Naya Brooks adjusted her short black dress as the Uber pulled up outside Club Lure, one of Velora's infamous nightlife haunts. The fabric hugged her curves just right, making her look so pretty than she felt. . She stepped out slowly, heels wobbling beneath her.
Beside her, Jenny didn't miss a beat. She turned, her leather skirt catching the streetlight—slick, bold, dangerous. Her fingers pressed against Naya's thigh, firm enough to snap her out of her hesitation.
"Easy, girl. Drop that look," she said, playful but sharp. "We own the night. You promised."
Naya swallowed hard, staring at the glowing entrance like it might swallow her whole.
It had only been three days since she moved to Velora, and already Leon had dumped her—calling their long-distance relationship "unrealistic".Without Jenny, she'd probably still be in bed, replaying his pathetic goodbye.
An hour ago, Jenny had shown up with a glittery clutch and that same troublemaking grin.
"You didn't move here to cry over weak men," she'd said. "Put on something sinful. We're going out—and I'm bringing the shots."
Now here they were.
Naya centered herself with a deep breath, letting the music and lights wash over her with quiet strength. Heat settled warmly on her skin, the bass a comforting drum beneath it all.
Jenny flashed a wicked grin, pulling her toward the bar .
"One drink. One dance. Then you can cry over your 'Men Ain't Shit' playlist. Deal?"
"Fine," Naya sighed, rolling her eyes." But if I end up texting him, I'm blaming the agave and you."
Jenny burst out laughing. "Please, babe. You won't even remember his number after a few shots."
The first tequila burned sharply. The second dulled the edge of her nerves. By the third, her body relaxed, and the tightness in her chest eased.
Her laughter came more easily, matching the steady pulse of the music and the shifting energy around her.
She rested against the bar, her fingers brushing the rim of her glass. The taste of lime stayed on her lips; salt clung stubbornly to the corners of her mouth. Jenny was nearby, fully in her element—laughing, dancing, alive.
Then she saw a man leaning against a column near the velvet ropes of VIP—tall, broad, dressed in black like sin armed for war. Tattoos licked out from under his sleeves. A slow, knowing smirk played on full lips—dark, dangerous, and unapologetically male. Full of the things her mama had warned her about.
Naya felt her temperature spike. She'd seen fine men before—but this one? This one rewired her damn nerves.
She clenched her thighs before her knees betrayed her. Her whole body lit up with one look.
Beside him stood another—leaner, but no less magnetic. A denim jacket over a fitted tee. A diamond stud caught the strobe like a wink. His eyes scanned the room with lazy arrogance, but his grin? Pure provocation—cocky, wicked, the kind that spelled trouble and thrill in equal measure.
Naya's breath hitched. Her thumb moved before her brain caught up.
Snap.
The shutter clicked—too loud. But it wasn't just the sound.
The man in the denim jacket had already been watching her. He saw it. The lift of her phone. The flicker of interest in her eyes.
And he smiled. Not surprised—amused.
Time seemed to stretch. The space between them thickened with something unnamed. Then, he nudged the man beside him.
The one she'd just photographed.
He looked up, following his friend's gaze. When his eyes found hers, something colder moved into the space between them. Not surprise. Not curiosity. Claim.
His smile curled slow, deliberate—like a noose.
They murmured between themselves, too low to catch, but their focus never broke. One of them laughed softly. A warning in the sound.
Naya's heart raced. Bolt or stay—she couldn't decide.
The man with tattoos and intent in his stride started toward her.
She shoved the phone away, fingers trembling. "Jenny," she whispered, "we need to go."
Jenny blinked. "What? We just got—"
Too late.
They were already moving. Cutting through the crowd like it parted just for them. The tattooed one—danger wrapped
"Hey," said the one in the denim jacket with the lazy grin. "You two look bored. Thought I'd fix that."
Jenny arched a brow, playful but wary. "Depends on what kind of fix you're offering."
He laughed, the dimple flashing like a secret. Then he turned slightly, facing her with easy charm. "I'm Dante," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "Figured I'd start with names."
His eyes flicked to Naya just briefly—acknowledging her, but clearly letting his friend handle what came next.
Because before either of them could respond, the one Naya had photographed stepped forward. Measured. Unsmiling. Predatory. And this time, he didn't just notice her—he arrived.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice was smooth, low—velvet laced with gravel, a dangerous caress in the dark.
Naya froze. Her heart pounded. Every nerve screamed to flee. But she met his gaze, refusing to look away.
"Why?" Her voice faltered, caught between fear and fascination.
He raised a brow, amused. Like he already knew what she was feeling—and enjoyed pushing her there.
Then his voice dropped, colder now beneath that smooth exterior.
"You took my picture." Not a question. A claim. A challenge.
Her mouth went dry. Words jammed between panic and pounding bass.
"I… I can delete it," she whispered, barely steady.
He stepped in, close enough that the air shifted. His presence thickened everything around her. He tilted his head, dark eyes locking onto hers.
"I don't want you to delete it."
His gaze traveled down her body like a slow burn—appraising, hungry, unapologetic—before snapping back up.
"I want to know why you took it."
Jenny stepped in, her hand brushing Naya's, grounding her. Her eyes searched her friend's face.
Naya inhaled, trembling, and gently pulled away from Jenny's touch.
And something inside her—something tired of playing safe—whispered: Answer him.
She let the tequila speak.
"I guess I needed proof," she said. For a second, neither of them moved. The music thumped around them, but between their eyes, something else pulsed—sharp, slow, undeniable.
"Proof of what?"
"That something could still make me feel."
His gaze sharpened—eyes narrowing like he was seeing her for the first time, like her honesty had reached beneath whatever armor he wore.
He studied her, visibly surprised. Not because she'd said it—but because she meant it.
And for a second, the air between them changed. No bass, no flashing lights—just the hum of something raw. Real.
Then he leaned in, just a fraction—close enough for his cologne to wrap around her like sin made scent. Spice. Smoke. Something expensive.
"Then maybe," he murmured, "you should tell me what you're feeling."