Not cologne, something…sharp, rust and desperation. The man beside me leans in, vibrating in his seat, running on pure madness and Red Bull. His eyes lock on mine, pale and unblinking, and his lips peel back in a grin that makes my skin crawl.
"I'd know their scent anywhere," he says, voice low and too calm.
I stiffen. "Excuse me?"
He sniffs me. Full inhale, head tilt, a perfume sample and he's trying to decide if I'm worth murdering.
"Hey!" Mack barks, slamming his hand on the bar. "Back the fuck off, creep."
But the guy doesn't move. Just reaches out, grabs a fistful of my hair, and yanks.
Hard.
The world lurches, my stool tips, and then it slams back into place as something blurs past my vision in a flash of motion and fury. I don't register the impact until I hear the sound, a crash, the splinter of wood, the groan of a man now embedded in the bar's far wall like a ragdoll.
And there, crouched over the wreckage, fists already red, chest heaving.
Leo.
He's a storm in motion, violence carved into muscle, his eyes blazing with pure, primal rage. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't pause. He grabs the creep by the throat and pummels. Over and over. Bone crunches. Teeth scatter. Someone screams. Chairs overturn.
Mack is yelling. I think he's calling the cops. Someone tries to pull Leo back and gets shoved halfway across the bar for the trouble. No one can stop him.
Except, apparently, me.
"Leo," I say, voice barely audible.
But he hears it.
The change is instant. He stops mid-swing, chest still rising and falling like a war drum. Then he rises, slowly, something ancient, and turns to face me. All the fury drains from his face. What's left behind is worse. It's focus. Intensity. Possession.
He crosses the room as gravity pulls him, takes my hand like it's the most normal thing in the world, and nods once toward the door.
And I follow him.
No questions, instead the electric thrum in my bloodstream and the wild realization that whatever this is, I'm not in control of it. Not even a little.
The night air slaps me in the face the second we step outside, but Leo doesn't slow, keeps his pace, hand still wrapped around mine, afraid I'll bolt if he lets go. And maybe I would. Because my brain is glitching, my legs are jelly, and I still haven't figured out if I'm turned on, terrified, or both.
It's both.
He leads me past the usual line of sad, dented cars and straight to the curb where a matte black motorcycle is parked, a machine that's a goddamn sex scene with wheels. It's huge, mean-looking, and exactly what I should've expected from a man who turns bar fights into performance art.
Without a word, he grabs a helmet hanging from the handlebars, flicks the visor up, and offers it to me.
I blink at him. "You stalking me now?"
He doesn't answer. Just lifts the helmet higher, patient as a statue.
I snatch it. "Whatever. But if you drive like you fight, I'm suing."
He smirks. One of those crooked, lazy things that shouldn't make my knees weak but totally does. Then, then, he grabs my waist and lifts me onto the bike. I'm a paper napkin to him, made of his molecules, and he's just putting me back where I belong.
I'm about to object, on principle, obviously, but then he swings a leg over, settles in front of me, and the world narrows to the width of his back and the hum of an engine. Before we set off, he reaches both huge arms behind him, grabs my hands, and pulls them around his wait. They won't meet in the middle because he's so massive, so I grab at his t-shirt and hold on. So maybe my pussy is wet again but let's ignore that for now.
We set off and colour me surprised, he doesn't drive fast. He drives purposeful.
The city peels away behind us, a bad memory. We coast through streets I barely recognize, down alleys and quiet roads, until the familiar slouch of my apartment building leans into view, it's been watching me make poor decisions and is so sick of my shit.
Leo parks with the kind of calm that should be illegal. He hops off, plants his boots on the curb, and turns back to face me.
He's auditioning for the role of every single wet dream I've ever had, and reaches up and unfastens the helmet. Gently, I'm some delicate thing he's afraid to break. And I hate it. Hate how safe I feel with him. Hate how it makes me want to cry.
He lifts the helmet off my head, fingers brushing my cheeks. His touch lingers.
My hands fly to my hips. "Okay, no, pause. How do you know where I live? Did you bug me? Do I have a tracker up my ass I didn't know about?"
That smirk again. He leans in, impossibly close, eyes dragging across my face memorizing every freckle.
Then he kisses my cheek.
The softest brush of his lips right on the cheek. A period at the end of a sentence I don't understand.
"Stay away from that bar," he murmurs. "The people there aren't good."
He pulls back, steps away, and before I can string a single coherent word together, he's back on the bike, flipping his visor down, revving the engine like a war drum. One beat. Two.
Then he's gone.
Just… gone.
And I'm left standing there on the sidewalk, helmet hair and all, wondering what the actual fuck just happened, and why every inch of me suddenly misses the way his hands felt on my waist.