The Dark Between Us

Curling my shoulders forward, I shift my posture into something fragile.

Soft.

I round the corner and walk the long walkway to the bar’s private suite. The bamboo high ceilings are draped in the finest gold and silver—an obnoxious amount that could feed an entire village for an entire week.

Yet here it sits. Collecting dust in a watering hole.

My feet falter when my gaze lands on the guard stationed outside the bar's entrance. Even ten feet away, I can tell he is almost twice my size and wears a permanent scowl. This isn't new for me, of course, but this is a... unique situation.

I swallow a groan and sway my hips as practised.

Said scowl smooths when grey eyes land on me.

I am dressed for it.

A very tight-fitting corset that my friend—Rudi—insisted makes the girls perk right for the males’ attention.

Given how scowl-man is staring at them, I’m happy to confirm Rudi’s hypothesis works.

“Hello there.” My voice is a silky purr. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” I step closer, letting my boobs hover like offerings between us.

His tongue snakes along his thin lips, and I try my very best not to shiver in repulsion.

“For you… a kiss on your soft…” Please don’t say boobs. Please don't say boobs. "hand would suffice.” He croaks, all but pouncing at me.

Thank gods.

“Of course,” I say sweetly, extending my gloved hand.

There’s a pause. A treacherous little stretch of silence where he considers just how much lady luck favours him tonight. But I don’t give him the chance.

Instead, I soften my features. I summon my most devastatingly flirtatious smile and wield it like a weapon.

It works like a charm.

Moments later, I’m sipping a very sweet, very colourful drink and cursing the gods for putting me in this position. Not because I hate being a woman; don’t get me wrong, it has its merits.

But having to dress like this and play a damsel is—in my opinion, of course—the lowest form of degradation.

But who am I to discredit a centuries-old tried-and-tested technique?

I feel a weight at the back of my scalp and brace myself before turning. The flirtatious smile lingers at the corners of my lips, ready to enthral my next poor victim.

It dies down the moment my eyes find the source of it.

Tall. Broad. Cloaked in black from head to toe.

The hood covers most of his face, leaving me to stare only at a tawny, sharp jaw and scrumptious mouth. His chin is home to a small, moon-shaped silver scar and a short, almost unkempt beard.

I know the man—nay, predator—I’m looking for tonight doesn’t own a scar. So that puts this stranger down my list of priorities.

It seems I’m still high on his list, though, because he doesn’t move an inch. Instead, seemingly inching just a fraction closer to me.

Lovely.

I smile politely and turn my back on him. I return to my colourful, tooth-aching cocktail and take a small sip. I don’t have to flirt with every entitled prick in this rotten place. I just need to capture one man’s attention.

The cloaked man takes the hint, sauntering to the far end of the counter. Not that distance does much to loosen his attention. I feel his gaze trailing after me, persistent as a shadow.

I ignore it, letting my eyes wander lazily across the amber-lit room until they settle on the face I’ve been searching for.

Relief prickles through me. Finally.

Mandip Stravo.

He must sense me looking, because his eyes find me, and, just like I expected, his gaze glides over my body, pausing at my exposed ample bust and the curve of my round hips before returning to my face with a hungry look that confirms that my plan has worked.

I raise my glass at him and bite my lower lip. His lips curve in a dirty smirk at my invitation.

The stage has been set; the animal has been caged.

Tonight, Mandip Stravo dies.