Chapter 2 #2
She knew how to disappear in plain sight, dressed in black lace, silver crosses, and boots heavy enough to make the floor remember her. Somehow, she still stood like a shadow. Quiet and deliberate. Already convinced the room would look past her because she’d decided it should.
Most people wear black because they want attention.
Alice wore it like armor. Like a pretty little warning.
I drag another cigarette from the pack and hold it between my teeth while I light it. The flame catches, bright and orange, and for one stupid second, all I can see is her face when I said her name.
Alice.
The way her brows lifted when I offered my hand. The way she didn’t flinch when I held on a little too long. The way her attention moved between me and Jagger, quiet and sharp, like she was building a photograph out of everything we weren’t saying.
Interesting little thing.
But she isn’t the point yet.
Jagger is.
The way he reacted when she took my hand. The vein near his jaw. The shift in his shoulders and that sweet little fucking flash of murder in his eyes before he remembered he was supposed to be the controlled one.
Fuck, that got to him.
Her fingers in mine. The fact that she let me touch her. The fact that for half a second, Jagger had to stand there and watch someone else step into a space he was already pretending he hadn’t claimed.
That’s the part I keep turning over in my head.
Not her hand.
His face.
Because Alice might be interesting, but Jagger’s reaction to her?
That’s fucking addictive.
The tension in his shoulders stayed with me.
So did the step he took when she left, like his body had already made the decision before that locked-up brain of his could drag it back into line.
That wasn’t just lust.
Lust is easy. Jagger can want someone and still walk away.
He’s done it plenty. Women throw themselves at him after fights, all flushed cheeks and terrible fucking judgment, wanting to touch the blood before it dries.
He ignores most of them. Takes some home when he’s bored enough, angry enough, or desperate enough to feel human without having to say anything honest.
Alice wasn’t that.
Nope, she was quieter.
Worse.
She made him shift.
And Jagger doesn’t shift for people. He builds walls and calls them boundaries. Locks doors and calls it discipline. Keeps everyone at arm’s length, then acts like he’s too fucking evolved to want anyone closer.
Then Alice walked in with her camera, her steady eyes, and that rude little mouth, and my brother started making space without even realizing he’d moved.
Rude as fuck, honestly.
A shout goes up near the cage as one of the frat boys finally lands a decent hit. The crowd surges forward, hungry all over again, and someone stumbles into my side hard enough to slosh beer down my sleeve.
I look at the wet stain.
Then at the idiot holding the empty cup.
He freezes so fast it’s almost impressive.
“Shit,” he says, eyes darting over my face. “Sorry, man. Accident.”
I stare at him for a second, then smile.
His face gets worse.
“Relax.” I pat his cheek once, light enough to look friendly, firm enough to make his breath catch. “Accidents happen.”
Relief flickers across his face, stupid and bright.
Poor thing.
He actually believes me.
I turn back toward the betting table and wipe my sleeve with a napkin someone abandoned there, slow and bored, like he’s already stopped existing to me. The guy exhales behind me, nervous little laugh slipping out as he starts to step away.
I let him get one foot into feeling safe.
Then I slide the butterfly knife from my pocket.
It opens with a clean little flick, metal snapping into place against my palm like it’s happy to be useful. Pretty thing. Quick thing. The kind of blade that looks like a trick until it’s already under someone’s skin.
I turn with it hidden low against my wrist.
Fast enough to be missed, but close enough to look friendly.
The blade goes in with that first stubborn push, flesh and muscle resisting for half a heartbeat before his body gives up and lets me inside.
Fuck.
There it is.
That hot little rush under my skin. The quiet snap in my head where everything ugly finally has somewhere to go. Some people need prayer. Some need confession. I’ve always preferred the honest sound a body makes when it realizes the night just stopped belonging to it.
His breath punches against my cheek, sharp and wet with panic.
Beautiful.
He grabs my sleeve like I’m something merciful. Like holding on to me might make this less real.
Poor stupid bastard.
I’m not mercy. Oh, no, no. I’m the accident he should’ve avoided.
“Oops.” I pull the blade free and tuck it away before the blood gets theatrical. “Pity. Seems we’re both pretty fucking clumsy tonight.”
He folds inward, hands flying to his stomach, mouth opening around a sound the warehouse swallows whole.
I catch his shoulder before he can hit the floor and shove him toward the crates, casual as anything.
“There you go,” I murmur. “Walk it off.”
Then I go back to wiping beer off my sleeve, until movement near the back hall steals my attention.
Jagger steps out of the office with his cash in one hand and murder still sitting pretty in his posture. He tucks the money into his pocket without counting it, and that makes me grin because my brother always counts his winnings.
Every bill. Every time.
Methodical little freak.
Tonight, he doesn’t even glance down. His eyes go straight to the door Alice used.
Subtle, little brother. Very fucking subtle.
He catches me watching and scowls, so I lift two fingers in a lazy wave.
He doesn’t wave back, which is rude, but expected.
Instead, he cuts through the crowd, ignoring the hands that reach for him, the voices calling his fight name, the girls staring at him like blood makes him holy.
He walks through all that worship like it’s static, shoulders tight and jaw locked, headed straight for the cold air outside.
I could follow him. I could push again, say her name just to watch him turn around, keep poking that bruise until he finally snaps and gives me something worth smiling about.
Because Jagger is oh so fucking fun when he’s trying not to hit me.
All clenched jaw and dead eyes, acting like his self-control is some holy little virtue instead of a rubber band stretched two bad comments away from popping.
Adorable, really.