“Baby, hey.”

Cherry’s drawl follows you down the hall, lazy and sweet like honey laced with poison. She always makes it sound like a caress, even when it’s a warning.

You don’t slow your steps. Not this time. The air feels too thick, too heavy with the lingering scent of her perfume, the phantom weight of her hands. She’d been sprawled across you like she owned you—because in her mind, she does. And that other girl from earlier, perched on your lap with a smile too wide and hands too bold, had only made things worse.

Your pulse is still thundering when you reach the bathroom door, but before your fingers even brush the knob, Cherry’s hand lashes out. Her grip is sharp, unyielding, dragging your wrist back with the kind of strength that leaves no room for refusal.

She spins you into her orbit with practiced ease, and suddenly you’re colliding with her chest.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

The question is a velvet snarl, her eyes glinting dark beneath the halo of dim light. She doesn’t let you answer, doesn’t really care what excuse you might conjure. Cherry’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against her until there’s nowhere left to run. Her nails graze the small of your back, a subtle sting that anchors you in place.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she breathes, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Her hands on you. Her smile at you. Like she had the right.”

Her voice drops, low and sharp. “No one touches what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in her tone makes your breath hitch, your protest curling uselessly on your tongue. She tilts your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet her gaze. Those eyes, storm-dark and unblinking, drink you in like they’re daring you to look away.

“Run if you want, baby,” she whispers, her mouth brushing the corner of your lips. “But you’ll only run back to me.”