Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Dax
They say you never forget your first kill.
That’s not true.
You forget the first. You forget the second.
You forget all the names and all the faces—until the only thing left is the sound they make when they drop, that dull finality of bone meeting earth, the wet thud that becomes a memory you never asked for but carry anyway, tucked somewhere behind your ribs like shrapnel.
But her?
I’ll remember her forever.
Not because she’s beautiful. (She is.)
Not because she stared at me like she wanted to sin. (She did.)
But because the first time I saw her—something moved.
Something that hadn’t moved in a long, long time. Something buried under the dust and the discipline, under the desert heat and the smell of blood on sand, under quieter horrors that don’t make noise anymore.
And I hated it.
I’m not a man who feels. Not anymore.
I take orders. I break minds. I survive. That’s all. That’s what’s left. Feeling is a liability; emotion is a bullet with your name carved into the casing.
But then she looked at me.
That slow, guilty sweep of her eyes up my body, like she didn’t mean to stare but couldn’t help herself, like something inside her recognised something inside me before either of us had time to deny it.
And suddenly I’m not thinking about threat assessments or exit points or the weight of the crowd pressing in from every direction.
I’m thinking about the way her lips parted. The tremor in her throat. The way her fingers clutched her dress — as if she needed something to hold on to—and decided on herself.
Like she knew no one else could hold her the way she needed.
She’s soft.
Too soft.
The kind of soft that gets you killed in my world — soft like dusk, like fleeting things, like hope with no armour.
But still…
I stepped toward her.
Like a fucking idiot, I stepped toward her, boots sinking into the sticky floor under the strobe lights, heat rising around me like a warning I had no intention of listening to.
Every instinct said walk away.
Every muscle in my body said danger.
Every part of my training screamed to shut it down before it became something I couldn’t control.
But her scent—vanilla and something floral, something warm—it tangled with the heat in the air, curled into my lungs and sat there like a brand, climbing into my head, and didn’t let go.
And then she spoke.
“Cassandra.”
I want to hear her say it again.
Whisper it.
Moan it.
Cry it.
Jesus, pull it together.
The club around us is a haze of sweat, perfume, shadows, and pulse — the kind of place built for sin, not salvation — and somewhere in the midst of all that, she said my name like it mattered.
I haven’t seen Lola in months.
And the first thing I do is look at her friend like I’m ready to carve her name into my bones?
Weak.
Unfocused.
Unacceptable.
“Where have you been?” Lola asks me again, slapping my chest like she’s still twelve and I didn’t just come back from hell, her palm hitting the hard plates of my uniform like she’s trying to knock the desert out of me.
“Hell,” I grunt, keeping my eyes on Cassandra.
Watching her flinch when she hears my name.
Watching her break a little when she realises who I am.
That should’ve satisfied me.
Should’ve made her back off.
Should’ve returned the balance I’m used to.
But no.
All I see is her squirm.
All I hear is her breath stutter.
All I feel is my self-control cracking beneath her fucking mouth.
She’s a temptation.
And temptation is the enemy.
Temptation is death with pretty eyes.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
Not really.
Not when she looks at me like that—like I’m something she shouldn’t touch but wants to, anyway.
Like I’m sharp, and she’s stupid enough to bleed just to see if it hurts.
And fuck, I want her to hurt.
Just a little.
Just enough to know she’s mine.
She’s trying not to stare, failing miserably.
I see the flick of her lashes, the way she bites down on the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her expression neutral—like she isn’t imagining what my hands would feel like on her throat.
She has no idea what she’s asking for.
I tilt my head.
Step closer.
Just to watch her throat move when she swallows.
I shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t be looking at her.
Shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
She’s Lola’s friend.
Some sweet, soft thing from a life I don’t touch anymore.
But I can’t look away.
And the way she spoke about me — “This. Is. Your. Brother.”
It looked as if someone had slapped her with it.
Like she had been picturing something very different before she found out who I was.
Good.
