The club twisted and folded back on itself, a maze of shadows and noise stitched together with flickering neon and the kind of energy that prickled at the base of your neck. It felt alive, like a creature thrumming in the depths of some dark ocean. Overhead, relics from before it all went sideways clung stubbornly to their places—ceiling fans that hadn’t spun in decades and chandeliers weathered to crusty fossils, barnacles staking their claim on forgotten luxury. The smugglers’ boots scuffed over the damp floor, thinly sheened with seawater that brought the tang of salt up through the chaos. Mixed in was the pungent cocktail of booze, sweat, and ambition burning itself out too fast, like it always did in places like this.

The booth hadn't been a choice so much as an inevitability—he moved through the haze of bodies with a practiced ease, scanning for the deepest corner without giving the impression he was looking for it. His path was a lazy arc, just casual enough to read as aimless to anyone paying too much attention. But the people here never did. He slid into the seat like water finding the lowest point, his back snug to the cracked upholstery and his face half-claimed by shadows. A server bot tracked his descent, sleek and silent, its luminescent eyes briefly flicking to the crumpled credit chip he nudged across the table. It returned minutes later, depositing a glass in front of him with mechanical precision. Whatever dark amber liquid filled the tumbler smelled like whiskey mostly because it wanted to be. Then again, he wasn’t in the kind of place where anyone asked if something was real.

When it hit his tongue, it had that familiar sting—not quite bad enough to spit out, but just rough enough to remind him he hadn’t paid for authenticity. He welcomed it. The heat crawled down the back of his throat, settling somewhere in the hollow where unease made its home these days. The bass from the club’s sound systems thrummed under his boots and through his ribcage, syncing more with his pulse than his preference.

The woman entered the room like a stormfront, cool and electric, the kind that makes you feel trouble in your teeth before you see it in the sky. Her heels struck the damp tiles with a crisp rhythm that sliced clean through the lazy hum of the synth ballad oozing out of the walls. People turned, but not too many—it was the kind of place where looking too long could get you in trouble. Still, a few brave souls lingered on her, their gazes skimming the dress she wore. It moved like it had its own intelligence, catching the light in liquid waves that shifted from black to blue to green, like the water leaking from the rotten parts of the docking canals outside. It clung to her as though it might slide away at any moment, and maybe that’s why nobody could look for long without getting itchy.

Her eyes, though—that was where the real weight was. Sharp, deliberate. The kind of look that stripped people back to the dullest pieces of themselves and left them raw. She scanned the room, one careful sweep, but when her gaze landed on him, it stayed. A juror settling into the comfort of a guilty verdict.

But she didn't move toward him—not yet. She veered instead toward the bar, the sway of her hips a quiet threat, like a blade clicking open but not yet swung. A man at the bar—normal looking, bartender build, the kind of face that remembered details but offered none of its own—straightened as she leaned in. Her lips moved, soft and slow, shaping words too quiet to catch over the droning synths and the distant groan of the station infrastructure under too much weight. The bartender was quick to nod, his chin dipping in a way that sent an almost imperceptible ripple through the muscles knotted in his jaw. He tipped his head toward the smuggler, not subtly, but not outright blatantly either. Pro enough to stay alive in a dive like this.

Her gaze tracked where the bartender pointed, finding the smuggler again. She gave a small, almost invisible smile—not one of warmth but of certainty. Purpose. Then, without hesitation, she began moving toward him, stepping into his corner like a viper widening its coil. Every movement was precision dressed up as ease, sultry in the way gravity always wins. There was no artifice in it—just a truth about her, embedded in each step, that she had him marked already, whether he knew it

The smuggler tilted his head, a sardonic smile curving his lips. "Well, well. Trouble in high heels."

She slid into the booth across from him, a deliberate glide that felt less like a movement and more like a declaration. There was no hurry in the way she moved—just the kind of unshakable certainty that belonged to someone who always got what they wanted, one way or another. Her hip brushed the edge of the table as she settled in, the faintest scuff of fabric-on-surface somehow deafening in the dim hush of the room. "You’re sharper than you look," she said, her words coated in a honeyed drawl that curled around the edges of the space between them. It wasn’t quite a compliment—more like a game piece placed firmly on the board and waiting to see his next move.

The light from the flickering neon sign outside caught the shimmer of her synthetic silk dress, a deep obsidian that swallowed the glow and cast it back in flashes, like distant stars cradled in a sea of shadow. Her lips curved into a smile that wasn’t precisely warm—it was more like the knife-edge of a promise, dangerous but too captivating to look away from. She leaned forward just a fraction, her movements tightrope precise, the neckline of her dress dipping low enough to hint without conceding. It wasn’t anything as blatant as seduction; it was more subtle, like a submerged current pulling you under before you even knew it was there.

Her eyes locked onto his, pupils dilated just enough to suggest she had already sized him up and found him amusing enough to keep alive—for now. She drummed her fingers lightly against the table, nails a perfect crimson, like tiny warnings painted in blood. There was no jingling jewelry, no ostentatious display on her person—she didn’t need it. Confidence oozed off her in waves, intoxicating, like a perfume brewed from equal parts pheromones and danger. She shifted her weight just slightly, enough to remind him—and maybe even herself—that she owned this moment, this conversation, and maybe even him, if she cared enough to try.

He raised his glass in mock salute. "You’re either here to kill me or hire me. Let’s skip the foreplay and get to it."

Her smile was all teeth. "Oh, I wouldn’t dream of skipping foreplay."

She leaned forward, and he caught a whiff of her perfume—a heady mix of jasmine and something darker, more primal. She slid a photo across the table, her manicured nails tapping it once for emphasis. It was an old briefcase, scuffed and unremarkable.

“I need this delivered across the city,” she said, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Discretion is a must.”

