty little face. Not the boots or the camera.
That look.
Those eyes.
Pale and sharp under all that black makeup, almost too light for the rest of her. Like smoke over glass. Like she’s already seen every ugly thing hiding in the room and decided none of it scares her enough to leave.
Like I’m not the first monster she’s ever seen, just the first one who noticed her looking.
I step a little closer, enough to test it, and she stays exactly where she is.
Brave girl. Stupid, but brave.
“So, do you always photograph illegal fights?” I ask.
“Only when they’re interesting.”
“And was I?”
Her gaze flicks over my face, taking in the blood, the bruises, the cut above my brow. Slow enough to feel deliberate.
Then she looks me dead in the eye.
“Jury’s still out.”
I step closer.
Close enough that she has to tip her chin up to keep looking at me. Close enough that I catch the tiny shift in her throat when she swallows, even though the rest of her stays still like she’s too stubborn to give me the satisfaction of backing up.
“I don’t care about the jury.”
Her brows lift slightly.
“I asked what you think.”
For once, she doesn’t answer right away.
Good.
I like that.
I like watching that sharp little mouth pause like she didn’t expect me to push back. Like she’s used to hiding behind the camera, behind the smartass answers, behind all that black lace and silver, and nobody getting close enough to make her actually choose a side.
But I’m close now.
Close enough to see the pale color of her eyes under all that dark makeup. Close enough to watch her fingers tighten around the camera strap before she makes herself loosen them again.
Her other hand lifts to her hair, almost casual, twisting one dark strand around her finger like she needs something to do with all the tension she’s pretending isn’t there.
My gaze follows the movement.
Bad idea.
Because now I’m looking at her hair. The blue-black shine of it. The way it falls over her shoulder and brushes the silver crosses at her throat.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I catch the end of one loose strand between my fingers.
She goes still.
Completely fucking still.
I don’t pull. Don’t tug. Just let the soft slip of it drag over my knuckles before bringing it closer, enough to catch the scent clinging there.
Smoke.
Vanilla.
Something sharp and sweet underneath, like trouble trying to behave.
My mouth curves.
I let her hair slip from my fingers and nod toward the camera. “Did you get what you wanted?”
Her fingers tighten around the camera.
There.
A crack.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I haven’t looked through all of them yet.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
Fast answer. Protective. Possessive, even.
I understand that more than I should.
My gaze drops to the camera. “You afraid I won’t like what I see?”
“I don’t care what you like.”
Liar.
“You’re bold for someone standing in a warehouse full of men who get paid to break bones.”
“You’re dramatic for someone who lets a crowd chant his fight name like he’s a haunted house attraction.”
This time I laugh.
A real one.
Rougher than it should be.
Her eyes sharpen, like she didn’t expect that sound from me, and I decide immediately that I don’t like being unexpected to her. I want her to look again. Look closer. Keep trying to figure me out until the rest of the room disappears.
That’s how it starts, maybe.
Obsession.
Not love. Not even lust.
Just attention.
One look hits wrong. One reaction sticks. One girl looks at you like she sees too much, and suddenly your mind won’t leave her alone.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She studies me for a second, like answering might cost her something.
“Alice.”
Alice.
The name doesn’t belong down here. It sounds like old storybooks, locked doors, girls falling into places they shouldn’t survive.
Except maybe it does.
Maybe Alice has always been the name for a girl who walks willingly into the wrong world.
“Alice,” I repeat.
Her brows draw together. “You always repeat people’s names like that?”
“Only when I’m deciding if they fit.”
“And?”
I let my eyes move over her slowly enough that she catches it.
Not sloppy or desperate.
Deliberate.
The silver at her throat catches my eye first, all those crosses tangled together like warnings. For half a second, I picture my hand there instead, not squeezing, not hurting. Just resting. Owning the space.
Then the lace. Black and delicate against skin I want to bruise with my mouth, mark up just enough that she’d feel me later and hate how much she liked remembering it.
Her hair falls over one shoulder, blue-black under the warehouse lights, and I wonder what it would feel like twisted around my fingers. Soft at first. Then tighter. Enough to make her breath catch.
My gaze drops to her mouth.
Big fucking mistake.
Because now I’m thinking about kissing it. Biting it. Taking that smart little almost-smile and ruining it until she forgets every clever answer she was about to give me.
My tongue drags over the cut at the corner of my lip.
Her eyes flick down.
Just for a second.
But I catch it.
I catch the way her fingers tighten around the camera strap too. The way her throat moves when she swallows. The way she looks back up like she’s annoyed I noticed.
Aw, too late, ghost girl.
I saw it.
You can hide behind that camera all you want, but you can’t hide from me.
My tongue drags over the cut at the corner of my lip before I can stop it.
“It fits.”
Her fingers shift around the camera strap, tightening once before she makes herself loosen them. Like she doesn’t want me to see that I got anything out of her.
Too late.
I already did.
She tilts her chin a little, trying to take back the space I’ve been stealing inch by inch. Her eyes drag over me again, slower this time.
“You have a name?” she asks.
“Wraith.”
“That’s not a name.”
“It’s what they call me.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I tilt my head. “You always this difficult?”
“Usually worse.”
Fuck.
There it is again.
That almost-smile.
I want to see it properly. Want to know what she looks like when she stops holding everything back.
The thought comes too easily.
“Jagger Cutter.”
Her gaze flicks to mine.
For one second, something in her shifts.
Recognition, maybe.
Cutter isn’t exactly quiet around campus. Johnny makes sure of that. He collects attention like other people collect apologies. I prefer staying out of the polished parts of university life, but a last name like ours travels whether you drag it or not.
She doesn’t say Cutter, though.
Doesn’t even ask.
She just says, “Jagger.”
Hearing my name in her mouth is a problem.
A big fucking problem.
Because I like it.
The kind of like that feels less like pleasure and more like a warning. Something low in me tightens, possessive, stupid and fucking immediate.
I look away first because if I don’t, I’m going to say something I shouldn’t.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She lifts the camera slightly. “Working on a project.”
“Illegal fighting your usual subject?”
“People are my subject.”
“People?”
“The parts they don’t want anyone to notice.”
I go still.
She says it casually, like she didn’t just press her thumb against a bruise.
That’s why she got under my skin.
Not because she’s pretty. Pretty is common enough to be boring when there’s nothing sharp underneath it. Not because of the piercings, the lace, or the camera. Not even because she didn’t flinch.
Because she looks like she sees past the version people perform, and I don’t know what the fuck she saw in me.
I’m not sure I want to.
I’m absolutely sure I do.
Before I can answer, the air changes behind me.
I feel him before he speaks.
That’s the thing about Johnny. He has presence like smoke under a door. Quiet at first, then suddenly everywhere.
“Well,” he says, voice smooth with amusement. “Now I understand why you disappeared.”
My jaw tightens.
Alice looks past me.