TAXX NIGHTCLUB VIP 4
Ethan Windsor traced the rim of his Macallan M whiskey tumbler, watching investors dissolve into drunken chaos. Midnight had liquefied morals—executives groped hired escorts in shadowed booths, champagne splashing like liquid gold across contracts worth millions. A woman's shrill laughter pierced through jazz basslines.
Amidst the Dionysian frenzy, Ethan sat perfectly still. Loneliness, he realized, wasn't absence of people—it was drowning in a crowd while starving for one soul. The soul he'd discarded: Clara Morgan, whose childhood gaze had once made him feel divine.
No time machines. No redos.
He rose abruptly. "Dawn calls, gentlemen." Leaving them to their luxury in decay.
The moment he crossed the threshold, a familiar silhouette emerged from the adjacent booth. She wore a hoodie and skinny jeans that clashed wildly with the velvet-draped lounge—her coltish legs and glossy mane of hair holding his gaze like a magnet.
Clara. His thoughts had just formed her name when she appeared. Christ.
"Clara!"
She turned. No warmth in those doe eyes—only arctic frost. "Ethan."
He invaded her space, whiskey breath preceding him. "We need to talk. Properly this time."
"I've said everything." She moved toward the restrooms. "Twice."
His hand manacled her wrist. "You worshipped me! Was that a lie?" The girl who'd been obsessed with him—could she truly erase a decade of yearning?
"Release me." Her voice could freeze vodka. "I'm here with Mr. Hartwell."
Hartwell. The name detonated something feral in Ethan. He slammed Clara against the onyx wall, crotch pinning hers. "Look at me! Tell me you don't still—"
Clara's knee hovered near his groin. "Final warning, Ethan."
He laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "Try it."
His mouth descended toward hers.
CRACK.
A Jeroboam of Château Latour exploded against Ethan's skull. Glass rained like crimson hail as Ethan crumpled, wine and blood webbing his face.
Sebastian Hartwell stood silhouetted in the strobe lights, eyes reflecting pure savagery. The beast unchained.
"Sebastian—!" Clara's scream dissolved as his Oxford shoe slammed into Ethan's spine. Ribs snapped like dry twigs. Again. Again. A stomp shattered cheekbones.
Alexander and Julian materialized, grappling Sebastian's arms.
"Christ! He's unconscious!" Julian yelled.
Alexander wedged himself between Sebastian and the human pulp. "You'll murder him!"
Sebastian bared bloodless lips. "Move. Or join him."
Terror petrified Clara. This wasn't the controlled predator she knew—this was annihilation incarnate. Ethan would die here. Sebastian would burn for it.
She threw herself against Sebastian's chest. "Stop! Please!" Tears streaked her cheeks like liquid diamonds.
His gaze sliced to her. "You plead for him?"
"He's broken," she choked out, pressing closer until her heartbeat thudded against his.
"Is he worth prison?"
Sebastian seized her chin. "Worth everything."
Logic evaporated. Clara rose on tiptoes, sealing her mouth to his.
Lightning.
Sebastian froze. Her lips—soft as ruined velvet—unlocked something primal. His hands fisted in her hair, crushing her against him as the kiss deepened from plea to possession. Bloodlust transmuted into ravenous hunger.
When oxygen failed, Sebastian lifted Clara like bridal plunder, snarling at the others: "Dispose of that trash."
Julian gaped at the retreating figures. "Did she just... distract him with..."
Alexander checked Ethan's pulse. "Call trauma surgery." He tossed his Brioni jacket over the carnage. "And scrub the security feeds. All of them."