Chapter Three
Ayla
By the end of my shift, I’m exhausted, sticky with sweat and glitter, and honestly a little grossed out by the memory of too many grabby hands. The moment I spot Stacie and Kyra posted up at the bar, I make a beeline for them, dumping myself onto a stool with a theatrical sigh.
“So who won?” I ask, and we spill our tips onto the counter, counting bills and trading war stories. We crack up over the night’s worst pickup lines, the creepiest regulars, and the rookie bachelor who almost cried when Stacie twirled his tie around her finger.
Shots appear, and we toast to surviving another night and making rent—with enough left over for takeout or, as Kyra puts it, “the glittery heels of our dreams.” Stacie raises her glass and deadpans, “To the guy who tried to tip me with a Chuck E. Cheese token—may he step on a Lego.”
Kyra snickers. “Or the creep who asked if I could dance to the Jurassic Park theme. I told him only if he wore the T. rex costume.”
We all burst out laughing, exhaustion melting away for just a minute. I can always complain about the men, but the money really is its own kind of magic.
Still, my mind keeps drifting back to Alex.
I can’t quite pin down what he was doing—whether it was a game, a power play, or something real—but whatever it was, it worked.
He was completely intoxicating, in a way that left me a little unsteady.
The strangest part? I tried to give him a show, and all he wanted was to talk to me.
It’s unsettling, but kind of thrilling—a change of pace I never knew I needed.
There’s this weird magnetic pull between us, and I should be more wary, but I can’t help feeling drawn in, even as that little voice in my head tells me to be careful.
Guys like him always come with warning labels.
But it’s more than just attraction. There’s a weight to him—something dangerous, maybe even obsessive, in the way he watches me.
I wonder what he’s thinking when he looks at me like that.
Am I just another challenge for him, or is there something about me he really sees?
What if I get too close, and all that intensity turns out to be too much?
What if I’m not prepared for someone who wants to know the real me, and not just the act?
Kyra tosses her glittery heels onto the bar next to me, eyes wide with gossip-fueled excitement. “Okay, Ayla, you have to tell us—who was the dark and brooding snack in the audience tonight? He looked like he just walked out of some forbidden romance novel.”
Stacie leans in, barely containing her grin. “Seriously, I thought he was going to set the place on fire with those looks. Where’d you find him? He’s not your usual brand of weird.”
I let out a laugh and swirl my drink. “Would you believe it if I said the gas station? I literally just ran into him last night—like, ran into him, holding the world’s most embarrassing brown paper bag.”
Kyra gasps. “Shut up. Is he a gas station mystery man? That explains the ‘I have secrets and a tragic backstory’ energy.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help smiling. “Right? He was just leaning against the wall, all leather and shadows, like he was waiting to be cast as the love interest in a TV show. I thought he was going to ask me for a cigarette or try to sell me a cursed artifact.”
Stacie laughs. “And then he shows up at Spotlight, looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s dying to solve. Did he even blink the whole time?”
“Not once,” I say, shaking my head. “I tried my best moves, and he’s just… staring. Not in a gross way, either. More like he was trying to figure out what planet I’m from. I half expected him to whip out a notebook and start taking notes on my mating habits.”
Kyra snorts. “Did he talk to you, or did he just communicate with brooding eye contact?”
I wave the slip of paper he gave me. “He talked. He’s got this whole ‘I’m mysterious but somehow want to know your soul’ thing going.
He asked me questions—real questions. Didn’t even want the full show.
Just wanted to talk. I’m torn between being flattered and checking to make sure I’m not about to get recruited into a cult. ”
Stacie grins. “You love the drama, Ayla. Are you going to text him?”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Part of me says, ‘Run, he could be a vampire.’ The other part is like, ‘Well, Edward Cullen never paid two hundred bucks just to talk.’ Honestly, I’m too curious not to.
I know it’s reckless, but I want to see what happens.
If I’m being honest, maybe I want to feel that intensity focused on me again—even if it scares me a little. ”
Kyra raises her shot. “To mysterious strangers and gas station meetings. If you disappear, we’ll avenge you.”