The smuggler raised an eyebrow. “Discretion costs extra.”

“I think you’ll find my payment more than generous,” she countered, her smile never faltering. “But I don’t tolerate failure.”

He studied her for a moment, the way a man might size up a locked door with no idea what’s on the other side—except this door had legs crossed just so, a red heel bouncing to a rhythm he couldn’t hear. Her confidence wasn’t just unnerving; it slid around the room like smoke, thick enough to make you squint but never quite giving itself away. He remembered the briefcase from the photo she’d flashed, scarred and battered like it had survived one too many close calls. Not the kind of thing you'd look twice at on a busy street—which, he guessed, was the whole point. Still, there was a weight to it, even in a still image, like it carried more than the bulk of its contents. He hated that it stuck in his mind at all. Things like that had a way of pulling you deeper than you meant to go. Whatever was inside wasn’t his problem yet, but it had the weight of someone else's secrets, someone who’d kill to keep them zipped up tight.

Trouble? Hell, trouble curled its lip and called him by his first name. This wasn’t the kind of business you could turn down just because it came with strings—especially when it paraded distractions like crimson lipstick and a gaze sharp enough to peel back layers you didn’t want touched. Her eyes flicked toward him, catching his like they’d been aiming all along. Yeah, that briefcase was going to be trouble, all right. But if he was going to dive headfirst, at least the view was exquisite on the way down.

“Fine,” he said, leaning back in his seat, that well-worn poker face barely holding as he measured her up again. “Half up front, half on delivery.”

Her lips curled into something that wasn’t just a smile but a secret—a small, wicked thing designed to make him second-guess himself. “You’ll get your first installment soon enough,” she purred, the words like silk dragged slowly over cracked glass.

She stood with a deliberate slowness that turned heads in the dim glow of the lounge. Her hand extended to him, palm up, an offering laced with just enough command to make refusal seem both impossible and embarrassing. The kind of motion that wasn’t really a request; it was a dare. A quiet tether slipped between them, one she was twisting tighter with each passing second.

He drained his glass in a single pull, the bite of cheap liquor doing nothing to stop the hunch forming in the back of his mind that he was getting roped into something a few shades darker than he’d planned. Still, he followed. What the hell else was he going to do? Watch her leave and spend the night trying to convince himself he didn’t care?

The strobe of the club lights painted them in flashes as she wove through the crush of bodies on the dance floor. She moved effortlessly, like a predator skimming the edges of a herd that didn’t even know they should be paying attention. Her dress clung to her every curve, it warned and beckoned at the same time. He wasn’t sure if he was chasing her or being led, but that line blurred fast.

“So,” she tossed over her shoulder as they reached the edge of the crowd. Her voice was barely louder than the low thrum of bass, but it curled in his ears anyway, impossible to tune out. “Do you always make your clients work this hard for their investments?”

“Usually they don’t mind the effort,” he shot back, hoping the reply was just sharp enough to draw her eyes on him again. Just for a second.

She tilted her head his way without breaking stride, her pace unhurried, each step precise, like a deadly little metronome. “That’s an awful lot of confidence from a man who hasn’t even gotten the pitch yet.” Her tone dipped, teasing him with the kind of challenge that only sounded casual. And then, without warning, she stopped abruptly.

He nearly ran into her, catching himself in the final half-step, his boots skidding against the damp floor. She turned on her heel, pivoting with the kind of fluidity that came from either years of practice or a design flaw in human anatomy she’d decided didn’t apply to her. Her face was close now, her expression sharpened to a blade's edge, and for the first time, he realized just how quiet the space around them had become. Even the bassline felt muffled, like the pressure before an old-world thunderstorm.

“You’re not as fast as I expected,” she said, her voice low and private now, built just for him in the narrow air between them. Her lips twitched with a ghost of amusement, though her eyes didn’t bother to back it up. They stayed cold, fixed on him with that predatory focus that made every nerve in his body itch. “But maybe that’s not what you’re here for, hm?”

He leaned back a fraction, enough to put some distance between her gaze and his self-respect. “Lady, I’ve walked through enough spider webs to know when I’m the fly. Let’s cut to it.”

A slow smile spread across her face, but it didn’t make her look any softer. Every inch of it was calculated—a poker player’s tell she’d learned to weaponize. Her fingers danced over the clutch at her side, a subtle gesture, but enough for his instincts to fire off alarms. He wasn’t convinced it was just holding lipstick and loose creds.

“You’re efficient,” she murmured, almost lazily. But her voice coiled itself tight around the words, each syllable the kind of trapdoor you don’t see until you’re already falling. “I admire that. It makes what I’m about to tell you less... complicated.”

There was a moment, just a flicker, where he thought he saw something unreadable crack through her polished exterior. Something that didn’t belong in the chemical sweep of the nightclub—a note of exhaustion or maybe regret, pressed flat and buried deep but not deep enough. Then it was gone, swallowed by the ceaseless machinery of whatever kept her operating at full tilt.

“The briefcase,” she said, pulling his attention back with the kind of calm that only conveyed just how much wasn’t being said. “It needs to reach Sector Nine within twenty-four hours. No detours. No delays. And if anyone—and I mean anyone—asks questions, you didn’t see what was inside.”

The smuggler let out a short, sardonic laugh, leaning against the nearest wall like it might hold up more than just his weight. “Lady,” he said, smirking, though it didn’t touch the sharpness in his eyes, “you don’t hire someone like me if you’re worried I’ll peek where I’m not supposed to. That’s for rookies and dead men.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even reward him with the usual tight-lipped smirk people gave when convinced you were harmless under all that bravado. Instead, her expression hung steady, unreadable, like staring into the void between stars. Except this void smelled like jasmine and high-stakes deception, and he hated how damn compelling it was.