Let her choke on it.
Let her remember it.
Now that she knows—now that she sees what’s behind the pretty uniform and the shiny medals—she should run.
She should be smart.
But she’s still standing here, fidgeting under my stare like a guilty little thing who liked what she saw and doesn’t know how to unsee it.
“I’ll be at the bar,” Lola says, and I already know it’s a lie.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
She leaves us there, alone, in that slow-thick air humming with bass and sweat and whatever the hell is crackling between us.
Cassandra looks at me like she’s waiting for the punchline.
Like this is the part where I apologise for existing.
Where I say something normal, polite — the kind of thing brothers of best friends are supposed to say.
But I don’t do polite.
I step closer, and she shifts her weight as if she might bolt.
She won’t.
She wants this.
Wants me.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
“You always stare like that?” I ask, my voice low, gravel-cut, carrying the weight of battlefields and secrets under its breath.
Her eyes flash up to mine and away again so fast I almost miss it.
Almost.
“Didn’t mean to,” she mumbles, heat blooming high on her cheeks.
“But you did.”
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t have to.
I can feel it in the way she holds herself too still.
In the way her fingers twitch against the hem of her dress, as if she doesn’t trust them not to wander.
I take another step.
Now I’m too close.
Her breath catches.
My gaze drops to her lips—full, parted, trembling just a little—and I feel the crack in my armour widen.
She’s dangerous.
Not because she could hurt me.
But because I might let her try.
Because I’m already fucking imagining what she looks like begging.
Because I haven’t wanted anything in a long time.
And now all I want is her on her knees, whispering my name like a prayer she knows won’t save her.
She doesn’t move.
Not away.
Not closer.
Just stands there like a sinner waiting on the blade—like if she breathes wrong, I’ll cut her open and show her what her insides look like.
And I might.
I don’t touch her.
Not yet.
But I let my stare do what my hands can’t—rake her, claim her, undress her inch by fucking inch until I see her chest rise with that telltale hitch of need.
God, she’s pretty.
Not in the soft, harmless way girls are usually pretty.
She’s the kind of pretty that makes men destroy things.
The kind that makes you forget every rule you ever swore you’d follow.
The kind that digs under your skin like a shard of glass and stays there.
I’ve killed for less.
I’ve bled for less.
She shifts again, and this time I see her thighs press together.
She doesn’t even realise she’s doing it.
“Problem?” I murmur.
She blinks up at me, as if she had forgotten where she was.
“I—no.”
Liar.
She’s drowning.
And I’m the fucking tide.
My hand lifts—just instinct, I guess.
I brush her hair back again, same place.
Same move.
But this time, my fingers graze the shell of her ear, and her breath skips like it’s trying to catch up with her heartbeat.
“You always look at men like you want them to wreck you?”
Her eyes go wide.
Good.
Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking about.
Wrecking her.
Ruining her.
Getting her out of that tight little dress and onto her knees so I can paint sin across her tongue.
But instead, I step back.
Just slightly.
Just enough to pretend I’m giving her space, even though we both know I’m not.
And that’s when it hits me—like a goddamn sniper round to the skull.
The way she looks at me right now—
Open.
Raw.
Curious.
It reminds me of a girl I once met.
Just a girl.
A child.
Dust in her hair.
Shaking hands.
Hiding behind a crumbling wall while her brother bled out two feet away.
She looked up at me like I was the devil and the saviour in the same breath.
And I was.
I had to be.
That was the job.
Do what they couldn’t.
Become what they needed.
Turn yourself into the monster so nobody else had to.
I blink.
The club’s too loud.
Too hot.
Too full of perfume and sweat and things I can’t name without bleeding.
She’s still watching me.
Still caught in whatever the fuck this is.
And she doesn’t know—God, she doesn’t know what I’ve done.
Where these hands have been.
The sounds they’ve pulled out of people.
The screams.
The silence after.
She doesn’t know what I see when I close my eyes.
She doesn’t know who I really am.
