A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

vi. would you give the devil this dance

this chapter contains warnings for the following: blood, wounds, and mentions of violence

You don't sleep.

You try, force your eyes shut and block out the rattling of your motel's partially broken a/c to no avail. After hours of tossing and turning and endless frustration, you almost feel it, eyes slipping shut just enough to let your body finally relax.

A bloody and beaten man groans in the chair he's tied to.

Blue eyes burning with anger and authority and unmistakable desire stare directly into your own.

"You don't touch what's mine ."

Your eyes snap open as you cover your face with your spare pillow, letting out a scream of frustration into the pillowcase.

You don't know what happened after that, what became of the man who had touched you.

(Unable to move, Price's eyes staring so intensely into yours, you stood frozen in the doorway. He broke away first, releasing the beaten man's hair. The man's head drops to his chest as Price turns his back, casually flicking the blood from his hands.

The moment gone, you hurriedly stepped back from the door, rushing towards the front of the club with no other thoughts than to escape. You had all but burst out of the club, gulping down breaths of the crisp night air. Alejandro hadn't questioned you but stuck close by as he walked you to your car. You thanked him, quiet and distracted, before getting in your car.

You barely remember the drive back to your motel, barely remember getting ready for bed, your mind swirling with the same thought.

Blood and blue eyes.)

You've been plagued the entire night, unable to sort your feelings for what you've seen.

This shouldn't surprise you—it doesn't surprise you. You know what kind of place the club is, what kind of people run it. You know what kind of man your boss is; you've heard enough stories to know better than to think he and those who follow him aren't dangerous.

It's hard to remember when you're laughing with Soap and Alex.

Or singing with Farah.

...Or flirting with Price.

Men like that think everything belongs to them, your father once spat.

"You don't touch what's mine ."

Fear and desire swirl through your body, heart hammering against your chest.

The pillow sails across the room as you hurl it with a frustrated yell.

You should've learned this lesson already. Because of that lesson, you're stuck in this shitty motel room, lying on a shitty mattress, staring up at a shitty ceiling.

But this is a different situation...isn't it?

Yes, Price is dangerous—the entire 141 is dangerous—but you've been surrounded by dangerous people your whole life. Why should you be more cautious with them than you had been with anyone else? They've been kind, if understandably wary, to you, never once prying or trying to smother you with overly friendly gestures.

They've been far more honest about how they feel about you than—

You sit up, drawing your knees up to your chest.