“Good,” she said finally, her voice clipped, like she’d just ticked off a box on some internal checklist. “That means we don’t have to play the tired game of trust.” Her fingers stopped playing with the clutch, and she eased it open just enough for him to catch the faint glint of something metallic inside—a cylinder, maybe? No, too flat. A data module. Expensive, sleek. The kind of tech built for people rich enough to buy trouble and ruthless enough to make sure they never paid for it.

She didn’t pull it out. Just let him see enough to suggest she could pull it out, like showing a predator the faintest outline of teeth hidden under its fur. And he knew better than to ask why she wasn’t laying it all out. Seeing too much too early always came with consequences. Whatever was in that case—or whatever its weight meant to her—it wasn’t the kind of knowledge that helped you sleep at night.

“You’ll pick up the briefcase at Dock Alpha Seventeen,” she continued, closing the clutch with a dull click that felt final. Her tone was brisk now, business-like, as if they’d simply moved on to the part of the transaction where paperwork got signed. “There’ll be a van, black with no plates. Speak to no one. Don’t linger. And if you see a man in a gray scarf, walk the other way. Fast.”

"Subtle,” he drawled, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Couldn’t have just left me a nice note?”

“Something tells me you’d crumple it before you read it,” she shot back, quick as a switchblade. That almost-smile flicked back across her lips, sharp enough to let him know she might enjoy taking him apart if the mood struck. Or maybe it was just her nature—like a cat batting at its prey, not out of hunger, but because it liked to watch things squirm.

The smuggler exhaled slowly, not quite a sigh, but enough to let her know he saw through at least some of the theatrics. “Dock Alpha Seventeen. Van. Gray scarf means bad news. Got it. Anything else? Or do I get to keep guessing at the chapter I just walked into?”

She tilted her head, studying him with a faintly amused air, like she was deciding whether to reward him for keeping up or swat him down for asking. “You’ll find out what you need to know when you need to know it. Not a moment sooner.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Sure, because that’s always how good plans start.”

Her expression sharpened, cutting off the humor like a blade snapping shut. “This isn’t about ‘good plans.’ You take the job, you follow the rules, and you finish it. Or you don’t. And if you don’t…” Her voice trailed off, but the weight behind it filled in the blanks well enough. She didn’t have to spell out the dark suggestions hanging between them.

There was a challenge in her silence now. A waiting stillness, like the whole world had narrowed to the air between her and him, daring him to flinch first. His instinct screamed to laugh it off, to lighten the moment before he was caught too deep in the undertow of her gaze. But something about her stayed his hand—maybe it was the subtle, quiet power she carried. Or maybe it was the brief flicker of something tired and human hiding beneath the polish. Whatever it was, he shrugged, breaking the tension just enough to keep her from crushing the air completely.

“Fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Anything else? Or is this where you disappear in a puff of smoke and leave me holding the dice?”

Her smile came back, slow and deliberate. “Oh, I don’t vanish, sweetheart,” she said, straightening with feline grace as she turned toward the exit. “I just let people realize where they stand.”

She steps into his space without so much as a pause, her heels clicking against the floor with the kind of intent that could cut glass. The air between them sharpens, charged and humming, as if it’s about to combust if either of them so much as breathes wrong. Her hand finds his chest in a slow glide, fingertips dragging over his shirt just enough to catch the friction of fine fabric on skin. The pressure is subtle but deliberate—a whisper of pain threaded into the tiniest sting, like a secret only his nerves are invited to overhear.

Her lips tilt into a small, knowing smile, one that hovers at the edge of self-satisfaction. She leans in close enough for the heat of her breath to ghost feather-light along the curve of his ear. When she speaks, her tone is velvet wrapped around a blade. The words are low, smoky—sentences shaped less by language than by the weight of intent behind them. Pleasure and peril intertwine in everything she says, as if she’s balancing promises of raw ecstasy against threats bound in silk. Whatever it is she whispers, it’s just enough to make his knees tighten in place. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t pull away either, and there’s the faintest twitch of a smirk on her lips, like she’s more than noticed.

Then she kisses him. Not tentative, nothing shy. It’s a kiss that doesn’t ask for permission—it steals it, bold and unrelenting. Her lips crush against his in a way that sets no room for negotiation, her body anchoring her resolve by fitting against his like two puzzle pieces cut from different edges of the same chaotic canvas. There’s no clumsy fumbling in the way she moves, just intentional precision. Her hands shift, sliding lower, skating over his ribs, his waist, until her nails catch again, this time sharper against the tucked edge of his shirt. She’s not tearing, not quite—but the threat lingers, raw and delicious, and it makes his mind whirl.

“I could wreck you,” she murmurs between stolen breaths, her voice dropping in rhythm with her gaze flicking downward, lingering with a teasing weight. Her words stretch the thread of tension taut between them, words so quiet they could dissolve into the static of a faulty neon light, yet loud enough to shatter the clarity in his thoughts.

Her fingers toy with his belt, not rushing and not committing either, just resting there like they’re drawing out the thin line between push and pull, chaos and control. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to stop her or egg her on, but some part of him—probably the reckless part, the part that said yes to jobs that ended in bullets—opts for the latter. His smirk deepens, sharp and lazy at the same time, like someone strapped a mink coat to a grenade and just decided to see what would happen.

“Wreck me? Doll, you wouldn’t be the first,” he drawls, his voice thick with practiced disinterest, even as the muscles in his chest tighten under her touch. There’s a weight to her statement that lingers in the air between them, heavier than the usual loaded teasing you found in places like this. Wreck wasn’t just flirting coming out of her mouth—it was a promise, or maybe a warning. And he wasn’t sure which one turned him on more.

Her laugh brushes against his neck, low and dangerous like the crackle of a live wire.

