Renna Rose Lancaster never searched for love.
She stumbled into it long before she was old enough to know what to call it.
It lived inside flower crowns that barely survived a minute on his head. Pebbles he slipped into her pockets because every tre...
"What is love, if not the ache of needing someone when they're already beside you?"
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The Hive looked primal from the pavement alone.
Hot pink signage kept glitching across the black exterior while sapphire strobes pulsed over the queue, the entire structure humming hard enough that the bass crawled straight through the concrete and up my legs.
It didn't look like a nightclub. It looked like a living, breathing animal about to swallow us whole.
Isla hooked her fingers through mine, cold rings knocking against my skin while she lifted her phone. "Cam, it's psychotic out here. Some wasted fuck already tried grabbing my arse."
Freya spun her lens toward my face. "Renna, chin up a bit. There. You look rich enough to ruin someone's life."
Fair.
I angled my chin toward the neon, smirk curling automatically when the lights hit my contour right.
Flash.
Another one.
Then another.
Lip between my teeth. Half-lidded stare. Slow blink.
Okay... I get it now.
I finally understood why people got addicted to attention.
It felt euphoric.
Isla hung up. "Right. Cam said we skip the peasants and go through the side entrance."
And suddenly we were elbowing through crowds of overheated bodies and thick clouds of strawberry vape that hung in the air like toxic fog.
Some guy staggered past in tinsel wings with his bare cheeks completely exposed. A girl in rhinestone mesh wrapped her limbs around her guy's hips while he gnawed on her neck.
We squeezed toward a black metal gate marked STAFF ONLY while two girls in matching Hive shirts stood guarding it.
Isla took the lead. "Hiya! Isla Shona Kerr. Cam said we're sorted?"
The taller one scanned a wrinkled list before snapping her gum. "Yep. Head inside, babes. Welcome to the madness."
Three neon bands clamped around our wrists like handcuffs.
"Cloakroom downstairs. Toilets upstairs. Drinks at the back," she recited. "And if you vomit on the floor you're getting thrown out on your face."
Inside was pure sensory overload.
Lasers shattered against grime-covered walls. Tracks collided from subwoofers so intense my ribcage thudded. LED screen overhead showed clips of girls riding shoulders screaming lyrics while guys poured alcohol straight down open throats.
