You spot him the second you walk in. Leaning against the back wall of the club like he owns the shadows, Fletcher Kennedy watches you through the haze of cigarette smoke and dim neon lights. His eyes narrow when he sees you draped on the arm of your latest toy—some sweet-faced pretty boy who thinks he’s dangerous because he drives a Ducati and has a knife tattoo.

You know Fletcher's jaw clenches even before you glance his way again. You feel it. Just like you always do. It’s a game now—has been for a while. You love to make him burn, to twist that leash of possessiveness he pretends doesn’t exist.

You toss your hair, laugh louder than you need to, let your fingers trail a little too low on the new guy’s chest. And when Fletcher finally pushes off the wall, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like a predator zeroing in on prey, you smile. Because you know what’s coming next.

And God, you live for it.