The smuggler’s eyes narrowed, the smoldering embers of lust in them igniting into something more primal. He stepped closer to her, closing the already small gap, the air around them thickening with the kind of heat that could only mean one thing—trouble. But it was the kind of trouble that felt like a promise wrapped in a warning, and he had a terrible habit of wanting to unwrap them both.

Her hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck, her grip firm, almost painful. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even breathe. Just watched her, the smirk still playing on his lips like a dare he didn’t plan on losing. She leaned in, her breath warm and sweet, the scent of jasmine and something darker—like a secret whispered in a crowded room—swirling around them. And then she kissed him, hard and demanding, her teeth catching his bottom lip just enough to make him gasp.

Her tongue swept in, claiming his mouth like it was a conquered land, and he realized she’d taken control without even asking. But instead of fighting it, he found himself craving more. The way she kissed him, it was like a declaration of war wrapped in a silk scarf, all sharp edges and soft promises. He didn’t know where this was going, but he knew it was going to be a wild ride, and he was strapped in tight.

Her other hand slid down to his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until their bodies were a tapestry of curves and angles. The smuggler’s hands found her hips, the dress sliding under his touch like water, revealing the smooth skin beneath. The beat of the music grew louder, the throb of bass matching the pulse in his veins, urging him closer.

Her kiss grew deeper, her tongue tracing the contours of his, the dance of dominance and submission playing out between them. He could feel the tension in her body, the tightly coiled spring ready to snap at any moment, and he reveled in the knowledge that he was the one keeping her in check. For now.

The smuggler’s hand slid up her spine, the dress parting like a wave to reveal the curve of her back, the smooth skin begging for the roughness of his grip. The fabric was slick with the sweat of the club, a reminder of the primal instincts that lurked beneath the surface of this dance. The woman’s nails dug into his waist, not quite breaking the skin but leaving a trail of fire that made his breath hitch. He knew he should pull away—this wasn’t a game he was likely to win—but he was too caught up in the thrill of it all, the dangerous allure of letting someone else hold the reins.

Their kiss grew more urgent, less about exploration and more about claiming. Her tongue danced with his, a silent challenge that made his cock twitch with anticipation. He could feel her heat through the layers that separated them, the fabric of their clothes suddenly too thick to ignore. He slid one hand up, cupping her breast, feeling the hardened peak through the dress. She gasped into his mouth, the sound sending a bolt of desire straight to his core.

The smuggler’s mind swam with the heady rush of her power, the way she made him want to both conquer and submit. Her hand left his chest and traveled upward, threading through his hair, pulling his head back so she could kiss his throat, her teeth grazing his skin. He could feel the sharpness of her incisors, the hint of something animalistic in the way she took his pulse point between her teeth. It sent shivers down his spine, a delicious mix of fear and want.

Her other hand slid lower, her nails dragging along the line of his waistband until she reached the bulge in his pants. He groaned, the sound swallowed by the cacophony of the club, a secret shared only between them. She stroked him through the fabric, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she felt his erection thicken under her touch. It was a silent declaration of victory, but she didn’t let it go to her head—instead, she tightened her grip, a silent reminder that she was the one holding the reins.

He reached for her, his hand sliding up her thigh, his thumb grazing the slick fabric that separated them. The dress was a tease, a second skin that whispered of what lay beneath. He could feel the heat of her, the promise of her wetness, and it made him want to rip it away and claim her right here in the shadows of the booth. But she was in control, and he knew better than to rush this dance.

Her hand stopped him, gripping his wrist in a way that was both firm and gentle. She pulled back from the kiss, her eyes gleaming in the neon strobe. “Not yet,” she murmured, her voice a siren’s call, sweet and deadly. “Patience. I like to savor my rewards before I pay the price.”

He stared at her, his gaze smoldering into something hotter, something that made his throat tighten and his blood hum. He knew that look—it was the same one he gave a deal right before he sealed it with a handshake that could break bones. But on her, it was different—less a promise of violence and more a vow of something deeper, something that made his thoughts spiral down into the kind of dark waters you didn’t just wade into without a good reason.

“Alright,” he said, his voice a gravelly rasp that seemed to echo around them, thickening the air. “But I don’t come cheap.”

The woman’s smile grew, the sharpness in it giving way to something softer—a hint of warmth that was as surprising as it was tantalizing. “Neither do I,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. The challenge in her gaze was a living thing, pulsing and alive, and it was all he could do not to lean in and devour her right there.

Her hand slipped from his wrist, leaving a trail of electricity in its wake. She turned, and he followed, his body responding to her silent command. They moved through the club with a predatory grace, the rhythm of their steps syncing with the pulsing bass of the music. The air was thick with desire, with the promise of things unsaid and undone. They didn’t need words to communicate their intent—their bodies were speaking a language that was older than the stars, a dance of want and need that was as raw as it was compelling.

When they reached a door, she looked over her shoulder at him, a question in her eyes that wasn’t really a question at all—it was a silent demand for him to follow. He obeyed, his hand sliding around her waist, feeling the heat of her body even through the layers of fabric. She pushed the door open with a slow, deliberate motion that made him think of a cat opening a jar of cream it hadn’t earned. On the other side was catwalk suspended a few feet over the flooded streets of the city. A dumpster had been shoved aside, and a ladder had been precariously leaned against the side of the building, leading up to the walkway.

The woman maintains a soft but firm control over the situation, leading them out of the club and onto a suspended catwalk over the city streets. Her smile reveals a softer side, hinting at shared understanding and mutual attraction, while the setting reflects the precariousness of their encounter.

In the shadowed embrace of the alley, she pushes him against the wall, her teeth grazing his neck, whispering dark secrets that inflame his lust and bind them in an unspoken pact of passionate submission.

"What's your real name," she asks between nibbles.

