Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Cassandra
It’s been a whole week since I last saw him, and somehow I still can’t erase his eyes from my memory.
I still can’t stop feeling the way his hands fit against my body like he’d memorised me in a single night.
It’s ridiculous. It’s maddening. It’s like he imprinted himself beneath my skin, carved his touch into the softest parts of me, and then vanished like smoke.
I’ve never felt anything like it. And I know—God, I know—he felt it too.
So why did he disappear?
The question loops through my mind like a broken prayer as I slide ruby red lipstick across my lips and lean forward to kiss the mirror, leaving a perfect, bleeding print behind.
“Why do you do that?” Lola sighs from behind me, already exasperated.
“So you’ll never forget me,” I say, giving her a wink through the glass.
She arches a brow. “Why, are you going somewhere?”
“Yeah. Work.”
Her expression shifts—softens in a way that always makes my throat tighten. “Cass, I really wish you didn’t have to go there. I worry that one night you won’t make it back.”
I sympathise with her fear, truly. Because it’s not like I haven’t thought the same thing.
Walking into that club every night in my tiny black dress and bunny ears and heels that should’ve snapped my ankles years ago…
it’s a gamble. A stupid, exhausting gamble.
But until I find something better, I go.
I always go.
“I’ll be fine,” I lie, tugging at the hem of my dress like that’ll magically make it longer. “Besides, I’m not the kind of girl bad things happen to.”
Lola doesn’t laugh. She just watches me with that look—the one that says she knows I’m full of shit but hasn’t got the strength to argue with me about it anymore.
“You know,” she says quietly, “sometimes I wish you believed that.”
I don’t answer. I just smudge my lipstick with my finger until it looks less perfect, less polished. I’m not in the mood to be perfect tonight.
I’m in the mood to forget.
The club hits colder tonight, though I can’t tell if it’s the temperature or just the absence I’ve been dragging around like a phantom. It’s like he’s still here somehow—pressed against the mirror behind my eyelids, whispering down my neck, growling butterfly like he was meant to ruin me with it.
The bass vibrates through the floorboards—thick, smoky, pulse-like—and I grip the tray tighter as I weave through VIP. Hungry eyes watch me with the kind of interest that should make my skin crawl, but I barely feel it.
He ruined me.
One kiss.
One night.
One man.
Now every look feels like a violation.
Every voice that isn’t his feels wrong.
Every hand that reaches isn’t the one I want.
I slip back into the rhythm anyway; I know how to fake it. I’ve been faking it since I was fifteen.
But then it happens.
That subtle shift in the air.
That whisper down my spine.
That instinct older than logic.
He’s here.
Dax fucking Kingston.
And I’m not ready.
But of course—I turn anyway.
Because I never fucking learn.
And then I see him.
Leaning against the wall like he owns the oxygen in the room, like every pulse of bass was written for the way his body holds tension.
His black shirt clings to his chest as if it was stitched onto him, the top buttons undone just enough to reveal the moonlit suggestion of ink, muscle, and the kind of sin no sermon could save anyone from.
His trousers hang low on his hips—loose enough to tempt, tight enough to hurt. His arms are crossed, veins carving along his forearms like paths to places I should never go. Tattoos crawl up one side of him like secrets I’ll never be worthy of.
And his jaw—God. Sharp enough to cut. Set tight like he’s already fighting something. Or someone. Or me.
But his eyes—Those same storm-blue, ocean-cold eyes that drowned me once and apparently came back to finish the job.
Still watching me like I’m not a girl in bunny ears.
Still watching me like I’m the puzzle he wants to take apart with his teeth.
Still watching me like I’m the only thing in this overcrowded room.
I forget how to breathe.
Not figuratively.
Literally.
My lungs collapse under the weight of that stare. My knees lock like they know they’d drop if I let them. My mouth—fuck—my mouth goes dry at the way he tilts his head like he’s remembering how I tasted.
There’s no smile.
No nod.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just want.
And that quiet, lethal pull that makes me want to fall again.
And I do want to fall.
God help me—I do.
I take a step toward the bar without even knowing why. Maybe to run. Maybe to get distance. Maybe to prove to myself I’m not that girl.
I don’t get two steps before I feel him behind me.
Not hear.
Feel.
Like a second shadow stitched to my spine, smelling like danger and sex and every bad decision I swore I’d never make again.
“Red looks good on you, butterfly.”
His voice is lower than memory allows. Smoke, gravel, sin. It sinks beneath my skin like heat spreading through cold bones.
I don’t turn around. I can’t.
