Page 13 of The Ache That Stayed

The voice slid down my spine like someone dragging cold metal over bone. My shoulders locked, every nerve tightened like it was bracing.

I turned too quickly and laughed, because drunk-me laughed at authority. At audacity. At men who thought they could decide things for me.

“And who do you think you are?” I tilted my head, studying the fox-shaped mask catching the strobe lights. “My conscience?”

The fox-shaped mask was metallic and faceted with sharp, jagged edges. Angular planes caught the strobe lights, breaking them into sharp flashes of silver and shadow. Almost geometric. It looked less like a party prop and more like something designed to hide intention. Predatory. Clever. Watching.

He wore dark jeans, heavy boots and a white T-shirt under a worn leather jacket that looked like it had seen more nights than daylight. Streaks of blood stained his collar. He looked like he’d stepped out of shadow and chosen to stay there.

His eyes were grey—steel-grey, but there was no gentleness in them, only darkened by shadow. Like storm-before-lightning.

They felt wrong. Cold, calculated, familiar in the way nightmares are familiar. Like a memory wearing the wrong body. They cut through me like ice, sharp enough to slice, steady enough to stay.

My stomach dropped.

I should have walked away, even better, ignored him. Instead, curiosity sparked where caution should have lived.

“Go away,” I slurred, waving him off. “Creepy fox man.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, as if the name amused him.

Callum appeared, stepping closer then, polite concern written all over his face. “Is he bothering you?”

The masked man turned slowly toward him. The shift in the air was immediate—quiet, dangerous, as if the room itself had been weighed and judged.

“Walk away,” he said.

Not loud. But almost threatening. Then leaned closer to him and whispered something inaudible.

Callum hesitated for a beat. Then his face drained of colour, and he retreated without another word. I watched him go, then turned back to the fox man, a sharp panic settling under my ribs.

“You didn’t have to scare him,” I shot back, sharp. “Try picking on someone who might hit back.”

I finished the shot and flipped the empty glass upside down on the bar. “Another.”

I waved him off. “Shoo, fox-man.”

My mouth said go. My eyes said try.

The bartender poured me another shot. “Special concoction,” he winked.

“Don’t,” the fox-man said, his voice firmer now.

“Make me.”

I lifted the glass slowly. A toast. A challenge.

Our eyes locked, daring him. I didn’t drink—just held it there, taunting, waiting to see what he’d do next. It wasn’t about the alcohol anymore. It was about who would look away first. It was about defiance. About control.

I lifted the glass to my lips and tilted, letting the sweet liquid stay in my mouth, but didn’t swallow. The corner of my lip lifted in a smirk.

He moved before I could decide which one of us would lose. Before I could swallow. His hand closed around my jaw, thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers into the other, forcing my lips apart. The world narrowed to heat and breath and the certainty of him.

“You don’t listen,” he murmured, close enough that the words brushed my skin. “That’s going to cost you one day.”

Then his mouth crashed into mine. He stole the tequila straight from my lips—stole the burn, the breath, the fight. His mouth was firm, demanding, tasting of smoke and restraint stretched thin. His tongue swiped mine once. And my entire body lit up—sharp, electric, violent—like nerve endings remembering something they weren’t supposed to. My knees went weak, a gasp slipping free before I could stop it.

He pulled back before my mind could catch up to what had just happened.