But she’s going to find out.
Because the second she looked at me like I was the answer to a question she didn’t know she was asking—she became mine.
And I don’t give a fuck if Lola’s my sister.
I don’t give a fuck about right or wrong.
She looked at me as if she wanted to be ruined.
And baby, I never leave a job unfinished.
She’s still staring like I’m the goddamn fire and she hasn’t decided if she wants to run or burn in it.
Good.
She should be unsure.
She should question everything.
Because if she doesn’t—if she just gives in too easily—I won’t be able to stop myself from tearing her apart just to see how she screams.
“So,” I say, voice low, the kind that’s meant for locked doors and closed mouths. “You gonna tell me what you were thinking about when you were eye-fucking me from across the room?”
Her breath catches.
Not sharp.
Not embarrassed.
Caught.
Like she just realised she’s not the one holding the leash.
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me,” I cut in, stepping closer again, closing the distance she clearly doesn’t want me to close, but doesn’t move to stop either.
“Your eyes said everything.”
She swallows.
Hard.
And then she does something dangerous—something stupid.
She lifts her chin.
“You didn’t exactly look away either.”
Fuck.
There it is.
The backbone.
The bite.
The part of her that wants to be owned but won’t kneel easily.
“Oh, butterfly,” I murmur, dragging the name out slow like a threat dressed in silk. “You think looking at me was a choice?”
She blinks.
I lean in, close enough she can feel my breath on her cheek.
“You didn’t look at me, Cassandra. You saw me.”
“And what’s the difference?”
“I don’t let people see me.”
Her breath hitches again. “Maybe I wasn’t trying.”
“No. But your body was.”
I watch the flush rise in her cheeks, blooming under her skin like something I want to bite.
She’s quiet for a second, and I think she might try to run, but then she whispers, “You always talk to girls like this?”
I smirk, but there’s no humour in it.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t talk much at all.”
“Guess I’m special then.”
“Not yet,” I say, stepping in fully now, letting her feel just how close I am, how big I am, how fucked she is if she doesn’t back up.
She doesn’t.
“But you could be.”
“Could be what?”
“Special.”
I tilt my head, watching every twitch in her face, every flicker of doubt or heat or pride.
“You could be the girl who ruins me.”
“And what if I don’t want to ruin anyone?”
“Then I’ll ruin you instead.”
She goes still.
Dead still.
Like a rabbit realising the wolf isn’t bluffing.
“You don’t even know me,” she whispers.
I dip my head lower, brushing my mouth near her ear but not touching.
Not yet.
“That’s the fun part.”
“You think this is a game?”
I laugh, and it’s not nice.
It’s not soft.
It’s rough and cold and full of the things no one’s supposed to know I’ve done.
“No, butterfly,” I whisper darkly.
“Games have rules. I don’t.”
She shivers.
And, fuck, it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, finally letting my fingers graze her wrist.
Just a touch.
Just enough to feel her pulse kick.
“You shouldn’t be here either.”
“Difference is…” I lean in. “I know exactly what kind of place this is.”
“And I don’t?”
I arch a brow. “Do you?”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Doesn’t answer.
I smirk.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
She looks up at me then, really looks—eyes like liquid defiance, lips parted like she wants to say something cutting and ruinous but can’t find the words.
“You’re an asshole,” she mutters instead.
I chuckle again, softer this time. “Takes one to know one.”
“Touché.”
And, fuck if that doesn’t make me want to touch her more.
The way she’s standing.
The way she doesn’t quite lean in, but doesn’t lean away either.
The way her body is tense, but her mouth is soft, like she doesn’t know whether to bite me or beg me.
“You’re not scared of me,” I say slowly.
She hesitates. Just a breath.
“Should I be?”
I don’t answer.
I let the silence say everything.
And still—still—she doesn’t move.
So I lean in, nose brushing the edge of her temple, my mouth ghosting her skin with every syllable I let drip down her neck.
“You’re going to be.”