We clink glasses, and I can’t help but smirk at my phone. “If he turns out to be a brooding billionaire with a tragic past, dibs on the movie rights.”
I finally cave and text him—just a quick hey, it’s Ayla, before I toss my phone back in my bag and pretend I’m not internally spiraling.
Best or worst decision? Jury’s out. We keep drinking and laughing, Kyra making me nearly snort tequila out my nose, and Stacie betting I won’t get a reply tonight.
Fast-forward half an hour and too many shots later, I’m outside waiting for my Uber, wearing sweats, a T-shirt, definitely tipsy and barefoot, heels in hand. My phone buzzes.
Hey darling. Just two words, but my heart does a little somersault.
I grin and text back: What’s a mysterious guy like you doing up this late?
He replies almost immediately. Thinking about you. Wondering if you’re still wearing pink.
I bite my lip, heat blooming in my cheeks. Wouldn’t you like to know? Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just wearing glitter and a bad attitude.
Another buzz. That’s dangerously tempting, Ayla. Are you always this much trouble after midnight?
I giggle, leaning against the wall. Only when I’m a little drunk and texting someone who looks like he collects secrets for a living.
He sends a wink emoji. Careful, I might just come collect you.
I shoot back, You’ll have to find me first, shadow man.
I’m still grinning when my Uber finally pulls up. I slide into the back seat, the air cool against my skin. I tell myself I’ll just close my eyes for a second, but next thing I know, the car is stopped—and someone is yanking open my door.
Everything happens in a blur. A stranger’s hand grabs at me, rough and insistent, sliding up my shirt, palming my breast. For a split second, I freeze, the taste of tequila turning bitter in my mouth.
Then fear floods my system, sharp and cold.
I scream—loud, raw, desperate—kicking out with all I’ve got.
My heel catches him hard in the crotch, and he stumbles back, cursing.
My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear myself scramble out of the car and into the street, barefoot and wild, panic pushing me all the way to the front door of my building.
I fumble the key, hands shaking so hard I nearly drop it, but somehow I get inside. I slam the door and lock every bolt.
I collapse onto my bed, still breathing hard, the adrenaline leaving me shaky and raw. Suddenly, texting Alex isn’t just some reckless game—it feels like a lifeline. I shoot him a message: Hey, what are you up to?
A few seconds later, my phone buzzes with his reply: Taking care of a problem right now, darling.
Alexander
I don’t know what it is about Ayla—maybe it’s the wild, reckless way she laughs, or the haunted look she gets when she thinks no one’s watching—but she’s become a darkness in my veins, a hunger I can’t kill, very quickly, almost scary.
I’m obsessed, and the worst part is I know it.
I shouldn’t be here, lurking in the shadows near her apartment, watching like a deviant, but I can’t walk away.
I tell myself I’m just making sure she’s safe, but that’s a lie.
I’m hooked—stalking the night like some villain in a gothic romance, all because she’s out there, alone and defiant and, in my mind, entirely mine, whether she knows it or not.
I know it’s wrong. I know I’m crossing lines. I don’t care anymore.
When the Uber finally glides up to the curb, I barely glance at it—just another car in the endless city night.
But then the driver gets out, circles to the back, and yanks open the rear door.
That’s when I see her. Ayla, crumpled in the back seat, eyes heavy with exhaustion, utterly vulnerable.
For a split second, I don’t even register it’s her—then it hits me like a punch to the gut.
Ayla. My world tilts, everything else fading out.
The driver reaches for her, hands too rough, sliding up her shirt.
Then comes a sound that makes my blood run cold: Ayla’s scream—raw, terrified, echoing down the street.
In that instant, something inside me snaps.
I see her jolt awake, panic wild in her eyes, and all I can feel is a black, seething rage.
My vision tunnels, my fists ball, and I am nothing but instinct and obsession—ready to destroy for her.
She fights back—of course she does, my wild girl—her scream still ringing in my ears as her heel slams into his groin and he crumples, cursing, but the damage is already done.
She bolts for her door, and I watch her disappear inside, knowing I’ll never unsee the terror on her face.
My blood is boiling, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear the city around me.
