The lemonade slides cool down my throat, acrid and sharp against the bass vibrating through the floorboards. I keep my fingers wrapped around the glass, condensation beading against my palm, and let my gaze sweep the club like I'm counting exits. I always count exits.

The bartender avoids my eyes. Good. He knows what I am before I open my mouth.

Tina's a blur of blonde hair and bare skin on the dance floor, laughing too loud, spinning too free. She doesn't know what kind of places her father's protection buys her entry to. She never has to know.

I taste the lemon again. Sour. Sharp. Grounding.

They're watching from the balcony. I felt it before I saw it—that weight of attention that pins you in place like a gun barrel against your temple. Two of them. The older one hasn't blinked since I sat down. His eyes are black from here. Coal black. And they haven't left me once.

The younger one grins when our gazes meet. That's worse. The grin means he's already playing.

I don't look away. I never look away.

---

Roman slides onto the barstool beside me like he owns it. Expensive cologne. Cigarette smoke embedded in the fabric of his jacket. His hand lands on my lower back before he speaks, calloused and warm, too familiar.

"You here alone, pretty thing?"

"No. I'm here with my bsf."

His gaze slides toward Tina, slow and lazy, and he hums like she's a meal he's already tasting. "Good." His fingers press harder into my spine. "Then you two can come join my brother and me. He's been dying to meet you."

"Why."

The grin sharpens. His hand presses deeper, a reminder of who he is, what he carries beneath that jacket. He nods toward the balcony, and I follow the gesture.

The older one hasn't moved. Just sits there in the shadows, watching me like I'm already his.

"Because he never waits for what he wants," Roman says, low and amused. "And what he wants right now is you."

"No." I set the glass down. "You could ask my bsf if she wants to. Then I decide."

Roman barks a laugh, loud enough that heads turn on the dance floor. He whistles sharp, two fingers to his lips, and Tina's head snaps up like a dog called to heel. His hand stays on my back, possessive and light.

"Already handling it. She's coming either way. You think I'd leave her out?"

"Tina. Come here."

She stumbles off the dance floor, cheeks flushed, sweat beading at her hairline. She blinks at Roman's hand on me, then at his face, her lips parting with that familiar surprise that means she's already curious.

"What's going on?"

"This person is asking us to join them."

Roman's arm slides off my back and wraps around Tina's waist before she can step away, pulling her flush against his chest. He winks at me, thumb brushing the curve of her hip like he's testing the fit.

"See? She already looks ready to go. Zade's got the good whiskey, doesn't he?"

Tina's breath catches. She nods before she thinks about it. Of course she does.

"Fine. If she agreed."

Roman laughs, steering us both toward the VIP stairs. The crowd parts. It always does.

---

The air changes up here. Thicker. Colder. The bass still pounds through the floor, but it feels distant now, muffled by the wealth in the leather, the cut of the suits, the weight of the guns I know they're carrying.

Zade stands when I reach the top of the stairs. He's broader than I expected, sharper, his black suit tailored like armor. He gestures to the leather couch beside him, his voice low and rough.

"Sit. Tell me what your father told you about me."

I don't sit. "Do I even know you?"

His mouth tugs at one corner, just barely. He leans forward to push a glass of whiskey across the table toward me, the amber liquid catching the dim light.

"You'll know me soon enough. Better than anyone else knows you."

My fingers brush the cool glass. I don't lift it. I don't drink what I haven't seen poured.

Behind me, Roman has already pulled Tina onto his lap, his arm slung loose around her middle, his mouth finding her neck. She giggles. She doesn't know the danger in that laugh.

I hold Zade's gaze. His eyes are black. Coal black. Flat and unreadable, like a wall I can't climb.

He waits.

Then he leans back, one ankle crossed over his knee, thumb brushing the rim of his glass slow and deliberate.

"Your father owes me a debt. I'm taking you as payment."

My chest goes cold. "My father. Impossible."

He barks a laugh, sharp and cold, setting his glass down hard enough that whiskey sloshes over the rim. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur.

"Your father already agreed. He shook my hand on it last week. You just didn't know."

The words hit like a blade between the ribs. I keep my face still. I've had practice.

"Then why is Tina here? If my father took the debt."

Zade's eyes flicker to Roman, who's still nuzzling Tina's neck, making her giggle against his mouth. He looks back at me, his mouth set in that cold, steady line.

"Roman wants his own. Your father brought your friend into this when he shook my hand. No takebacks."

"I refuse."

His expression doesn't shift. But his hand curls into a fist on the arm of the couch, leather creaking under the pressure. He stands, slow, imposing, stepping toward me until the heat of his body wraps around me like a cage, his scent—whiskey and tobacco and something darker—filling my lungs.

"You think I care what you refuse?" His voice is low, rough with authority. "You've been mine since I saw you sitting at that bar."

"Don't you think you could make me yours."

He reaches up. His thumb brushes the line of my jaw, calloused and warm. His hold tightens, just enough to make my breath catch. He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear, his voice certain as stone.

