Page 36 of Masked Mayhem

“You think you’re the only fucking one feeling uneasy?” I shoot back, my voice gruffer than intended. “We’re doing this for your fucking sake. You’re the one who’s been targeted.”

Whitney’s eyes flash with hurt before the defiance rushes back in. “So locking me up in some isolated cabin is the solution? Is this your fucking definition of protection?” Her voice breaks slightly, and I can see the hurt etched into her features as clear as day.

“Whitney—” I start, but the look she gives me silences my attempt at a defense. It’s a look that says,Don’t fucking patronize me.

Hawk, sensing the tension rising, stands up, clutching his beer like a peace offering. “Let’s just chill, alright? The world’s crazy right now, but we’ll figure this out.”

He gestures toward the living room, where the lighting casts shadows over her face, making her look both fierce and vulnerable. She exhales loudly and sinks back against the couch, seemingly deflated. It stabs at my chest to see her like this. Hawk takes the opportunity to lighten the mood more. He leans toward Whitney, smiling wide. “Look, we could use a distraction. How about a dance? Nothing like a sexy lap dance to blow off some fucking steam."

"Yeah," I echo, getting excited. "We didn't get to see you at the club tonight, so you kind of owe us." I wink, bringing out a small smile across her lips.

Whitney's expression shifts from fury to reluctant amusement, caught between indignation and playful interest.

"You both are out of your damn minds," she retorts, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward despite her best efforts to suppress them. "I’m not a fucking circus act, and there's no way you'd be able to handle what I'm about to do if I did."

Hawk raises his eyebrows, leaning back with a confident swagger that screams challenge. "C'mon, Whitney. You know you want to."

I can see the war within her—her instinct to resist versus the desire for freedom from her fears, even if only for a moment. The flicker of a smile turns into a growl of defiance.

“Fine, but you better not hold back your judgment.”

“Deal,” Hawk says, practically bouncing on his feet. “Get ready to witness greatness, Hacov.”

As she stands, I can’t help but admire her determination. Maybe this is what we all need—to break the tension, even only for a few stolen moments of laughter and lightness. I lean back, settling in to watch her do her thing.

Whitney stretches a bit, her movements wild and carefree, as she takes her place in the center of the cabin, undeterred by the distant shadows playing against the walls. With one swift motion, she tugs at her shirt, pulling it slightly to the side, exposing a hint of her skin, and I feel my heartbeat quicken.

“Alright, but when I do this, you better fucking drown me in compliments.”

“Don’t worry,” I chuckle. “We'll drown you in more than just compliments.”

She rolls her neck, shaking off the last remnants of tension, and then flips her hair back—her eyes sparkling with mischief. She launches into an unexpected dance, moving to a rhythm only she can hear, her body fluid and confident. I can’t take my eyes off her as she lets herself be carried by the music.

My heart swells as I watch her, buoyed by her energy, the weight of our previous conversation temporarily forgotten. She twirls and spins, her laughter contagious as she continues to tease and sulk, slipping in and out of her self-defense mode. Each movement is imbued with power—the kind I yearn to protect.

I catch myself smiling, leaning forward in my seat. “That’s right, Little Mischief. Show us what you’ve got.”

As her body undulates to the nonexistent beat, she spices the dance with playful glances tossed in our direction, making us both melt and cheer her on. The memory of her fear quickly dissolving into a euphoric release is intoxicating. But as I watch, I notice her edges slowly begin to blur again. The flickers of pain and fear struggle to surface, and for a moment, they threaten to overshadow her newfound freedom. I get up, shoving my hands into my pockets. The dance is our escape, yes, but it won’t erase what haunts her.

“Whitney!” I call out, needing to remind her, needing to connect without unmasking myself in a way that could shatter her trust. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

Her eyes freeze on mine, momentarily snapping back to reality. The light winks out of her smile as her breathing starts to slow, the dance turning into a subtle sway.

“I know,” she whispers, the fight in her voice still tinged with uncertainty.

There’s something charged in the air between us. I step closer, tilting my head slightly, allowing my voice to soften.

“You’re stronger than anyone I know, and we’re going to make sure you stay that way.”

“You don’t know me,” she counters, but there’s a softness in her tone that wasn’t there before.

“I want to,” I reply, and the sincerity of that sentiment hangs between us like a fragile thread.

“I want to, too,” she murmurs, glancing down, lost in her thoughts.

I hold out my hand in an invitation, hoping she will take it and feel the connection. After a moment, her gaze lifts, and she takes my hand, surprising me with the strength of her grip. The tension that once filled the room has shifted; the air is tentative, yet electric.

She makes the next move, pushing me onto the couch beside Hawk, suddenly lifting her shirt over her head, revealing the outfit she was wearing at the club earlier, and the words that want to come out get caught in my fucking throat. Switching between my lap and Hawk’s, she grinds her ass and winds her body against ours, turning us into those twelve-year-old boys who became obsessed with her overnight.

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