Chapter 7 #2
Her mouth curls, eyes cold and precise. “A girl who was always way out of your league. That’s what really pisses you off, isn’t it? Not him. Not tonight. It’s that you got cocky and fucked it all up on your own.”
She lets out a short, mocking laugh. “You had one of the hottest, baddest girls this sad little town’s ever seen, and you couldn’t even manage not to ruin it.”
The laugh lands where it hurts.
A couple of Mark’s friends snicker behind him. He snaps a look over his shoulder at them, face flushing darker under the lights, jaw tightening as the room turns against him.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you, Harper,” he snaps, stepping closer, crowding her space. “You three bitches always did think you were hot shit. Untouchable and above anyone else's league.”
She tilts her head, eyes flicking past him to me for half a second, then back.
Amused. Curious. “I don’t know,” she says.
“I always wondered why she wasted her time on you when she deserved so much better. I mean shit, if you’re this much of a fucking pussy when your drunk, I can’t imagine how bad you were to date, let alone fuck. ”
That gets a laugh from somewhere behind us.
“You should watch your fucking mouth, before I shut it for—”
That’s when I step in.
Just enough to break his line to her, my shoulder sliding between them, wings brushing the air behind me.
“Whoa, whoa—easy,” I cut in, voice lazy through the mask, like I’m breaking up a minor inconvenience instead of a full public meltdown. “Isn’t tonight supposed to be about love?”
I roll my shoulders exaggeratedly, wings shifting and rustling as I shrug, feathers brushing people behind me. A couple heads turn in our direction. Someone laughs, and a few others pull out their phones and hit record.
“Hot people finding each other,” I continue out loud, idly turning the bow in my hands like I’m checking its balance.
“Bad decisions. Regrettable make-outs in dark corners. The whole Valentine’s disaster package.
” The movement gets attention. The prop catches the light.
A girl near the bar gasps quietly. Someone whistles. “You know,” I add, “festive.”
I step closer to Mark, not rushing, or aggressive, but close enough that he has to crane his neck to keep eye contact. I lift the bow and hook it lightly under his chin, tipping his face up so he’s looking straight at the mask.
Gentle. Mocking and controlled.
“But instead,” I go on pleasantly, “you’re over here throwing a tantrum because you fumbled a fucking smoke show and—oh no—someone else noticed.”
A sharp laugh breaks out behind us. Someone else says, “Damn, dude,” like Mark just got publicly executed.
I tap the bow once under his jaw, just enough to make the point. “That’s gotta hurt, huh? Watching the hottest girl in the room move on while you’re stuck screaming about it like that’s gonna magically make her want you again.”
Mark swats the bow away, furious, face flushed dark under the lights. “Get that shit out of my face.”
I grin under the mask and lean in even closer.
“Shit, I get it,” I murmur through the mask. “She’d be a hard one to lose.”
His breath stutters. I can see it in the way his chest tightens.
I lean down, bringing my mask to his ear, “I mean… those sounds,” I add softly, like I’m thinking out loud. “Those soft, fucking sounds she makes when she’s close.”
His jaw clenches hard enough I hear his teeth grind.
“And that taste,” I finish calmly. “Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”
That’s it.
That’s the moment he snaps.
He shoves me first, sloppy and furious, then swings wild—drunk, and so desperate it's fucking laughable. All fucking ego and no control. His fist clips my jaw, sharp enough to turn my head and draw a collective gasp from the crowd.
I straighten slowly, then reach up and peel the mask off, letting it hang loose in my hand as I roll my jaw once.
That was his one, but now?
Now he is fucking done.
His hand drops slowly toward his waistband and pulls out a knife.
It’s small. Cheap. The kind men like him carry because they think the sight of it counts as fucking power.
The metal flashes under the lights for half a second before the bass eats the moment whole.
His friends stiffen behind him, puffing up with borrowed confidence, like he just evened the odds instead of signing his own death certificate, and possibly theirs too.
“You see, freak,” Mark says, grin twitchy now, adrenaline leaking through his voice. “You don’t know who the fuck you’re dealing with.”
Oh? This fucking guy is funny. I almost laugh.
Because last I checked, he was a drunk ex with a pocketknife and an audience, and I’m one half of a pair of serial killers who’ve left bodies behind for a lot fucking less than this.
The math is not on his side, and the fact that he thinks it is might be the dumbest, yet most comical bullshit he’s done all night.
I tilt my head, eyes locked on Mark, calm settling in like a switch flipped.
Yeah.
He has no idea what he’s dealing with.
I don’t look at the knife, instead, I look at the girl I now know as Harper.
“Go,” I tell her, low and sharp. “Back to your friends.”
She studies my face for a beat, eyes flicking from me to Mark, then down to the knife, then back up again. There’s a pause there, small, but loaded, like she’s clocking something she didn’t expect.
Recognition, maybe.
Her mouth curves into a slow smirk as she steps past me. “Yeah,” she says lightly, eyes cutting to Mark. “That tracks.”
She lifts her shot glass in my direction without stopping. “I was wondering who distracted her earlier. Makes sense now.”
Mark snaps, “What the fuck—”
Then she’s gone, swallowed by bodies and lights and bass, laughter trailing behind her.
I don’t waste another fucking second. I move.
One step in. Weight shifting, and shoulders squared.
My fist connects with his face before his brain even catches up.
The impact is clean and sharp. His head snaps back, nose crunching under my knuckles, and the sound, wet and wrong, cuts through the bass just enough for me to hear it. Shock wipes the grin right off his face as blood spills down over his lip.
Before he can recover or even get a full word out, I drive a short, brutal jab into his gut.
All the air leaves him at once.
He folds forward with a choked sound, knife slipping from his fingers and clattering to the concrete between us.
The crowd reacts—gasps, shouts, a ripple of movement, but no one steps in. Even fucked off their faces, they can tell it wouldn’t be a smart move on their part to intervene.
Mark snarls and lunges anyway, wild and desperate, scooping the knife back up with shaking fingers. He swings low, sloppy, all anger and no control.
Too slow.
The blade skims across my abdomen, a sharp sting slicing through flesh. It’s shallow, more of an insult than injury, but enough to register.
Enough to piss me the fuck off.
I hiss once through my teeth.
That was a mistake.
I crash into him, shoulder first, driving him back into a concrete pillar hard enough to rattle his teeth. The knife skitters away again, this time kicked clear as I hook his collar and slam him forward.
“Stay,” I tell him calmly, voice steady as warm blood trails down my abs.
He doesn’t.
So I end it.
I wrench his arm up and twist, controlled and brutal, until his knees buckle and his mouth opens on a broken sound. I haul him upright by the collar, holding him there while his feet scramble uselessly for traction.
Behind us, his friends have already made a decision.
They back away slowly, hands raised in surrender then they disappear into the crowd without a second glance.
I let out a short, breathless laugh. “Figures. Cowards always move in packs.”
Mark’s still trying to talk, but I don’t let him finish a single sentence. Instead, I tighten my fucking grip and start walking.
I drag him toward the back of the warehouse, toward the darker corridors where the lights thin and the music dulls into a distant, ugly thrum. His boots drag along the concrete. Hands clawing at my wings like he stands a fucking chance of getting free.
Not fucking happening buddy. Because the fight is over, but it’s what comes next that I’m pumped for. The big fucking climax? Yeah, that shit isn’t for the crowd to see.