Chapter One
Adrian
T he bass thudded through the club like a heartbeat as I weaved my way through the mingling crowd.
I'd picked this place carefully after landing back home—a hunting ground disguised as a celebration.
The club was a shrine to excess, with chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, velvet ropes corralling the city’s most beautiful liars, and a dance floor that pulsed with enough sexual tension to power the city.
It was perfect for celebrating a win without the hassle of being recognized by too many fans who wanted selfies.
It was my kind of playground: expensive, exclusive, and just dangerous enough that the crowd kept their mouths shut and eyes averted when things got interesting.
But mostly, it was perfect for hunting.
I lounged at the bar for a while, sipping something top-shelf while watching the crowd through half-lidded eyes.
The men here were all tailored suits and too-white teeth, posturing for the women who wore their confidence like perfume .
Every so often, someone would glance my way, usually a woman, sometimes a man, drawn by the tattoos that crawled up my neck and arms, the way my black cropped top clung to muscle and made my ink pop under the lights.
I saw the way their gazes lingered, hungry and a little nervous, as if they couldn’t decide if I was the best or worst thing that could happen to them tonight. Spoiler alert: probably both.
I liked that uncertainty. I liked the way people parted for me without realizing it, the way they felt the danger radiating off me, and couldn't look away even as their survival instincts screamed run .
Some girls whispered behind their hands, eyes wide as they took in my jaw, my scars, the way I moved, like I owned the place, like I was looking for trouble and hoping to find it.
A few tried to catch my eye, lips painted and hopeful, but I just gave them a lazy smile and let my gaze drift on.
I wasn’t here for easy. And I sure as fuck wasn’t here for safe.
The crowd shifted and swayed around me, a kaleidoscope of expensive fabrics and designer perfumes.
A group of finance bros in tailored suits gave me side-eyes from the VIP section, clearly wondering what a tattooed psychopath was doing in their pristine playground.
I raised my glass in mock salute, flashing them the grin that made opponents piss themselves in the ring.
They looked away so fast I was surprised they didn't get whiplash. People like that always folded first—all bark, no bite, probably never thrown a real punch in their mediocre lives.
I finished my drink, letting the ice clink against the glass as I scanned the crowd. I was restless again, my skin buzzing from the fight, the win, and the need for something more.
Something that would scratch the itch that had been building under my skin since my gloves came off.
Maybe a girl, maybe a guy, maybe a drink. Maybe a little blood if the night called for it.
"Another?" The bartender nodded at my empty glass, her eyes appreciatively tracing the ink visible over my abs where my top rode up.
"Make it a double." I flashed her the grin that made opponents flinch in the ring and women melt. She just smiled back and poured generously.
After my second drink, I decided to move. Sitting still had never been my strong suit, especially not after a fight when my blood still sang with violence.
I slid through the bodies on the dance floor like a shark through a school of fish, not really dancing, just moving, letting the music wash over me like waves breaking against rock.
And that's when I saw the sun itself—soft and warm, pure fucking sunshine in this den of wolves.
She stood out like a sunrise in a world of neon, soft curves and golden hair, swaying gently to the music with a half-empty champagne flute in her hand.
Her white halter dress hugged every delicious dip and curve of her body, the material catching the light with each movement.
She was a goddess come to life, full and plush, curves begging for my hands.
Her golden hair tumbled over bare shoulders, framing features that looked like they belonged in a Renaissance painting.
She was with friends, a birthday celebration from the look of the tiara on the redhead's head, but she seemed somehow apart from them, lost in the music rather than the conversation.
Like a beautiful angel who’d wandered too far from heaven.
Her lips moved slightly, singing along to lyrics I couldn't hear over the bass. There was something so ethereal about her, something so fucking angelic, that it called to me like nothing else in this world ever had.
The space between us felt like an ocean I needed to cross.
I tracked her movements like a predator studying prey, watching her dress shimmer under the lights, how her friends gradually drifted away to chat with some guys by one of the bars .
She didn't seem to notice, still swaying gently, eyes half-closed like she was having a private moment with the music.
