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Marcos and Leo are nowhere to be seen; clearly Leo hasn’t told me everything, but right now I can barely focus on that thought as I’m inevitably pulled back to the fucking redhead flirting with Dante.

“Hey buddy,” Lucas says loudly into my ear, abruptly meeting my side. “You still alive?”

I shift my weight immediately, taking a step back. “So…” he continues, leaning closer. “When were you going to tell me you’re dating your gym coach?”

My brows knit slightly. “We’re not dating.”

Lucas snorts. “Liar,” he laughs.

I open my mouth to correct him, but Lucas keeps going, words tumbling out faster now. “Hey man,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Does Dante not like me or something?” Lucas looks genuinely uneasy.

“I mean,” he continues, “is it because I showed up drunk at his gym that one time and you had to drag me home?”

If I had to take a guess, Lucas is probably just not worth the effort, but fuck knows what goes on in that guy’s mind. “No,” I tell him. “You’re imagining things.”

Lucas squints at me. “You sure?”

Before I can answer, something shifts in the corner of my vision, and I glance toward the staircase again. The red-haired woman is laughing as she grabs Dante’s hand, pulling him toward the velvet rope at the base of the stairs. Toward the private lounges.

Blood surges, boiling, clawing up my throat like it wants to tear its way out.

Lucas still babbles beside me, his voice fading into background noise. All I see is the woman’s hand on Dante’s arm.

I should go home. I should just leave.

Leave already, goddammit.

“I mean, he always looks at me like—hey, where are you going?” Lucas utters as I walk off without a reply.

My hands curl into fists as I slip past the thick red rope blocking the entrance to the VIP lounges and make my way up the stairs, into a hallway.

I’m tired of the games. The stalking. The manipulation. The constant shifting of control. If Dante wants to play predator, fine. I can end it here. End him. End the distraction.

And the woman? Collateral fucking damage.

With my mind already committed to the act, I burst through the only door that stands ajar, but the moment I step inside, I stop dead in my tracks, eyes flaring.

The red-haired woman is sprawled across the couch, unconscious.

Her head tipped back against the cushions, one arm hanging loosely off the side like a dropped puppet as Dante stands idling near a high-top counter on the other side of the room, leaning casually against it like he’s been waiting for me.

“Look who finally decided to join the party,” he claims, casual as sin.

The room glows in low violet and pink light.

Soft strips of neon run along the ceiling panels, casting a muted halo over the space. The light slides over black leather lounges arranged in a wide horseshoe against the walls, their cushions deep enough to swallow anyone who sits there. The surfaces reflect the glow faintly, turning the entire room into a quiet pool of color that feels detached from the chaos and noise downstairs.

A steel table with a glass top sits in the center of the room. Its base is brushed metal, heavy and immovable, supporting a thick glass top that reflects the purple light like water. Champagne flutes and a silver bucket sit abandoned on it, condensation sliding slowly down the bottle. But I hardly admire the room as I glance at the woman once more before turning back to him. “Are you planning to fuck with her?”

Dante huffs out an offended laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “She’s unconscious. I’m not a monster. What do you take me for?”

He pushes off slowly, the neon lights sliding across his face as he steps closer. “Besides,” he continues lazily, “everyone I’ve ever fucked wanted me so bad they practically begged for it.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The words cut the air.

Dante’s grin only widens.

He starts walking toward me with that same slow, predatory grace he uses when he knows he’s already inside someone’s head.