001: Want To Be Burned

MEEKA'S POV::

“F*ck!” 

The word slips out as my head throbs like it’s being split open from the inside. I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection while the restroom tilts slightly to the left. Or am I the one tilting? I don't even know.

Either way, this is bad.

My lipstick is smeared, my hair has abandoned whatever elegant pins once held it in place, and my eyes are glassy, looking too bright and reckless. I look nothing like the woman my mother raised. Or the woman I’m supposed to be.

I exhale slowly, willing the nausea down. Somewhere outside this restroom, music pounds through the walls and my friends are still laughing and celebrating. One of my last nights of “freedom,” they called it.

I scoff quietly.

Freedom. As if my life has ever belonged to me.

“Home,” I mutter, pushing away from the sink. “I need to go home.”

I take exactly three unsteady steps, paying no attention for two seconds, long enough to crash into something solid.

Wait. Did the walls of this club suddenly grow legs? Because I'm pretty sure there wasn't one here a second ago.

Strong, solid hands catch my arms before I can fall on my face, steadying me. My head snaps up, and the world tilts again, except this time, it's not the alcohol.

The owner of the hands is tall, and broad-shouldered, with those sharp edges that scream of serene danger. A scar slices across his jaw like a warning he never bothered to hide, and a single mole rests just beneath it, infuriatingly deliberate. His eyes are dark and steady, the kind that don’t rush, they just wait like a predator's.

And God help me, he smells like whiskey and deep dark-oud. An intoxicating scent that clings to him like sin itself, one that drags you closer even when every instinct tells you to run.

My pulse swings up into my throat. Every sensible instinct I own tells me to apologize and step back, but the drunk part apparently won the election tonight.

I inhale him instead, like an idiot.

“Careful, Rebel,” he says, his voice low and rough, brushing against my skin. “else you might fall.”

“I'm not....” I hiccup, shaking my head. I even point a very serious finger at him like a tipsy lawyer presenting evidence in court. “a rebel. And I don't fall.”

His lips curve slightly in what I guess is amusement. “Sure you don’t.”

I should leave. I really should. But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. My brain is mush and I'm frozen on the spot, heart drumming, and my body betraying me like it's been waiting for this collision.

Believe me, this is alcohol talking. Or moving. Or whatever. Tomorrow, I'm never drinking again.

Okay, fine, I'll make that decision when I'm sober.

Silence stretches between us, thick and electric. His gaze moves over me slowly, like he’s taking inventory or deciding something, making my skin tighten everywhere he looks.

“Are you lost, Baby Girl?” He asks quietly, voice thick, daring me to play along.

Hm. Baby Girl.

Why do I like the sound of that?

D*mn me. No normal girl would meet a total stranger and melt at the name he gives her. But then, I never told you I was normal.

I tilt my head, fighting a grin. “Maybe. Or maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.”

His brow arches, but he doesn't move. That makes me bolder. My gaze slides over him shamelessly, drowning my filter in vodka. 

“You’re—” I wave a hand at him, because words are suddenly an obstacle. “unfairly good-looking, you know. Dangerous-looking, too. Like you belong on a wanted poster, but also a magazine cover. Annoying, really.”

His smirk deepens, but he doesn’t step back. He studies me with a patience that feels almost predatory, which only eggs me on.

I sway closer, my finger tracing the edge of the black leather jacket he's wearing. 

“You've got that whole dangerous thing going on in you. Scarred and broody.” My lips curl. “Pretty boy in a very bad-boy package.”

His laugh rumbles darkly and low at my words, vibrating down my spine. 

He smirks and leans in, close enough for me to breathe him more, and then he whispers, “Is that your way of flirting?”

“What if it is, pretty boy?,” I shoot back, smirking too, reckless and daring. “What are you gonna do about it?”

My mother has always told me how daring and stubborn I always am. But it's today I believe her.

I can’t believe those words actually leave my mouth.

God!