The smuggler's eyes darken, a hint of surprise flitting across his face, but he recovers quickly, playing along with the sudden shift in tone. "Why do you want to know?" he counters, his voice a rumble that seems to resonate through the damp stone of the alley.

"Because I want to know what to call you," she purrs as she slides her hand into his pants, stroking him gently and demanding his name with a seductive bite of his earlobe, her breath hot against his skin.

Her touch sends a jolt of electricity through him, and he shivers involuntarily, his cock responding to her expert ministrations. "Jace," he murmurs, his voice hoarse with desire. "Jace Riven."

She hums softly into his ear and says, "It's a pleasure to meet you Jace, I'm Ciara."

Her grip tightens ever so slightly on his cock, sending a thrill of anticipation through him. He can feel her nails dig into his neck gently as she pulls away, leaving a trail of hot kisses along his jawline. The smuggler's pulse hammers in his throat, a silent confession of his need. He’s not used to being on the receiving end of this kind of control, but with Ciara, he finds he’s more than willing to cede power. Her touch is a drug, each stroke a delicate dance on the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain that sends shivers of excitement down his spine.

Her eyes, those piercing pools of azure, never leave his, as if she’s searching for something—a hint of vulnerability, perhaps, or the shadow of a doubt that would give her an advantage. But all she’ll find is lust, a wildfire burning in his veins, stoking the need for more.

With a sudden, surprising surge of strength, Jace takes the reins. He spins them around, pinning Ciara against the cold, wet wall of the alley, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly. For a brief moment, she’s stunned, a flicker of surprise flashing across her features, but it’s gone before it can fully form—replaced with a spark of something else, something more primal and hungry.

He lifts her effortlessly onto a nearby crate and pulls her legs apart before slipping between them, her legs wrap around his waist, the dress riding up to expose the creamy flesh of her thighs, and he can feel the heat of her, the wetness that’s soaking through the fabric of her panties, begging for his touch. His cock swells at the contact, pressing against her with a demand that’s undeniable.

Her smile widens, a smug curve of her lips that says she knew exactly what she was doing. She takes her time, savoring the moment as she unbuttons his shirt with a tease, one button at a time. The fabric parts to reveal a canvas of scars—each one a story, a battle won or lost, a piece of his life that’s been torn away and patched up again. They’re not pretty, not the kind of scars you’d find on a man who’s lived a gentle life. They’re stark, they’re brutal, they’re real.

“You’re all sharp edges and secrets, aren’t you?” she whispers against his skin, her breath hot and damp against the curve of his neck. Her fingers trace the lines, a silent narrative that she reads with the kind of focus that could make a man confess to sins he hadn’t even committed.

“Me?" he moans as she continues her attentions. "What about you? What are you hiding?”

Her eyes, still locked on his, glint with something akin to amusement. “Oh, you’ll find out,” she murmurs, her breath ghosting over his skin before she slips from the crate and descends, her tongue sliding over his skin until it reaches his belt. She deftly loosens the belt and opens his trousers to reveal his cock to her gaze. She smiles and looks up, her azure eyes meet his as the warm, wet cavern of her mouth swallows him whole. The smuggler’s eyes roll back, and he bites down hard on his lower lip to stifle a groan as she takes him in, inch by inch, her tongue swirling and her teeth grazing, setting every nerve alight.

Her hand wraps around the base of his shaft, stroking in time with her mouth’s rhythm. The cold air of the alley kisses his exposed flesh, the stark contrast to her warmth driving him closer to the precipice of release. Her nails lightly score his skin, a reminder that she’s still the one in control, and he’s just a toy for her pleasure—a notion that sends a thrill down his spine and makes him pulse in her mouth.

Jace’s eyes flutter open, and he watches Ciara’s head bob up and down, the hunger in her eyes reflecting the lust in his own. He can feel his orgasm approaching like a bullet train in a tunnel—fast, unstoppable, and all-consuming. But she seems to sense it, because she pulls back, letting him slip from her lips with an audible pop.

“Not yet,” she whispers, her voice a siren’s call, sweet and deadly. “This isn’t just about you getting off, Jace. It’s about me getting what I want, remember?”

Her hand leaves his cock, but the imprint of her touch lingers like a brand. Ciara stands, her dress whispering against her thighs as she turns to face the alley, her back to him. The catwalk is forgotten, the city's pulse a muffled backdrop to their intimate dance of power. She looks over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched, challenging him to take the reins.

Jace's chest rises and falls, his breath heavy with lust and anticipation. He steps closer, his hands reaching for her, but she sidesteps gracefully, keeping him at bay. Her eyes gleam with a hint of amusement, the kind that tells him she enjoys the thrill of the chase. "I'm not a man who enjoys being told what to do," he growls, the words thick with desire.

Her smile widens, a cat playing with its food. "But you enjoy the hunt," she purrs, her hand sliding up to trace the line of her throat, a silent invitation that has his eyes following the path of her touch. "And I enjoy the thrill of the catch."

He steps closer, his hand snaking around her waist and pulling her back into him. She lets out a gasp, but it's not one of surprise—it's the sound of a challenge accepted. Her body arches backward into his, the heat of her skin burning through the fabric of their clothes. "Is that what this is?" he murmurs, his breath hot against her ear. "A game to you?"

"Everything is a game," she replies, her voice a low, smoky purr. "And in this game, I always win."

Jace's grip tightens, but she doesn't flinch. Instead, she turns in his arms, her hands sliding up to frame his face, thumbs tracing the stubble along his jaw. "But maybe," she whispers, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur, "just this once, I'll let you think you're the one calling the shots."

