The bitch just couldn’t stay away.

Every time I try to get closer to Drane, she’s there—floating in from nowhere like some clingy perfume. Always touching him. Always hovering. Faker than a mass-produced doll.

I grip my spoon tight, fingers white-knuckled. Her being in our space is annoying enough. The constant touching? Infuriating. But stealing the precious little time I get with Drane? That’s unforgivable. I glance at my phone, my patience already stretched paper-thin.

Then I catch it—a small smirk ghosting across Drane’s face.

I scowl, heat flaring in my cheeks. I’d spent the better part of the day trying to crack through that emotionless mask of his, only to catch him smirking... now... when she’s around?

I scoff quietly. He wasn’t doing anything to stop her either—no retreat, no disapproval. Just letting her linger.

Maybe I’m being childish. I know that.

Still... I spent time on my makeup this morning. For him. And it earned me the usual blank silence. Meanwhile, Jenny shows up and suddenly he’s got expressions?

I stab my fork into the pancakes with unnecessary force. Usually, the chocolate chip fluff would make me think of Dad—of laughter and Sunday mornings at this very booth. But today the warmth is gone, replaced by that familiar knot of inadequacy and doubt I’ve been dragging around my whole life.

Jenny giggles for him again. He’s not doing much to encourage it—just that same damn smirk. But of course, that’s all she needs to dig in deeper.

“The food’s getting cold, you know,” I say flatly, cutting through her sugar-coated simper.

She stiffens—just for a second—then gives me her signature fake-ass smile and finally sashays off.

I grip my fork tighter. The urge to throw it at her back is strong. But just before I lose all common sense, I glance back at Drane—and my breath stutters.

He’s smiling. Not just a smirk—smiling. And it reaches his eyes, makes them glow that strange, beautiful red.

And the worst part?

I know that smile’s not for me.

My phone buzzes.

Mom: Where are you?

Another buzz follows instantly.

Mom: Come home.

My brows knit, confusion slicing through the haze of irritation. Three dots appear. She’s still typing.

Mom: Your grandfather is here. Don’t keep him waiting.

My stomach drops. Mom never texts me. Not once. Not even during emergencies with only Dad’s legal team for company. No call. No visit. Not even a damn voicemail.

And now she’s summoning me like some obedient dog?

I scoff and shut off the phone completely.

When I look up, Jenny’s beside Drane again, her hand resting on his shoulder like it belongs there.

That’s it.

I stand so abruptly the chair scrapes loud against the floor, halting conversation around us.

I don’t hesitate. I walk around the table and drop myself into Drane’s lap like I was made for it.

I expect a cold stare. Maybe a raised brow. What I don’t expect is his hand reaching over to brush hers off his shoulder like it was nothing.

Then he pulls me in closer—effortlessly lifting me, settling me to straddle his thigh, our faces inches apart.

And just like that, the storm inside me clears.

The jealousy. The rage. The strange text. Gone.

All I feel is him.

My heart stammers against my ribs. Every time he touches me, it’s like my body forgets how to function. Arousal sparks low in my belly, electric and sharp.

His glowing ruby eyes lock onto mine—and for the first time, I notice something.

He barely breathes.

Just eerie stillness, his gaze doesn’t waver, and neither does the pull between us.

I slide my hand around his neck, drawing closer. Our lips are barely inches apart.

My heart stutters wildly, like it’s lost all rhythm. His hands are on my waist, searing through my clothes, and every inch of my skin is suddenly aware. Arousal pulses between my thighs, heat curling low in my belly.

His eyes... the color enraptures me.

“Your eyes…” I whisper, breath-catching. "The color is so mesmerizing".

His lips twitch, dark amusement glinting.

“Want to know a little secret?” he murmurs, his voice like heat over silk.

He leans in, his mouth grazing my ear. “You’re the only mortal who sees them.”

A shiver ripples through me. “Th-that doesn’t make sense”.

Before he can answer, stomping feet and an angry huff yanks me out of the moment.

Jenny still stands there, arms crossed under her surgically generous chest, looking like she swallowed a lemon.

“You know this isn’t your whorehouse,” she snaps, loud enough for the whole diner to hear. “If you’re that desperate to screw your bitch, get a motel.”

A woman nearby gasped and clapped her hands over her toddler’s ears. The child only blinked up at her, nonplussed by her mother’s horror. Across from them, twin boys practically lit up like it was Christmas.

“Fuck,” one declared proudly.

“Whore,” the other chimed in.

They burst into giggles, repeating the words over and over like brand-new toys. Their mother went pale, scrambling to hush them, but the damage was already done.

A short, bulky man sitting nearby with his young daughter was halfway through gathering her things to leave when she suddenly piped up—loud, innocent, and terribly timed.

“Fuck, Daddy!”

The man freezes mid-motion, face blanching. He tries to shush her, cheeks burning with embarrassment, all while shooting Jenny a look of pure disgust and not a hint of subtlety.

One by one, parents began filing out, herding their children like panicked ducks, whispering angrily among themselves. Plates full of untouched food were left behind in the rush. Apparently, they’d rather sacrifice their meals than risk their kids learning curse words over pancakes.

“I am never coming back here again!” snapped the harried woman with the twins, tossing a glare over her shoulder as she stormed out.

I looked around, stunned at how quickly the place had emptied. More than half the diners patrons were gone. It was almost funny—almost.

Then came the screech.

“Jennifer Wenster!”

We all turned toward the entrance.

There stood Mac—red-faced, fuming, and marching toward us like a train on a warpath. His shirt was partially buttoned wrong, his apron hung lopsided, and for some reason, he was still wearing his kitchen gloves. The absurdity of his outfit might’ve been laughable, if it weren’t for the fire in his eyes.

“Hey, Mac,” I said lightly, sliding off Drane’s lap with deliberate slowness.