"I don't think. I know. You've already been mine. You just haven't admitted it to yourself yet."

"I am not yours. And that's final."

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his thumb still resting on my jaw. A slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips. He tastes the defiance. He likes it.

"Final or not, you're still here. Still talking to me. That's already a start."

I don't answer. I turn my head just enough to break his grip.

"Let's go. Tina."

She tries to stand. Roman's arm tightens around her waist, holding her pinned against him. He nips her shoulder playfully, and she squeaks, squirming but not fighting.

Zade's hand slides from my jaw to wrap around my wrist, unbreakable.

"She doesn't have to leave. But you aren't going anywhere tonight."

"What do you mean, tonight?"

He tugs me closer until my chest presses against his. His dark eyes glint with possession. His mouth brushes mine, warm and demanding, just barely, just enough to make my stomach drop.

"I mean you're staying here. With me. Just like your friend is staying with Roman."

"No. We're not."

Roman laughs into Tina's neck, his hand sliding up her thigh. Zade doesn't laugh. He holds my gaze, his mouth still hovering an inch from mine, his grip unyielding.

"You are. Your father gave you to me. I don't return what's mine."

The bass pounds through the floor. Tina giggles somewhere behind me. And Zade's thumb traces my jawline, patient and certain.

I meet his black eyes.

"No. I am not."

Lying in the algorithm report

I’d heard the stories about Zade. Everyone in this city had. The kind of stories that made women cross the street when they saw a black sedan, the kind that made men lower their voices when they mentioned his name. But stories were just stories until they had teeth.

I found his teeth in a VIP booth at a club I shouldn’t have been in, with a friend who shouldn’t have known Roman’s number, on a night that was supposed to be just another Tuesday. Tina had begged me to come. *He’s got connections*, she’d said. *One drink, that’s all. Just be seen.*

I should have stayed unseen.

The bass was so loud I felt it in my molars. The lights were low and blue, the kind that made everyone look like they were underwater. And Zade was sitting in the center of the booth like a king on a throne, legs spread, one arm draped across the back, watching the door like he’d known exactly when I’d walk through it.

He was younger than the stories suggested. Maybe thirty. Sharp jaw, sharper suit, eyes so dark they looked like holes in his face. When he stood up, the men around him shifted like a single organism, and I knew—before he’d taken a single step toward me—that I was already inside something I couldn’t walk out of.

He didn’t speak. He just moved, threading through the crowd with that unhurried predator’s gait, and when he reached me, his hand tangled in the back of my hair and he kissed me.

Not a question. Not an invitation. A claim, hard and possessive, his mouth stealing the breath from my lungs. I tried to pull back and his grip tightened, holding me in place, and the kiss went on long enough for my knees to forget how to hold me up. When he finally pulled away, he was still holding me against him, my chest pressed to his, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he could feel it.

“You are,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You just don’t feel it yet.”

“You—how dare you.”

He smirked. His thumb, calloused and warm, brushed over my lower lip, and I felt the ghost of the kiss linger. I tried to struggle and he held me tighter, the bass of the club thrumming through both of us, his dark eyes glinting with something that looked like hunger. “I dared because you’re mine. No one gets to tell me what I can and can’t do with what belongs to me.”

I glared at him. I wanted it to look like hatred. I think it came out looking like terror.

He didn’t let go of my hair. He just watched the angry flush rise on my cheeks, and then he kissed the corner of my mouth—slow, soft, completely at odds with the sharp edge of his claim. The warmth of it made my anger fizzle, just for a second, and he noticed. He always noticed.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“Back off.”

He didn’t move back. His hand slid to my waist, pulling me harder against his chest, and his smirk softened into something darker, hungrier. He leaned in, his mouth brushing my neck as he murmured, “I don’t back off from what’s mine. You might as well stop fighting.”

I yanked back so hard my scalp stung. “Ew. Gross.”

His jaw tightened. But he didn’t reach for me again. He just crossed his arms over his chest and watched me, that cold, knowing look back in his eyes. He wiped his thumb over his lower lip, like he was still tasting me, and huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ll be kissing me back by the end of the week. I don’t lose.”

I didn’t have an answer for that. I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Roman, one of his men—the one who’d brought Tina here—chose that moment to whistle low, nodding toward the door. Three of Zade’s men had stepped inside, broad-shouldered and silent, blocking the only exit. Tina went still in Roman’s lap, her eyes finding mine across the room.

Zade gestured to the couch beside him. “You’re not leaving tonight. So you might as well sit.”

I looked at the blocked door. I looked at Tina, who was gripping Roman’s sleeve with white-knuckled fingers. I looked at Zade, who was watching me with the patience of a man who had never been told no and survived the experience.

“No,” I said. “We’re not staying.”

His jaw ticked once. But he didn’t drop his hand. He just tilted his head, like he was surprised I’d still push him, and nodded once at the men by the door. They stepped forward, boots heavy on the carpet, hands resting on the guns at their hips.