The challenge in her eyes is clear, but so is the heat. It's a heady mix—the thrill of the chase, the danger of the unknown—and it sends a jolt of electricity through his veins, making his blood pulse harder. He leans in, claiming her mouth again with a hunger that's more than just physical. It's like he's trying to devour her, to swallow her whole and make her part of him. She gasps into the kiss, the sound swallowed by the damp embrace of his mouth. Her nails dig into his skin, just enough to leave white half-moons on his cheeks.

He reaches under her dress, grasps her panties and pulls them away in a single motion. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he lifts her without breaking their kiss. The world narrows to just them, the sultry dance of their bodies, and the pulse of need that throbs between them. She arches into him, her hips rocking against his, her movements sinuous and demanding. The alley is forgotten, the club a distant memory—all that exists is this moment, this raw exchange of power and passion.

Ciara's breath hitches as Jace's hands glide over her bare skin, his rough touch a stark contrast to the sleek fabric of her dress. He groans into her mouth as she wraps her hand around his cock, stroking him with a confidence that makes him growl. She knows what she’s doing to him, and she revels in it, her own desire spiraling out of control.

Her legs tighten around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back as she grinds against him. The friction is maddening, the ache between her legs a demand that’s impossible to ignore. But she’s the one setting the pace here, her eyes locked on his, watching for the moment when the need overwhelms his bravado. Her hand moves faster, her grip tightening, and she feels the muscles in his body coil like a spring ready to snap.

He breaks the kiss, his teeth grazing her lower lip in a gentle warning. "You're playing a dangerous game, Ciara."

Her smile is pure mischief as she pulls back, the dress sliding down her thighs like a second skin. "Is that what this is? A game?"

Her words hang in the air, a challenge that makes him pause, his hands tightening around her hips. She's so close, so warm, the heat of her body seeping into his, making him ache with a need that’s more than just physical. For a second, he's not sure if he can keep playing this dance of dominance. But then her nails trace patterns on his shoulders, and he feels the thrum of her heart, a wild, untamed thing that matches the tempo of his own.

"Call it what you want," he says, his voice gruff, "but you know what this is."

Her smile widens, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a way that tells him she’s enjoying this game—enjoying the way she has him on edge. "Do I?"

Jace's eyes narrow, the smolder in them burning a little brighter. He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper that’s just a shade too rough to be gentle. "You know exactly what this is," he murmurs, his breath hot against her cheek. "And if you don’t, I’ll be more than happy to remind you."

With a swiftness that belies his earlier casual stance, Jace hooks an arm around Ciara’s waist, yanking her closer. Her body arches against him, a silent invitation wrapped in a challenge, and he takes it. The smuggler's hand slides down her thigh, gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises she’ll feel tomorrow, if they both survive the night. He’s not subtle—not anymore. He’s had enough of the dance, enough of the game. Now he’s going to play by his own rules.

Her eyes widen just a fraction, a hint of surprise flaring before it’s swallowed by the darker thrill of the hunt. She doesn’t push him away, doesn’t protest. Instead, she leans in, her teeth grazing his earlobe in a sharp nip that sends a shiver down his spine. "Is that so?" she breathes, the words a taunt that hangs in the air between them.

Jace pushes his hips forward and his member finds the source of her heat. He feels the soft, moist lips engulf him and he groans loudly.

The sound of the city's heartbeat is a distant throb beneath their feet as the catwalk sways gently with their passionate dance. Ciara’s eyes gleam in the neon glow, the pupils blown wide with desire. She’s not just letting him in; she’s inviting him to conquer, to claim her. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to go deeper, to leave no part of her untouched.

Her nails dig into his shoulder blades, a silent demand for more, a symphony of pleasure and pain that sends fireworks of sensation through his body. Jace responds, his teeth capturing her lower lip, tugging it into his mouth as he delivers a bruising kiss. The world outside narrows to just the two of them, their ragged breaths and the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the alley. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s as close to a declaration as he’s ever gotten in a place where words are as disposable as yesterday’s tech.

Ciara’s grip on him tightens, her legs locking around his hips, her heels digging into him. The dress is a forgotten whisper around her hips now, a second skin that does nothing to hide the heat between them. The air is thick with it, a heady scent of desire and danger that makes his cock throb with need. He’s had plenty of jobs end with a roll in the sheets—it’s the currency of his kind of work. But this...this is different. It’s personal, and that makes it so much more intoxicating.

Her teeth graze his ear, and she whispers, “You want this, don’t you?” Her voice is a caress, a silken challenge that sends a shiver down his spine. He can feel her smile against his neck, the curve of her lips a sweet torment. And fuck if he doesn’t want it. He wants to rip the last of her defenses away, to see what makes her tick—what makes her come apart.

Jace’s hands slide down to her thighs, his grip firm, his movements deliberate. He’s not just feeling her up; he’s mapping her out, learning her contours as if he’s going to chart the stars with the map of her body. His thumbs brush the sensitive skin where her dress clings, and she gasps, the sound swallowed by their kisses. She’s so wet that little rivulets of her natural lubricant trickle down her legs, and the knowledge sends a bolt of lust through him that makes his knees buckle—just for a second, just enough to let her know he’s not made of stone.

He thrusts his hips forward, sheathing himself fully in her ripping a moan from her lips. It’s deep, raw, and it’s all he can do to not lose it right there. The heat of her surrounds him, her wetness like a glove that’s been tailored just for him. She’s so tight that he can feel her pulsing around his cock, her muscles contracting in a delicious rhythm that makes his eyes roll back in his head.

He can feel her tightening around him, her body coiling like a spring ready to snap. She’s so close, so fucking close, and he wants to drag it out—make her beg for it. But something in her grip, something in the desperation of her moan, tells him she’s been waiting for this. For release. For this moment of pure, unbridled ecstasy.

