No Kissing on Duty!

3|JADE

The dress was a weapon.

Red silk clung to me like a second skin, the backless plunge a dare, the slit up my thigh a whispered threat.

This is what you lost. Maxi’s voice echoed in my head as I adjusted the neckline, the fabric so delicate it might as well have been nothing. The chill of the air conditioning raised goosebumps along my bare arms, but the real cold was deeper—bone-deep, the kind that came from standing in a room full of people and feeling completely alone.

Maxi was a whirl of laughter in the center of the crowd, champagne flute glittering in her hand, her red lips parted as some sequined jackass leaned in too close. She didn’t see me. No one did.

I pressed a hand to the potted palm beside me, the rough bark grounding me as the bass throbbed through my ribs. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, cheap perfume, and the cloying sweetness of vaped nicotine.

Bodies writhed against each other, limbs tangled, mouths locked in sloppy, desperate kisses. My stomach twisted. I shouldn’t be here.

Alestor was supposed to meet me at seven. Introduce me to the new bodyguard. Seven. Instead, I’d climbed out my window like a teenager, shimmied down the trellis, and run—like an i***t. Like a girl who still thought she had something to prove.

A low whistle cut through the music.

I froze.

The fingers, damp and heavy, landed on the small of my bare back, splaying wide like he had a right to touch me. His breath hit my ear, hot and sour with gin and mint.

“If it isn’t Blythe.” Anderson’s voice was a slurry purr, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “Missed me, darling?”

I didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. My nails dug into the palm of my hand, sharp little crescents of pain to keep me from vomiting.

“Thanks. I’ll miss myself too,” I said, voice a blade wrapped in ice.

He chuckled, wet and unpleasant, his other hand sliding around my waist, pulling me back against him. His mouth found my neck, sloppy, insistent—

“Get. Off.” I shoved him, palms flat against his chest. He barely staggered, just grinned, his eyes glassy with drink and something uglier.

“When did you get so cold, Blythe?” His thumb traced the edge of the dress’s plunge, too close, too familiar. “Five years ago, you were crying in my arms. Begging me not to leave.”

My skin crawled. “I was stupid five years ago.”

His grin turned mean and uglier. “No. You were mine.”

His mouth crashed back to my neck—and then he choked.

A sharp, pained gasp tore from his throat. His grip on me vanished as he lurched back, one hand flying to his foot. I blinked, dazed, then followed his gaze downward.

A black, polished, impeccable shoe was planted directly on top of his, grinding down with deliberate pressure. The straw wrapper beneath it cracked like a gunshot.

Anderson yelped, hopping back on one leg. “What the hell—?!”

The man attached to the shoe stepped forward, a shadow cutting through the neon haze. Tall. Broad. His suit was simple, perfect—no tie, just the crisp white of his shirt beneath, the top button undone. His face was all sharp angles in the strobing light, his expression one of detached disgust, like he’d just stepped in something foul and was debating whether to scrape it off or just burn the shoe.

Before I could process anything, the weight of dark wool settled over my shoulders—his overcoat, long and warm, swallowing me whole. The scent hit me instantly. A mixed of sandalwood, winter air—clean and real, a barrier against the stench of Anderson’s cologne, the sickly sweetness of the party.

The man didn’t look at me. His gaze stayed locked on Anderson, who was still hopping, his face twisted in outrage.

“Funny,” the man said, voice a blade dragged over ice. “How leeches always think they’re welcome.”

Anderson’s face flushed. “Do you have any idea who I—?”

“No.” The man’s voice didn’t rise. Didn’t need to.

“But I do know what you are.” His eyes flicked to Anderson’s hand—still hovering near me, like a roach that hadn’t quite scuttled away. “Filth.”

Anderson’s mouth opened. Closed.

The man finally turned to me, his expression unreadable. His jaw tightened.

Then, without another word, he stepped between us, his broad back a wall, his voice a low command over his shoulder:

“Leave.”

Not a request. An order.