I straightened, every instinct sharpening to a knife’s edge. The crowd faded away, the noise receding until it was just her and the way she moved, the way she seemed both lost and utterly present at the same time.
For a moment, I just watched, letting the hunger build, letting the anticipation curl hot and dark in my gut.
Then I moved without thinking, drawn toward her like gravity.
With each step, the knife in my belt brushed against me, a comforting weight and a reminder that I was always armed, always dangerous, always ready for whatever the night might bring.
The crowd parted for me like I was splitting the fucking Red Sea, unconsciously giving way to the apex predator in their midst.
I slid behind her, drawn by some invisible thread that felt like fate and tasted like destiny.
She didn't notice me, still lost in her private concert, her round hips moving in a gentle rhythm that did dangerous things to my self-control.
This close, I could smell her—something sweet and clean that made me want to bury my face in her neck and find out what other secrets she was hiding.
"You're gonna spill that, angel," I murmured, leaning down, my breath ghosting over her ear.
She startled like a deer sensing a wolf, her whole body tensing as my hands found her hips, thumbs pressing into the softness with just enough pressure to let her know she wasn't going anywhere.
She inhaled sharply, her pulse jumping beneath her skin, and I could practically taste the sudden awareness of exactly how much trouble she was in.
"I'm okay," she whispered, voice sweet but uncertain as she tried to turn, probably to see which idiot had put their hands on her.
I held her in place, savoring the way she stilled under my control. "You sure? Seems like you need someone to hold you up. "
Her head tilted slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat in a gesture so unconsciously submissive it made hunger claw at my insides like a caged animal.
Fucking God , she was a natural. She probably had no idea what signals she was sending, how perfectly she was presenting herself like a gift I hadn't even asked for yet.
When I finally let her turn, I got my first real look at her face—beautifully heart-shaped, with full lips and dark blue eyes that widened when they met mine.
It was like she’d realized she was staring into the face of the devil himself.
Blood rushed south with punishing speed. I was instantly, painfully hard. The kind of arousal that bordered on torture in tight jeans.
Her body was everything my hands had been made to hold—soft where I was hard, yielding where I was unyielding, curves that fit perfectly against my angles.
"Oh," she breathed, gaze slowly traveling up my chest to my face, then back down to where my hands still gripped her hips.
"Oh," I echoed, letting my smirk widen. The music shifted to something slower, more sensual, and I used the opportunity to pull her closer.
"What's your name?"
"Isla," she answered, the word nearly lost in the music.
Her breathing quickened, those generous curves rising and falling in a way that made me want to rip that dress off her body and see what other treasures she was hiding.
There was a dusting of freckles across her collarbone and shoulders that disappeared beneath the neckline, and I found myself desperate to trace their path with my tongue until I'd mapped every single one.
"Isla," I repeated, tasting the syllables. It suited her, something angelic and soft. Something I wanted to corrupt.
"I'm Adrian. "
Her eyes flickered over my tattoos, curiosity and something else, something hungrier, in her gaze.
"Adrian," she echoed, and the sound of my name on her lips sent a jolt straight through me.
"Are you always this forward?" she asked, a hint of curiosity beneath the breathlessness.
I laughed, low and warm. "Only when I see something I want." My thumb traced circles on her soft hip, feeling her shiver through the thin fabric of her dress.
"And I want you, Isla."
The flush that crept up her neck was fucking beautiful. She bit her lower lip, a habit that made me want to do the same, but harder.
She looked up at me through her lashes, submission written in every line of her posture.
"You're not what I usually go for."
"Good." I crowded her close to a nearby pillar, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck, fingers brushing her vulnerable throat.
“Usual is boring."
Her pulse hammered under my thumb, her breathing shallow. The feeling of her life beating against my fingertips was intoxicating.
“I’m not... I don't normally..."
"Dance with strangers?" I supplied, the corner of my mouth lifting in amusement. "Or just ones that look like they could eat you alive?"
She let out a small laugh. "Both, I guess."
I leaned closer, our foreheads nearly touching. "Tell me to go, and I will."
That was a lie. I wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not when I'd found something this perfect, this meant for me.
Her pretty blue eyes flickered between mine, then down to my mouth. "I don't want you to go."