Because if I look at him now, I’m going to forget everything. The anger. The questions. The week of silence. The fact he walked away like I was nothing.
“You’ve got some nerve,” I whisper, gripping the bar like it might anchor me.
His breath hits the back of my neck—warm, maddening, familiar. “I’ve got a lot of things,” he murmurs. “Nerve just happens to be one of them.”
I turn, slow, deliberate.
And I shouldn’t have.
Because he’s beautiful.
Wreck-me-in-the-dark beautiful.
Fuck-me-up-and-leave-me-bleeding beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that hurts to look at for too long.
And he’s staring at me like I’m the sin he can’t confess out loud.
“You disappeared,” I say, barely trusting my voice.
His jaw clenches. “I know.”
“That’s it? That’s your apology?”
“I’m not here to apologise.”
“You kissed me like you needed it to breathe—”
“I did.”
I freeze.
He steps closer, and the world tilts. “I still do.”
“You left.”
“I had to.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m dangerous, Cassandra.” His voice sharpens, quieter but spinning like a storm gathering speed. “I don’t do sweet. I don’t do safe. I don’t even do second times.”
“So why are you here?” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my lips. My pulse jumps.
“Because I haven’t been able to think about anything but the way you taste.”
I forget how to stand.
He steps closer, and the space between us becomes a sin.
“You want to be mad, butterfly?” he murmurs. “Be mad. You’ve got every right to. But don’t stand here in that fucking lipstick with your eyes full of want and pretend you didn’t feel it too.”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re lying.”
He leans in.
And whispers: “Because if I didn’t walk away that night, I was going to fuck you against that mirror so hard you’d forget your own name.”
Silence swallows everything.
Even the music.
Even the room.
Even the part of me that used to be sane.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
But then—he does.
He steps back.
Air rushes in between us, cold and sharp.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” he says, voice flat now. Detached.
My heart drops.
“What does it matter?”
He lets out a humourless laugh. “Of course it matters.”
“Why? Because it ruins the fantasy? Because I’m not the sweet little butterfly you thought I was?”
“I never said you were sweet.”
“No. But you looked at me like I was. Like I was different.”
His jaw ticks.
Then he says it.
The words that slice. “I was wrong.”
I flinch.
Actually flinch.
And he sees it.
“Wow.” I breathe. “That’s what this is? You’re mad because I work here?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re furious.”
“I’m disappointed.”
Somehow that’s worse.
He crosses his arms, eyes scanning me with something colder than judgement. More like erasure.
“You don’t know what this place is,” he says. “You don’t know the kind of men who come here.”
“And you do?”
“I am one,” he snaps.
“Then what’s the problem, Dax? That I’m here—or that you found me here?”
His eyes darken.
“You think this is a game?”
“No,” I whisper. “But you’re treating me like I’m some fucking disappointment because I make money in a dress you don’t like.”
“It’s not the dress,” he growls. “It’s what it means.”
“It means I pay my bills.”
“It means you don’t understand the danger you’re in.”
“I’ve been in danger,” I snap. “I’ve lived danger. Don’t you dare pretend you’re the only one who’s been to hell.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Pain.
Memory.
Recognition.
Gone too fast.
Then he says, quieter. “I came here to prove I could walk away from a kiss.”
“Then walk.”
He looks wrecked for half a second.
But only a second.
Then he steps in, breath ghosting my mouth.
“You’re playing with fire, butterfly,” he says. “Difference between you and me? I’ve already been burned.”
Then he turns.
And disappears into the shadows like the ghost he insists he is.
Leaving me with shaking hands, burning cheeks, and the bitter taste of goodbye.
Again.
I don’t even realise I’ve moved until I’m behind the bar, gripping the surface so hard my knuckles ache. The ghost of his voice crawls up my spine like he left it there on purpose.
Breathe.
Smile.
Work.
Another mask.
Another night.
The crowd gets uglier as the hours drag on. Fingers linger too long. Hands wander too far. Eyes peel me like they’re entitled to the core.
But I smile.
Because that’s what survival looks like in heels.
Because crying in the bathroom won’t pay rent.
Because quitting means starving.
I drop off tequila shots at a corner booth, twisting out of the grasp of a drunk who barks like a dog when I pass. He grabs at my arse, catching only air. His friends laugh.
I don’t.
Lola was right. One day, I won’t make it home.
And I’m starting to wonder if maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Then I hear it.
His name.
Not said.
Not whispered.
Laughed.
A sultry, throaty kind of laugh—the kind that slides down skin like silk and sin.
I already know before I turn.