“You don’t get a choice,” he said. “This isn’t a request.”

“I don’t make requests,” I said. “I make decisions.”

He dropped his hand. A low, dark laugh rumbled in his chest, and he stepped closer until I could feel the heat of his body again. He tilted my chin up with one finger, his gaze sharp enough to cut. “Good. I like it when you fight. It’ll make claiming you that much more fun.”

“Let’s go, Tina.”

Tina tried to yank away from Roman. He pinned her to his chest, laughing into her neck, and shook his head at me. Zade blocked my path to the door, broad shoulders cutting off all the light from the hallway. He hooked one finger through the belt loop of my jeans and tugged me back toward him.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Let go of me.”

He didn’t let go. He pulled me harder against him, his mouth curving into that cold, knowing smirk, his breath warm on my neck. His hand splayed low on my back, holding me still. “I’ve already told you. You’re mine. I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

I wanted to knee him. I wanted to scream. But my body had gone liquid and useless, and the worst part was that he knew it.

Roman stood up, shifting Tina off his lap and nudging her toward me. Zade’s brow lifted in surprise. Roman pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it slow, and blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “C’mon, boss. Let the girls simmer a little. They’ll come back on their own.”

Tina hesitated, glancing back at Roman. He just smirked and waved her off. She hurried to my side, grabbing my arm so hard her nails bit into my skin.

Zade didn’t block the door this time. He leaned against the wall and watched me go, his voice low and sure enough to follow me out into the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t think I’ll forget.”

I didn’t look back. But I felt his gaze on my spine all the way to the car.

---

I didn’t sleep. I lay in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the kiss until I wanted to claw my own skin off. The worst part wasn’t that he’d taken it. The worst part was that some small, shameful part of me had let him.

By morning, I’d convinced myself it was over. A one-time thing. A predator marking territory and moving on. He’d find another girl to fixate on, and I’d go back to my life, and the stories about Zade would go back to being just stories.

I was pouring coffee in my kitchen when the doorbell rang.

My father wasn’t home. He was always gone by seven, off to whatever business deal kept him in suits and out of my life. I was alone in the house, in my bare feet and an old t-shirt, and the hand that reached for the gun tucked in my waistband moved before my brain caught up.

I pulled the door open with my left hand, my right hovering near the grip.

Zade was standing on my porch.

Suit crisp. Hair dark. A small black box in his hand, the kind that could hold a ring or a bullet. He smiled, cold and sure.

“You said I wouldn’t see you today.”

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

He stepped inside before I could stop him. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing us in together, and he set the black box on my kitchen counter like he owned the place. He nodded at the gun I’d pulled, unafraid, and tilted his head.

“I came to pick up what’s mine. You forgot I was coming today.”

“I am not going anywhere with you.”

He walked toward me slow. His hands stayed at his sides. He didn’t reach for his own weapon. He just stopped when he was close enough to touch the barrel of my gun with one finger, pushing it gently aside.

“Your father already knew I was coming. He left a note.” He paused, letting that sink in. “You really think he’d hide you from me?”

I didn’t lower the gun. My finger tightened on the trigger, the metal warm from my grip. He just smiled, cold and sure, and reached past me to pull a folded piece of paper off the fridge behind my shoulder.

He held it out to me. The paper was crisp. My father’s scrawled handwriting stared back at me when I glanced down.

*Zaida—*

*Mr. Kessler is a friend of the family. Please extend him every courtesy. I’ll be home late.*

*—Dad*

The gun wavered. My hand started to shake.

“He did exactly what I told him to,” Zade said.

I stared at the note. At my father’s handwriting. At the neat, casual way he’d sold me out, like I was a business arrangement he’d already signed.

“...fuck.”

Zade chuckled low. His hand slid up my wrist, gentle but firm, prying the gun from my loose grip. He set it on the counter beside his black box, and then he tilted my chin up with his thumb and pressed a slow, warm kiss to my mouth.

My knees went weak. My hands stayed at my sides. I didn’t push him away.

“Relax,” he murmured against my lips. “I’m not gonna hurt what’s mine.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes searching my face, his thumb still resting on my jaw. I should have told him to leave. I should have picked up the gun and aimed it at his chest and pulled the trigger until the stories about Zade stopped being stories.

But my father’s note was still in my hand. And the black box was still on the counter. And the kiss was still burning on my mouth like a brand.

So I stood there in my bare feet, in my own kitchen, and I didn’t say a word.

His hand slid down to my waist, gentle now, almost tender. “You’ll get used to it,” he said again. “I have time.”

I looked at him. At the sharp jaw and the darker eyes and the cold, sure smile. At the box I hadn’t opened and the future I hadn’t asked for.

“You’ll be kissing me back by the end of the week,” he’d said last night.

I thought about the way my body had gone still when he kissed me just now. The way my hands had stayed at my sides. The way the fight had drained out of me like water from a broken cup.

The way I hadn’t pulled away.

Some part of me wanted to run. The rest of me stayed very, very still.