TWENTY-EIGHT
The second their eyes met mine, my whole body tensed.
Marco’s men.
Two shadows across the club, half-hidden in the corner, but I knew them. I could feel their attention like a weight, pressing into my skin, crawling up my spine. My chest tightened as the realization settled in.
My voice dropped to a whisper. “Does that mean Marco’s nearby?”
Wesley didn’t flinch. He didn’t look surprised or worried—just calm. Too calm.
His gaze stayed locked on them. He leaned back slightly, hand around his drink, jaw tight with focus. “Don’t fret,” he said casually. “If Marco sent them… we’ll give them something to report back about.”
I turned toward him fast, panic rising again. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes shifted from the two men back to me, slow and steady. Unreadable. Then he tilted his head, almost like he was amused.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
The words hit hard. Too hard.
My mouth opened but nothing came out at first. Then I managed, dry and sharp, “Fuck no.”
Wesley smirked. That lazy, knowing smirk that meant trouble. “Good enough.”
I didn’t have time to ask what that meant either.
His hand moved under the table—smooth, deliberate.
I flinched slightly when his fingers brushed my knee.
Then he slid higher. Up my thigh. Slow. Like he wanted to make sure I felt every inch of it. He stopped just before the top, close enough to steal my breath.
My entire body went still.
He didn’t stop looking at me.
“They’re still watching,” he murmured.
I could barely nod. I couldn’t even think straight.
“You want to rattle them?” he said, voice low, quiet enough that only I could hear. “Let’s rattle them.”
His eyes were calm. Steady.
But under the table, his hand stayed right there. Warm. Close. Unapologetic.
My pulse pounded in my ears. I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no either.
And I wasn’t sure which one he was waiting for. Or if he was waiting at all.
Wesley didn’t wait for permission.
His hand was still on my thigh when he leaned in, eyes on mine for one short second—then his lips met mine.
Soft at first. Like he was testing something. Controlled. Measured.
But it didn’t stay that way.
The kiss deepened fast—like he’d been waiting for this, like there was something he needed to prove and he was going to do it with my mouth. It was hard, fast, hungry. Possessive in a way that felt too convincing to be just for show.
His other hand slid around my waist, down to the small of my back, pressing me closer until there was nothing between us but breath and heat.
I stiffened at first, mind spinning too fast to process what was happening—but my body had already made a choice I hadn’t approved. My fingers grabbed the edge of his jacket, then curled into his sleeve. I kissed him back, mouth catching his like I’d done it a hundred times.
I hated how easy it was.
I hated that I didn’t want it to stop.
The music around us thumped low and slow, bodies moved like smoke through shadows, but the second Wesley kissed me, the air shifted.
I felt it.
Other people noticed. Heads turned. Conversations slowed.
And then—movement.
From the corner of my eye, I saw one of the two men from Marco’s table stand.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t run. He just started walking toward us with that stiff, clipped pace that always came before something bad.
Wesley didn’t pull away. Not even when the man came closer.
His mouth was still on mine, his hand still tracing the shape of my waist like he didn’t care we were being watched—like he wanted it.
And God help me, part of me wanted it too.
The man stopped just short of our booth, shadow falling over the table.
“Back off,” he growled.
Wesley didn’t move.
His arm was still around me. His fingers still rested on my thigh. He didn’t even glance at the guy. Like he wasn’t even there. Like the moment hadn’t shifted, even though it clearly had.
“Hey,” the man barked louder. “I said—back off.”
Wesley finally looked up. His face was unreadable. Calm. That eerie kind of calm that felt like it came right before something explosive.
Then the guy pulled the gun.
Just like that.
He didn’t wave it around or make a scene—just pulled it from under his jacket and pressed it right to the side of Wesley’s neck.
Cold steel against skin.
I gasped before I could stop myself, my body going rigid beside him.
Everything in me screamed to move—to do something. But Wesley didn’t even flinch.
He smiled.
Not a polite smile. Not a fake one either.
A real one.
A slow, amused curve of his lips, like he’d just been handed the punchline to a joke no one else understood.
“You really should know better,” he said softly, voice cool as ice, “than to pull a gun on a man like me in the middle of an underground club.”
The man didn’t respond. But his jaw ticked.
Then I saw it—Wesley’s hand, the one closest to his side, slipping casually into his pocket.
My heart stopped.
Not because I didn’t know what he was about to do.
But because I did.
That look in his eyes… I’d seen it before. At the hospital. On the street. He wasn’t about to argue. He wasn’t about to stand down.
He was about to end this.
My hand gripped his arm. “Wes—”
He didn’t even look at me.
And I didn’t knw if that was the scariest part… or the most dangerous.
Please don’t make this worse, I thought.
But it might already be too late.