But I still turn.
Because I’m a glutton for pain.
Because part of me still thinks he’ll look at me like I’m the only one.
He isn’t looking at me.
He’s got someone else in his lap.
She’s straddling him effortlessly, arms draped around his shoulders, mouth brushing his ear like she’s whispering filth just for him. Blonde hair like spun gold. Champagne skin. Pink lips that fake innocence.
The dress—God.
Red.
Silk.
Barely-there straps sliding off her shoulders like she’s mid-undress.
Devastating.
The kind of woman men like him choose.
The kind who never has to try.
And Dax?
He’s letting her.
Hand on her thigh. Arm stretched along the booth. Head tipped back as she laughs against his neck.
Indifferent.
Bored.
Comfortable.
And I want to die.
I have to serve their table.
Of course I do.
I walk toward them on shaking legs disguised as steady ones. My chest cracks a little more with each step.
She doesn’t even look at me. She’s too busy worshipping the god beneath her.
“You want me to pour it?” I ask.
She hums, still not glancing my way. “He’ll do it.”
Of course he will.
I place the last glass down and meet his eyes.
Just for a second.
Regret.
Guilt.
Want.
A storm.
Gone.
“You can go now,” he says flatly.
I nod.
Then walk away.
Back into the noise.
Back into the dark.
Back into pain.
The tears hit hard and humiliating behind my lashes. I don’t even know why I’m about to cry over a man I met once. But I am.
It hurts.
It fucking hurts.
I race to the back and find Tommy. His eyes crawl over me like oil.
“Break?” I ask.
“You’ve got thirty minutes,” he says, voice oily. “We’re about to get busy. You know Fridays.”
I nod. Pretend gratitude.
I glance back just once.
Dax is licking the edge of her neck.
It feels like being stabbed.
I bolt outside into the cold night air, shivers racing across my skin. I’d love to blame the weather. But we both know better.
I press my back to the wall, slide a cigarette between my lips, and stare at the moon glowing over the alleyway—silver light soaking into shadows.
The first drag is shaky.
The next hurts.
The third tastes like surrender.
He looked at her like I was nothing.
Like the mirror never happened.
Like my body never arched for him.
I take another drag and let it burn.
Footsteps echo. A group of men stumble past, eyes sticky with drink and arrogance. One whistles.
“Hey, bunny girl. You lost?”
I don’t answer.
His mate pulls him back. “Not that one.”
Not that one.
Not me.
I smirk.
But it doesn’t reach anything real.
I drop the cigarette, crushing it under my heel.
Fuck him.
Fuck this.
I don’t need any of it.
The door swings open.
Heavy boots.
A familiar breath.
“Figured I’d find you out here.”
I don’t turn.
“I’m on my break.”
“I’m not here to stop you.”
His voice is calmer now. Less storm.
More ice.
But it still strips me bare.
“I saw your hands shaking,” he says quietly.
“You’ve got no right to notice.”
“No,” he murmurs. “I don’t.”
Silence spreads between us like fog.
“She’s beautiful,” I say finally.
“She is.”
It cuts deep.
“But she’s not you,” he adds.
I turn.
Because I need to see him lie.
Only—he’s not lying.
He looks wrecked.
Dark eyes.
Tense jaw.
Hands shoved into pockets like he’s holding himself together.
“That meant to make me feel better?” I ask.
“No. It’s just the truth.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing the truth.”
“She was there before I saw you,” he says.
“So if I’d come in first,” I whisper, “you’d have let me straddle you instead?”
His eyes flash. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why? Afraid it’ll turn you on?”
He steps in—close enough to cage me with heat.
“You think I want her?” he growls. “You think she’s the reason I came here tonight?”
“You said you came to forget me.”
“I lied.”
My breath breaks.
“I came to see if I could handle it,” he says. “If I could stomach watching you move on. If I could pretend you didn’t taste like my next mistake.”
“And?” I breathe.
He leans in.
“I can’t.”
The world tilts.
He lifts a hand—hesitant, like he doesn’t know if he deserves the right. His fingers brush my cheek, slow and reverent.
“I didn’t leave because I didn’t want you,” he whispers. “I left because I wanted you too fucking much.”
He leans closer—so close his mouth nearly meets mine.
But he stops.
He always stops.
“Go back to her,” I whisper.
He flinches.
“She’s not you.”
“Exactly,” I say. “She’s safer.”
He nods.
Steps back.
Steps into the dark.
And leaves me standing there under the moonlight, wrapped in ash, smoke, and a heartbreak I never asked for.