He pulls out of her, the wetness of their union clinging to him like a siren’s call. She whimpers, a sound that’s part protest, part plea, and all need. He smirks, enjoying the way she looks at him—like he’s the air she needs to breathe and the water she needs to survive. He takes a step back, watching her for a moment. She’s a vision, flushed and desperate, her dress rucked up around her hips and her pussy glistening with need. It’s a sight that could make a Priest reconsider his vows.

“Please, Jace,” she murmurs, her voice thick with want.

He steps back up to her and slips his cock back into her. He takes his time fucking her, watching her squirm and pant beneath him. He can see the desperation in her eyes, the way her chest heaves with each ragged breath. It’s intoxicating, the way she craves him—it’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before. But he’s not quite ready to give her what she wants. Not yet. He enjoys the chase, the thrill of the hunt, and Ciara is the most alluring prey he’s ever had the pleasure of pursuing.

Her legs wrap around his waist again, pulling him deeper as she arches up to meet each of his slow, deliberate thrusts. Her nails bite into his skin, leaving trails of pleasure-pain that make him groan. She’s trying to control him, to dictate his pace, but he’s the one in charge here—or so he keeps telling himself. Each time she clenches around him, though, it’s like she’s whispering sweet nothings of rebellion into the very fabric of his being, urging him to lose himself in her.

Her breasts bounce with every movement, the fabric of her dress a thin veil that does nothing to hide the peaks of her nipples. He can’t resist leaning down to take one in his mouth, teasing the tight bud through the dress with his tongue until she cries out. He moves to kiss and lick her exposed chest above the V of her neckline. She tastes like salt and desire, and it’s all he can do to keep his teeth from grazing against her sensitive skin. Her grip tightens, her hips jerking upward, and he knows he’s found a new button to push.

With a smirk, he switches his attentions to her other breast, giving it the same meticulous worship. Her breath hitches, her eyes fluttering shut as she surrenders to the sensation. But she’s not one to let go completely—even as she moans and writhes beneath him, she’s shifting, adjusting, keeping him on his toes. Her legs tighten around his waist, her heels pushing him into a rhythm that’s just shy of brutal. She’s not just taking this; she’s demanding it, demanding all of him, and it’s a heady rush that makes his blood feel like liquid fire.

The catwalk creaks and groans beneath them, echoing their muffled cries, each thrust a symphony of passion played out in a world that’s nothing but shadows and danger. He’s lost in the heat of her, the slickness of her skin, the way she arches and clutches at him like he’s the last bastion of sanity in a world gone mad. And maybe he is—maybe this is just what they both need, a moment of raw, unbridled passion to drown out the whispers of doubt that haunt the quiet corners of their minds.

Her nails rake his back, leaving a trail of fire, and he grunts, the sting sending a jolt of pure, primal need through his body. It’s not pain; it’s power, a declaration of war in the softest of terms. He can feel her tightening around him, each pulse a silent scream of need. She’s close—so fucking close—and the thought of pushing her over the edge, of watching her shatter in his arms, it’s enough to make his own release hover just out of reach, taunting him with the promise of oblivion.

But she’s not the only one playing games. He bites her earlobe, his teeth grazing just hard enough to make her gasp. “You’re going to come for me, Ciara,” he whispers, his voice a gruff rumble in the quiet between them. “You’re going to beg for it, and when you do, I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name.”

Her eyes widen at the challenge, and for a moment, he sees the woman behind the storm—fiery and wild, a creature of passion and hunger. Her legs clamp around his waist, and she arches her back, her breasts pressing against his chest. Her nails dig in harder, a silent plea, and he knows she’s lost the battle she didn’t even know she was fighting.

Jace smirks, a devilish glint in his eye as he leans down, capturing her mouth with his own. The kiss is demanding, a claiming of sorts, and she melts into it, giving him everything he’s been craving. Their tongues tangle in a dance of dominance, the rhythm of their bodies matching the tempo of their breaths. Her grip on him tightens, a silent admission that she’s his.

He slams into her with renewed vigor, each thrust a declaration of victory in this silent war of wills. The sound of their bodies colliding echoes off the wet metal, mixing with the distant throb of the city’s pulse, creating a cacophony of need. Her cries are muffled by his mouth, but he can feel the vibrations of them in his chest, urging him onward, like a siren’s call to the edge of the world.

Her legs tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, demanding more, even as she bites his bottom lip, a warning that she’s not entirely lost to his control. But he doesn’t miss the way she arches her back, the way her breasts press against his chest, begging for his attention. He breaks away from her mouth, pushes the dress material aside and captures one of her nipples with his teeth, tugging gently at first before increasing the pressure, rolling it between his teeth until she gasps. She’s so close, her muscles quivering around him, her breath coming in sharp pants that punctuate the air.

Her eyes are squeezed shut, her head thrown back in ecstasy. He kisses along her neck, feeling the pulse of her blood beneath the surface, her heart racing like a captive animal’s. His hands roam over her body, memorizing every curve, tracing the lines of power that define her. Her skin is a slick canvas painted in the stark light of the city below.

He feels her body tighten around him, her core clenching in anticipation. His name is a desperate plea on her lips, and it’s that sound that sends him over the edge. He moves faster, driving into her with a fierce intensity that steals his breath. Her nails dig into his back, leaving crescents of pain that only fuel his desire.

With a primal scream he releases into her, his hips bucking wildly. The tremors of his climax resonate through Ciara’s body, setting off a chain reaction of pleasure that rips through her like a bolt of electricity. She gasps, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip, eyes squeezed shut, as the wave crashes over her. For a brief, blissful moment, she lets go, lets him take her to the brink and pull her back, lets herself be claimed by the storm of sensation.

When the tremors finally subside, she opens her eyes, looking at him with a mix of satisfaction and challenge. He's panting, his chest rising and falling, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. She smiles, a soft curve of her lips that isn’t quite tender but something close. It’s a smile that says she’s not done yet, that she’s just begun to peel back the layers of him, to explore the depths he tries to keep hidden.