See? This is why I should stick to water only.

His laugh deepens, darker now, curling heat low in my stomach. His lips brush my ear when he whispers again, “Don't play with fire.... unless you want to get burned.”

A giggle slips out of me, followed by a hiccup. “What if I say....” I whisper back, “I want to be burned?”

For the first time, something sharp flickers through his eyes—interest, hunger? Maybe. The kind that comes from seeing someone you can’t categorize.

He doesn't say anything. The moment stretches long, tense and charged.

He then lets go of my arms slowly, like he’s choosing not to hold on. His thumb brushes my wrist once, barely a touch, and I feel it all the way up my spine.

“Go home, Rebel,” he says, his voice low and rough around the edges. “Before you get in real trouble.”

But I still don’t move, and neither does he. The world feels suspended for a second, like if I take one step forward, everything will change.

A laugh suddenly slips out before I can stop it, and he just stares at me with furrowed brows.

“Funny. I thought you were the danger.”

Just stop talking, Meeka!

But it’s too late, because the moment the words leave my mouth, something in him shifts. The amusement drains from his eyes, replaced by something sharper and hungry. It’s raw, feral, and aimed straight at me.

His mouth crashes against my throat, rough and consuming, stealing the breath from my lungs. My back hits the wall as his body cages me in, heat and danger everywhere.

I should stop him. But I don't, because for the first time in my life, I feel utterly senseless, yet seen.

Every thought I’ve ever had about being perfect—Nathaniel, my engagement, the rules drilled into me since birth, shatter.

~~**

Sunlight breaks through the silk curtains in my room the next morning, stabbing my eyes. My head throbs, my mouth tastes like alcohol, and my sheets feel suspiciously twisted, like I spent the night wrestling ghosts.

A groan slips out of me as I hold my head, and then the memories of last night suddenly hit me hard. The club, the stranger with the scar, his voice. The way he looked at me like he could read every secret I didn't say out loud. The way his mouth latched on my throat, hands gripping my hips. The growl against my neck that still vibrates through me right now.

“Fuck! Yes....oh my God. Faster. Ugh! This feels so good.”

I quickly blink the memories out of my head, and flop face-up, staring at the ceiling while heat crawls into my cheeks, and my lips curve before I can stop them. I'm smiling.

Why am I smiling?

I should be panicking. I should be horrified. I’m engaged, for crying out loud. Perfectly betrothed Meeka Clemson, promised to Nathaniel DeWitt, the man who treats affection like a scheduled meeting. Often brief, and usually canceled.

Meanwhile, somewhere in a crowded club, a stranger made me feel noticed and alive. Like there were colors in the world I hadn’t seen before. And God, for once, I felt seen. I really, truly felt seen last night.

Nathaniel was probably out partying with one of his side projects anyway. So why do I feel like I’m the one who broke the rules?

Maybe because I did. And because a part of me liked not being perfect for once. I just let go last night.

And the worst part? The terrifying, intoxicating part of it all? A small, shameful piece of me liked it. No, it actually even wants more.

My chest tightens painfully. Jesus.

Why am I thinking about him? Why does his touch still linger when Nathaniel’s doesn’t?

Why do I feel awake?

Why is....

BANG!

The sharp crash cuts through my thoughts, jolting every nerve in my body. My head snaps toward the sound, heart leaping into my throat.

“Oh no...”

I scramble off the bed, nearly tripping over the sheets as I stagger toward the noise. The closer I get, the worse my instincts twist.

Please don't let it be what I think it is. Please... 

I swiftly turn the corner and see it on the floor. Shattered.

“No. Not my music box!”

I crouch down quickly, and pick up the cylinder with both hands. The pins catch on my skin, but I don’t care. I try, stupidly try to turn it, to make it click, to make it sing. But nothing.

The silence feels too big it makes my eyes twitch, the air leaving my chest all at once, and the word rips out of me before I can swallow it back.

“NO!”