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Dante’s eyebrows lift slightly. A small, surprised laugh slips out of him. “Oh,” he says slowly. “So you did miss me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His mouth curves into that familiar crooked smile.

“Is that why you’ve been blowing up my phone?” he continues.

“I-I wasn’t.” Heat creeps up at the back of my neck, and I’m already regretting opening my mouth. It’s useless trying to argue with him.

“Sure,” he replies, cocking a brow, “whatever you need to keep telling yourself. Last night was all the proof I needed.”

“Last night?” I protest, grabbing onto strings, “You manipulated me.”

“Says the guy who talked me through an orgasm right before cumming in my mouth—”

“Stop talking,” I snap, hand shooting to his mouth, clamping it before another word escapes. “Last night meant nothing… I’m not into you, and we’re not fucking dating.”

What the hell am I even saying?

I tell him I don’t want him anywhere near me, then stand there unable to walk away and get completely livid when he doesn’t answer my texts. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to convince myself that I’m only tolerating him because he’s persistent.

That’s bullshit.

I’m the one who keeps engaging. The one who keeps throwing the next remark. The one who keeps stepping back into his orbit. I know exactly what comes out of my mouth every time he’s around.

Dante’s eyes grow dark as he tilts his head. “Ok then.”

OK, then?

“What? Just like that?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face stripped from his usual grin, lacking any emotions whatsoever. The transformation is instant.

I’m about to open my mouth when he just… walks away. No side glance, no snarky remark, nothing.

Chapter 22

Adrian

Time stretches in small observations rather than time. The idea of getting Dante out of my life should be comforting. Instead, it settles beneath my ribs, heavy enough to become an inconvenience.

He’s planning something. I just know it. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for why I haven’t left yet.

I’ve been leaning against the same wall for the better part of an hour, drink untouched, my attention drifting back to him every few seconds despite making a conscious effort not to look.

He’s across the room talking to a redhead. It’s been fifteen minutes now, maybe longer, yet long enough for her to laugh twice, touch his arm once, and lean in like she already knows he’s worth the effort.

Dante smiles back with a confident ease he seems to reserve for everyone.

My jaw tightens, teeth grinding to dust.

I could leave. I should just fucking leave. I could look literally anywhere else in the club, but I don’t do that either. Instead, I stand here cataloguing every glance, every smile, every unnecessary second their conversation drags on.

He’s finally someone else’s problem. Yet the longer he gives that woman his attention, the more the room seems to cave in on me.

I force myself to look away, my attention shifting across the room instead, scanning the darker corners of the club.