All I know is I want to tear the world apart for her, punish anyone who dares lay a finger on what’s mine.
Right now, I am every jealous, dangerous, madman in every story she’s ever read—and God help the man who gave me an excuse to finally lose control.
The text she sends barely registers. My hands are trembling—from adrenaline, from fury, from that sick satisfaction that I’m about to cross a line I can’t come back from.
For a split second, logic tries to intervene—walk away, Alex.
Don’t do this. Don’t go too far. But the image of her fear, her scream, drowns out every shred of reason.
I fire off a reply—Taking care of a problem right now, darling—then shove my phone into the small storage compartment under the seat of my bike, snapping it shut.
I need both hands for what I’m about to do.
I stalk straight towards the bastard. He’s still doubled over, gasping, trying to gather himself. He doesn’t even see me coming.
I grab him by the collar and yank him upright, slamming him into the side of the car so hard the metal screams. My hands tremble, not with fear, but with something primal and vicious—something new and bottomless.
My voice is a snarl, rough and cold, every word dipped in venom.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing to her?”
He stammers, mouth moving, words spilling out, “I was just—just helping, I swear—” but I see the truth in his eyes. I see the guilt. I see the predator who thought he could cross the line.
The rage inside me isn’t even human. It’s black and endless, a gaping maw demanding blood.
All I want in this moment is to show him what it means to be hunted.
My fist connects with his jaw, the crunch reverberating up my arm, a savage satisfaction I want to taste again and again.
I hit him harder, knuckles splitting, blood slick on my hands, and I don’t stop.
I can’t. His hands come up, feeble and desperate.
For a flicker, I hesitate—am I really going to do this?
Am I about to ruin my life for her? But the memory of Ayla’s scream, the terror on her face, wipes out every last trace of hesitation. I hit him even harder. It’s not enough.
All I see is Ayla’s face, her body scrambling away, the echo of her fear burning in my skull. I want to tear this man apart for what he tried to do—for daring to put his filthy hands on what is fucking mine.
In that moment, I don’t care about consequences, or the sirens approaching, or anything except the pure, furious joy of violence.
The world could collapse around me, and I’d still be here, making him pay, over and over, until someone rips me away.
I am rage. I am ruin. And for her, I’d become a monster a thousand times over.
It takes the cops physically dragging me off him—two of them, shouting orders, prying my fists from his bloody shirt.
I barely notice the flashing blue and red, or the cuffs snapping around my wrists.
The only thing I notice is the limp body of the man who dared to lay a hand on her, and the raw satisfaction of knowing I’d do it all over again to keep her safe.
The cop hauls me upright and shoves me toward the cruiser, his grip bruising my arm. I catch my reflection in the window—blood streaked, wild-eyed, breathing like a caged animal. Adrenaline still surges through my veins, drowning out everything but the steady, echoing thud of my heart.
The cop opens the back door and pauses, squinting at me over his notepad. “Name?” he demands, his tone clipped and official.
I meet his eyes, jaw set, refusing to look away. “Alexander Sterling,” I say, my voice low and unwavering.
He scribbles it down and mutters something to his partner.
I’m loaded into the back of the squad car, hands cuffed behind me, adrenaline still pounding in my veins.
The cop drones on about my rights—Miranda, something about an attorney, blah blah blah—but I don’t hear a word.
All I can think is: it was fucking worth it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Automatically, my hands try to go to my pocket, attempting to search for my phone—only to remember I shoved it in the storage compartment under my bike seat before everything went down.
The bike’s as good as impounded now; no way I’m getting out tonight.
Fuck. That means I can’t text Ayla. She’s going to think I’m just ghosting her, radio silence at the worst possible time.
The thought gnaws at me even as I’m marched into the harsh lights of the station, booked, fingerprinted, shoved into a holding cell with a bunch of other unlucky bastards.
Everything aches, but the satisfaction is a dull, angry pulse under my skin. I don’t know how much trouble I’m in—don’t care, really. I’d do it all over again, and more, if it meant keeping her safe. Let the world throw whatever it wants at me. I’ve already made my choice.