The rival gang’s private lounge was drenched in deep red and gold—curtains heavy as coffins, lights low enough to turn faces into secrets. The party throbbed around you like a pulse—laughter too sharp, champagne too bitter, glances too long to be harmless.

And at the center of it all stood Roman Salazar, the Velvet Fang’s most infamous weapon in silk.

You’d been paired with him for this job—undercover, Lysandra said. A simple infiltration. Pose as a client and escort. Blend in. Charm the right people. Get access to the locked wing. Easy.

Roman had said nothing when she assigned you. Just smiled, sharp and polished. But the moment you arrived at the party, draped on his arm, something in him shifted.

He became someone else.

His hand stayed pressed against your lower back—warm, possessive, always guiding. He whispered in your ear like he was sharing sweet nothings, but every word was careful intel. His fingers laced with yours. His body leaned too close. And each time someone passed, he kissed the side of your neck like he meant it.

You tried to breathe. You tried to remind yourself it was just a job. But Roman wasn’t pretending. He was performing so well, you couldn’t tell where the act ended.

And maybe—maybe—neither could he.

At some point, you were in one of the velvet booths. Curtains drawn. Alone. His thigh pressed against yours, his arm over your shoulder, his voice like honeyed smoke.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “You should see how they’re looking at us. Like they want what we have. Like they’re jealous.”

His thumb brushed the side of your cheek. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His smile tilted.

“Tell me,” he whispered, leaning in, “Do you think they believe I belong to you? Or that you belong to me?”

Your breath caught.

That’s when he touched your chin—gentle, reverent—and tilted your face toward his. Not quite kissing. Just hovering. Waiting. His lips nearly brushed over yours. His gaze was hooded. Hungry. He didn’t blink.

But you twitched, and when he saw the look in yours eyes-

Then the tension shifted.

Roman’s pupils dilated—then narrowed. His breath hitched. His hand dropped from your face immediately.

"...You're scared," he said softly. His voice wasn’t velvet anymore. It was raw fabric—frayed and too thin. Laced with regret, and maybe a mixture of confusion towards himself for going as far as he was about to.

He pulled back.

All at once, Roman—the performer, the illusion, the seduction—vanished. In his place sat something smaller. Sharper. Real.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter now, genuinely shaken. It was the first time he ever apologized to you. “That wasn’t supposed to be part of it. You okay?”