Chapter 9: Bash's POV
The Velvet Room was exactly what I expected: overpriced bourbon, thick cigar smoke, and a room full of men who liked to pretend they were masters of the universe.
Miller was already three drinks deep, leaning over the mahogany bar and shouting something about his "legal descent into madness." I stayed back, my arms crossed, my back against a cold marble pillar. I didn't want the drink. I didn't want the noise. I was still thinking about the way the library light had caught the auburn strands of Sera’s hair, and the way she’d looked disappearing into my pullover.
"Check it out, Bash," Miller slurred, nudging my arm and pointing toward the stage. "Now that is what I’m talking about. Pure class."
The lights dimmed to a bruised purple, and the music shifted. It wasn't the usual pop trash. It was a heavy, industrial blues track that vibrated in my chest. The emcee's voice came over the speaker, “Please give our warm welcome to our very own Sugar!”
Then a woman stepped out. My breath didn't just hitch; it vanished.
She was a vision of black velvet and blush pink, moving with a predatory grace that made my blood turn to liquid fire. I felt a surge of arousal so sudden and violent it made my vision blur. My hands tightened into fists at my sides. I shouldn't have been feeling this—not here, not for a stranger on a stage. I was supposed to be the guy who only had eyes for a girl in overalls and thick glasses. The one with wild flames for hair she kept restrained in a long braid. I felt a flicker of self-loathing, a sense of betrayal to my sweet Cupcake currently doing god knows what at her mysterious job right now.
Why am I looking at her like this? I questioned myself, my jaw aching from how hard I was clenching it.
I looked closer, trying to find a reason for the visceral pull. I watched her arch her back until her head nearly touched the floor, her body a perfect, fluid curve of muscle and strength. When she dropped into a flat split—perfectly turned out, toes pointed with the discipline of a professional—the air left the room.
Ballet, mostly. I lived in a leotard until I was fifteen.
The thought hit me like a blindside hit on the twenty-yard line. I narrowed my eyes, scanning her from the top of that pink wig down to the five-inch stilettos. I knew those lines. I knew the way those shoulders set. I’d spent the last three years memorizing the exact architecture of her body from shadowy corners, across crowded classrooms, and sitting beside her in a quiet library.
My gaze moved to the nape of her neck as she spun. There, escaping from beneath the tight mesh of the wig cap, were a few stray, rebellious strands of deep auburn hair. You wouldn’t see them unless you were looking for it; you might even think it was part of the wig. But to me, they were all the confirmation I needed. A little lace mask and a wig couldn’t hide her from me.
Suddenly her scent hit me. Or rather the mixing of our scents together. Even through the haze of expensive cigars and heavy perfume, it was there. Faint. Stubborn. The sharp, clean sandalwood of my own detergent was rising from her skin as she worked up a sweat under the stage lights, but it was clinging to something deeper. Something that was all her.
Underneath the wood and the rain of my pullover, I caught the intoxicating, spicy warmth of the chai she’d been sipping all morning, now deepened by the floral creaminess of vanilla orchids. It was a scent that didn't belong in a place this loud and artificial. It was earthy and expensive all at once.
It wasn't a stranger. It was her. I had never wanted to thank my past self more than in that moment because that scent had me letting out an audible groan. I felt a jolt of electricity shoot down my spine, hot and dangerous. The arousal didn't fade; it intensified, turning into something darker and more possessive. She wasn't just a dancer. She was my dancer. She was currently performing for a room full of suits while wearing my scent on her skin.
"God damn," Miller whispered, mesmerized. "Look at those legs. I wonder if she does private sets."
I wanted to wrap my hand around Miller’s throat and throw him through the front window. I didn't move. I didn't cheer. I just watched, my eyes locked on hers. She was scanning the crowd, her gaze moving with a practiced, distant allure—until she hit our corner.
I saw the exact moment she realized I was there. She didn't stumble. She was too good for that. But her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, the pupils blowing wide even behind the mask. I saw the recognition in her eyes proving what I already knew.
She hit her final pose, her head thrown back, exposing the line of her throat to me like an invitation. She didn't stay for the bow. She fled. I watched the heavy velvet curtain swallow her whole. The black mesh mask, the pink hair, the way her hips had swayed in those lethal stilettos—it was burned into my retinas.
"Whoa, what’s the rush?" Miller laughed, blinking as the house lights came up. "I was gonna buy her a drink. Do you think she's coming back out?"
"She’ll be out," I said, my voice sounding like grinding stones. I leaned back against the pillar, crossing my arms over my chest. I wasn't going anywhere.
I felt a surge of unhinged, predatory satisfaction. If I went back there now and called her Sera, the game was over. She’d run from me out of sheer mortification and I’d lose her, the life I’d planned for us. I couldn’t, wouldn’t let that happen. But the woman on that stage? She wasn't delicate. She was a siren. I didn't want to protect this version of her; I wanted to break her. I wanted to find out exactly how much of that "Sugar" persona was an act and how much was the woman she was too afraid to be in the light of day.
I waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Then, the velvet curtain parted again.
The dancers began to filter into the lounge area. And then I saw the pink wig. She had put on a sheer, floor-length black robe over the bodysuit, but it did nothing to hide the lines of her body.
"There she is!" Miller barked, waving his hand. "Hey! Sugar! Over here!"
I saw her shoulders lock. Every click of her stilettos on the hardwood felt like it was hammering a nail into the coffin of her secret. As she got closer, the smell of her hit me again, stronger this time.
She stopped three feet away, her eyes hidden behind that lace mask. She didn't look at me. She kept her focus entirely on Miller.
"Happy birthday, big guy," she said. Her voice was lower, breathier—a forced, sultry rasp that made my blood boil.
"You heard right," Miller beamed. "This is Bash. He’s the one who couldn't take his eyes off you during the set. Right, Bash?"
I didn't say a word. I just let my gaze travel slowly, possessively, from the top of her pink head down to her toes and back up again. I allowed the pure undiluted lust I felt for this woman to show in my eyes and I felt her breath hitch.
"Well?" Miller nudged me. "Aren't you gonna say something to the lady?"
I leaned forward, peeling myself off the pillar until I was deep in her personal space. I caught the flicker of pure, unadulterated terror in her eyes.
"The set was impressive," I murmured, my voice a low vibration that I knew she could feel in her bones. "Especially the splits. You have incredible... flexibility."
I saw her fingers twist in the silk of her robe.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking just enough for me to hear the girl from the library underneath the mask.
"Miller wants to buy you a drink," I continued, my eyes never leaving hers. "But I think you look like you need a little caffeine boost. Maybe some tea?"
The way she flinched was better than any confession.