“You’re better than I expected, smuggler,” she murmurs, her voice still that siren's purr that could cut through steel. She shifts, her legs sliding down from around his waist, the heat of her skin leaving an imprint. The dress slithers back into place, the fabric sticking to her curves and hiding the marks she’d left behind.

Jace leaned against the cold metal wall of the alley, hands on his knees, pulling in breath like it was something he owed a debt to. Ciara was already smoothing down her dress as though nothing had happened, her bold azure gaze skimming his face, lingering on the curve of his smirk as he caught his breath. She didn’t bother with something as mundane as shame or pretense. This was her territory—owning moments and leaving no room for illusions. Every breathless second of their encounter had been another layer of proof. Proof that she was the sort of trouble you didn’t plan for, and also the sort you didn’t want to let slip away.

He wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and let out a low chuckle, his voice still uneven from exertion. “Better than you expected, huh?” he rasped, lifting his head enough to let the edges of that smirk crawl across his lips. “You’ve got high standards if that was just ‘better.’”

Ciara tilted her head, her smile faint but sharp. For the first time since he’d met her, it looked almost genuine—not quite soft, but softer than her usual arsenic-edged quips. It was a fleeting thing, there and gone, like a light blinking at the far edge of a dark ocean. “Flattery won’t get you leverage, Jace,” she said, voice low and honeyed, as if her words were part of the game they hadn’t quite stopped playing.

He pushed himself upright, shrugging his shoulders like he was shucking off the weight of whatever they’d just done. “Leverage? Trust me, doll, I already know I don’t have any.” His expression shifted as he zipped his pants and adjusted his shirt, moving into something more neutral, more Jace—a man who lived behind layers he didn’t show to people like her. No matter how enticing they were. “But I like to think I leave impressions.”

Her laugh was quiet, velvety but tinged with something else, something like acknowledgment. “Don’t mistake my amusement for an invitation to sweet talk me.” She smoothed her dress over her hips and stepped closer, standing at his side in what might’ve been called companionable silence if it didn’t also feel like she’d mentally cornered him again. Her fingers reached out and lightly tugged the collar of his shirt, adjusting it with a deft, dismissive precision as if she had every right to fix him up after tearing him apart. Her touch was fleeting, almost impersonal, but it lingered in the charged air between them like a ghost that refused to let go.

Jace’s smirk flickered, shifting into something quieter, heavier. He didn’t pull away, and that said more than he’d probably intended. He watched her with a sidelong glance, his eyes shadowed and half-lidded, like a wolf sizing up whether it was worth trusting the hand that just scratched behind its ears.

“Careful,” he said, the sardonic edge of his voice softened by an undertone even he couldn’t quite iron out. “If you keep fussing with me like that, I might think you care.” His last word was drawn out just enough to land like a teasing jab, but even he wasn’t wholly buying it.

Ciara’s lips quirked into a sly, lopsided grin that wasn’t so much a denial as a quiet acknowledgment of the bait he’d set, dangling in the faint sliver of space between them. “You think too much,” she said casually, brushing past him in a swirl of sharp heels and synthetic silk, her scent trailing behind her like an unspoken dare. “It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”

He let out a low chuckle, more self-deprecating than amused, and jogged to catch up as she began striding across the catwalk without so much as a backward glance. The metal beneath their feet groaned with each step, the uneven rhythm of their strides accompanied by the distant hum of the city’s restless machine-symphony below. The sharp tang of ozone mixed with sewage wafted up to meet them, a reminder of the rot beneath the neon glitz of this cursed place.

“So, what now?” Jace asked, falling into step beside her. As much as he wanted to keep leaning on some kind of cocky bravado, he knew better than to think this momentary rawness between them—which was already being smothered back into sharp one-liners and guarded expressions—meant he understood her. Enigmatic wasn’t a disguise for Ciara; it was the medium she was painted in.

“Now,” she said, her voice clipped and deliberate, “we get back to work. You’ve got instructions. You’ve got the timeline. All that’s left is for you to execute.” Her eyes didn’t so much as flick his way as she spoke, her focus fixed on what lay ahead—a narrow aperture of light cutting through the gloom of the catwalk’s end. It was the kind of intense, unwavering gaze that made you feel like everything else in the galaxy was just noise to her. Purpose carved into the shape of a person.

“Execute, huh?” Jace said, falling a half step behind her, his tone teetering between wry and annoyed. “You bark orders like someone who doesn’t believe in giving reasons.”

Ciara halted abruptly, her heels catching the metal with a sharp clink that reverberated out into the city’s endless murmur. She didn’t turn immediately, letting his question hang in the air, deliberately soaking in the tension she’d cultivated. When she did glance back over her shoulder, her face carried an unreadable smirk that looked like it had been built in a lab to be equal parts enticing and infuriating.

“You don’t need reasons,” she replied, her voice silky, with just enough incisiveness to let him know she wasn’t playing fair and didn’t care. “You accepted the job. That should tell you all you need to know about your willingness to follow someone who doesn’t owe you an explanation.”

Jace exhaled slowly, his lips curling into that lopsided grin he wore like armor. “You’ve really got this whole ‘mysterious femme fatale’ routine down to an art, don’t you?”

Ciara’s smirk widened, but there was no mirth in it—just that unnerving sense that she always heard more in his words than he intended to give away. “It’s not a routine if it works,” she replied, turning back toward the exit, her steps measured and unhurried.

Jace watched her walk again, feeling that same pull—the one that made him want to follow even though every instinct, every scar etched into his skin over the years, screamed at him to run. But staying alive wasn’t always about listening to instincts. Sometimes, it was about leaning into danger just enough to outpace the bigger fool already chasing it.