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She scurries off, clutching her wrist to her chest.
I feel a flicker of satisfaction, but it's short-lived. My mind is already back on Aria, on the game we're playing.
The announcer's voice crackles over the sound system, barely audible over the thumping music. "And now, gentlemen, put your hands together for our newest dancer, the sultry, the sensational... Cinnamon!"
I roll my eyes, taking another sip of my scotch.
Just another girl, another broken doll in this sordid little playground.
But then the crowd parts and she steps out onto the stage and my heart stops dead in my chest.
It's her.
She's wearing a wig, the flowing blonde number from earlier that looks gold against her pale porcelain skin. Her makeup is heavy, her lips painted a deep shade of crimson. But it's her, there's no mistaking those eyes, that body. Those luscious curves highlighted by a dark burgundy lingerie set that I immediately want to tear off with my teeth.
Even in that getup, she’s the most real, purest thing in the room.
I choke on my scotch, the liquid burning my throat as I cough and sputter. The glass slips from my fingers, shattering on the sticky floor. But I barely notice, my eyes glued to the stage, to her.
She moves like a dream, her hips swaying to the music, her hands gliding over her curves. The crowd hoots and hollers, waving crumpled bills in the air. But she doesn't seem to notice them, her gaze distant, focused inward.
What the hell is she doing?
This isn't like her. All I know is that seeing her up there, exposing herself to these leering men… it's enough to make my blood boil.
It's enough to make me forget all about this damn hunt.
I grip the edge of the bar, my knuckles turning white. I want to storm the stage, to throw my jacket over her and carry her out of here, away from all of this. But I can't. Not yet. Not until I know what game she's playing.
So I watch, my jaw clenched, my heart pounding. I watch as she spins around the pole, her movements fluid, graceful. I watch as she sinks to her knees, her head thrown back, her throat bared.
And I watch as she scans the crowd, her eyes searching, seeking. For a moment, just a moment, her gaze meets mine.
And in that instant, I see it.
The challenge. The defiance.
I know exactly what game she's playing now.
It's called Drive Lucian Absolutely Bat Fucking Shit Insane.
And she's winning.
Those red lips curve into a smirk that says a thousand words with none as she slides her back down the pole and beckons me with her gaze like we’re the only ones in the room.
She knows I'm here. Knows I'm watching.
That’s why she came here, I realize. She knew I would find her, and she knows I’m ready to march up onto that stage, throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of this den of iniquity, the Hunt be damned.
And suddenly, another realization washes over me.
This isn't a game anymore.
This is a declaration of war.
My little fawn has grown claws, and she's ready to use them.
God help me. I've never wanted her more.
