Page 95 of Safe Word

‘Good evening,’ I said smoothly, taking the offered book and scrawling my signature across the inside cover. The woman’s cheeks flushed as I handed it back, her eyes bright with excitement. I offered a polite nod, barely noticing as she drifted away, because my gaze had already floated back to the crowd, searching for her.

A silhouette caught my eye, graceful, and though similar to the hostesses, she seemed entirely out of place in the writhing sea of people. For a second, I mistook her for Paula – the dress threw me. But black dresses all looked the same to me.

The figure moved slowly, her hips rolling with feline ease, as though she weren’t walking as much as conquering the space around her. An ache spread through my lungs, recognition teasing at the edge of my mind.

It wasn’t just the Venetian mask so similar to Scarlett’s that obscured her face, but the way she carried herself: her shoulders square and head tilted just so, as if she knew the world was watching. Her presence was an echo of the nights that still haunted my every waking thought.

I pressed forward against the table, my breath catching as I watched her slip through the crowd. Something deep in my chest stirred – an unease mixing with a darker, more primal need.

What if it was her?

The name whispered through my mind, a slow burn of doubt and certainty colliding in my chest.

Restless, I pushed to my feet, keeping my eyes locked on the woman as she disappeared towards the quieter, shadowed corner of the club.

My curiosity got the better of me.

As if my legs had a will of their own, they were already following. Like the psycho I was, I moved with dark purpose, slipping through the bodies that congested the area.

She turned down the narrow passage near the restrooms, her outline lingering for just a moment. That single motion – the curve of her neck as she made the turn, the faint lift of her chin. So fucking familiar.

It had to be her.

I stepped into the passage, my heart thundering in my chest as my eyes adjusted to the low light.

She’d stopped between two walls stacked with chairs and tables, her body hidden beneath the shadow of the makeshift storage. Her hand rested on the edge of a stack, her posture tense yet poised as she peered around, as though she were waiting.

For what? Or for who?

The idea that I might be sharing her had my blood boiling. Ridiculous – maybe – but jealousy didn’t do logic. I didn’t even know her name. She wasn’t really mine. But try telling that to the thing crawling inside me.

When that first wave of fury washed over me, it left a scorching need behind – to punish.

My jeans pressed tight around my groin, each heartbeat syncing with the wrath in my chest.

Like sin swathed in silk, she let the shadows lick at her shoulders as if they knew her better than I did.

My breathing slowed, tempered, but every step I took towards her felt like walking a tightrope over a fire I’d lit myself.

Then a stranger slipped into the narrow space behind her like he was expected to be there.

My shoes rooted to the floor. Fists clenched, vision tunnelling.

The music dropped out, but my ears pounded all the same, and the animal inside me clawed for release. I didn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs burned.

I pictured my hands around his neck, squeezing until silence settled in his throat.

And her?

Christ, I wanted to punish her too. For letting him close. For not knowing better. For never really being mine – and making me forget that.

What the fuck was happening to me?

That first step towards him snapped like a trigger. It felt too familiar – like it had that night with Ezio – the moment my knuckles shattered against his jaw: that wet thwack when blood kissed the wall. It came back too easily. I remembered the heat on my skin. The burn of it.

My vision stabbed through the haze of madness, and I watched as the stranger dipped low, mouthing her throat, peeling fabric off her shoulder as if he had the right.

Then—