Chapter Six

Rosalinda’s POV

I cannot believe this. I did it. I am inside an actual club.

A club. Of all places. The last place anyone would ever expect to find a Stratford female.

I am still not sure how the cab driver convinced me to ditch the club Betty recommended. The coordinates are still locked into my phone. Yet somehow he did and brought me here instead.

The Nocturne.

The name sounded classy. Like a place only meant for the elite. It also looked that way from the outside.

Nothing like a club. More like an aristocrat home. Tinted windows. Minimal lighting. No obvious signage. No line.

I had stood watching the entrance a bit. A burly looking guy stood at the entrance door. It looked more like a private lounge than a public venue. Discreet. Selective. The kind of establishment that would require membership or an invitation to access.

After seeing a couple of people go in without any hassle I make my move.

I hesitate. Briefly, half-expecting to be questioned.

I am not.

The doorman steps aside without comment, and suddenly I am inside.

The music strikes first. Loud. Immediate. The bass vibrating through my ribs heavy enough that it presses against my chest. Lights flash overhead sharp bursts of colour cutting through the darkness. For a moment, my senses reel.

This is a lot.

My initial reaction is to leave.

Then I remember why I came.

Just one night. An experience all my own. If I start getting uncomfortable, then I leave. Good thing I took the cab driver's phone number.

I steady myself and step aside as someone brushed past me.

Taking a deep breath I make my way to the bar. Clueless about what to order.

On my eighteenth birthday. Alexander sent me a bottle of champagne along with the usual expensive jewelry pieces.

Father forbids that I taint my sancta blood in any way. I was only allowed a small sip because it came from Alexander.

According to him, a Sancta is meant to be pure in every sense of the word. Untouched. Unmarked. Preserved. For a man I have never seen.

I gesture to the drink the woman beside me is having. It is bright. Decorative. Looks nonthreatening.

The glass is cold in my hand.

I take a careful sip.

The taste surprises me. Sweet at first, then sharp. Citrus. Mint. Then something earthy I am not able to identify. I swallow, take another sip, slower this time.

I freeze.

A slow tingle flows down my spine. Sharp. Aware. Like a thread is pulled taut inside me. My breath catches.

I look up and scan the room. Trying to find focus in the flashing lights.

That is when I see him. Sitting alone in a shadowed corner. Still. Composed.

There is a quiet resonance to his face, strong lines softened by something unreadable. His eyes hold mine. Steady. Intent. Locked on me as though the noise and movement around us simply do not exist.

Heat spreads through me, quick and unsettling. I become acutely aware of myself. My posture. The glass in my hand.

I look away.

When I glance back again, he is standing, already moving toward me.

His movement is unhurried. Certain. People shift without seeming to notice they are doing it. Bodies parting just enough to give him space. Like instinct has spoken before thought.

I look away again, heart pounding, pretending I have not just been caught staring.

I order another glass of the same drink. A mezcal Southside, the barman called it.

A voice speaks close to my ear.

“You should pace yourself.”

I do not turn immediately. I do not need to.

I know it is him.

I face him slowly.

He is taller than I anticipated. Broader. His presence is heavy and it has nothing to do with size. His attention feels focused. Intent.

“Excuse me?”

“This drink is stronger than it appears,” he says, nodding toward my glass. “It is easy to underestimate. One could very well forget who they are.”

“Perhaps that is the intention,” I reply.

Something shifts in his expression. Interest, perhaps. He gestures to the empty stool beside me.

“May I join you?”

I hesitate, then incline my head.

He sits close. Our knees touch. The contact is brief yet my body reacts instantly. I shiver before I can suppress it.

“I am Max.”

He offers his hand.

I pause, then place mine in his.

His skin is cool. Not unpleasant. Just unexpected. Warmth follows where we touch, slow and spreading.

“Rose,” I say.

His gaze lingers longer than necessary, tracing my face with an intensity that makes me feel exposed. Heat creeps into my cheeks.

“Rose,” he repeats softly.

The way he says it makes my breath catch.

“Beautiful name,” he adds. “For a beautiful lady. It suits you.”

I know it is a line. A terrible one, really. The kind I would normally smile at and dismiss. From him, it makes me want things I should not allow myself to want.

Then he asks if I would like to dance. I know I should refuse.

“Yes,” I hear myself say instead.

He rises immediately and offers his hands. I take them without further thought, allowing him to guide me into the crowd. People part easily, as though it requires no effort at all.

The music beats louder here. Vibrating through the floor and into my legs.

Max stops and pulls me flush against his body.

My breath falters. His chest pressing into my back solid and warm. His arms sliding around my waist. Holding me firm and secure. I am acutely aware...aware of what little space exists between us.

Something low in my stomach tightens, sharp and sweet. I lean further back without meaning to.

He lowers his head to my throat. Inhales. A quiet groan escapes him, sharp, surprised. It sends heat rushing through me.

His hands settle at my hips, steadying me. The contact triggers another involuntary shiver.

My body begins to move, hesitant at first, then with growing certainty. I do not recall choosing to follow his lead. It simply happens.

His lips brush my skin. Light. Lingering. Then again.

I feel him everywhere, the length of him, the solidity, the control.

My entire body lights up. Every nerve.

We move together, slowly. His hands guide me, teaching without words. My hips learn his rhythm. My body answers him in ways my mind cannot keep up with.

The club fades, the lights, the noise. There is only him behind me, his mouth at my throat, his hands holding me steady and sure.

I lean back into him, helpless to stop myself.

“Oh God, Rose,” he murmurs. “You smell divine.”

His lips hover just below my ear, not touching. Making it worse.

“Would you like us to leave?”