Page 44 of Second Sin

“I’m not.”

“She is tonight,” Harper says.

“Damn right she is,” Tyler agrees. Then he turns and hollers toward the bar. “Shots for Olivia and Harper!”

A few guys cheer. Branson lifts his glass. Blake tips his head in my direction. Another shot lands in my hand before I even drink the first one.

“Cheers,” Harper says.

I knock it back, then the second one, because it’s easier than dealing with the panic rising in my throat.

We settle at a high table near the edge of the crowd, but I can still feel him.

Sebastian.

His presence presses at the edge of my awareness, even without looking. But when Idolook—because of course I do—he’s watching. Still slouched in the corner like he’s carved out a kingdom of shadow, one hand wrapped loosely around his beer, his jaw tense, his eyes unreadable.

Every time someone laughs too loud near me, his gaze sharpens. Every time I smile, something flickers across his face—something hot and dark and dangerous.

I try to focus on Harper. On Slade, who keeps cracking jokes. On the dull throb of the bass and the sting of tequila still lingering in my throat. But it’s all background noise.

Because every nerve ending in my body is attuned to him.

Because I feel like I’m standing on a fault line—and if I move the wrong way, everything I’ve built could crumble.

Harper orders another round before I can object.

And maybe I don’t try that hard to stop her.

The third shot burns less than the first. The fourth slides down like a dare I’m ready to lose.

Warmth spreads through my chest. My limbs go loose, fingers relaxed around the sweating glass. The buzz beneath my skin grows louder, drowning out the static of logic, duty, guilt.

Tyler’s mid-story—something about a teammate locking himself out of a hotel room naked—when Branson slaps his thigh and nearly spills his drink.

“Swear to God,” Tyler grins, dragging the attention back to himself, “dude’s standing there with a room service tray like it’s a damn loincloth.”

Harper’s laughing so hard she’s wheezing.

Another shot appears in front of me. I don’t remember who ordered it. I don’t ask.

I knock it back, and the burn barely registers.

Harper tucks her shoulder into mine, still giggling. “You having fun yet?”

I smile, slow and lazy, the edges of everything softened by tequila and noise. “I think I might actually be,” I say, words stretching just a little too long, just blurred enough that I can hear the slur and don’t even care. “Like...real fun. Not the fake, nod-and-smile kind.”

Harper grins, victorious. “Told you. All you needed was alcohol and a little inappropriate peer pressure.”

I laugh, tipping my glass toward her. “Honestly? You’re a menace."

"But a hot one.”She tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“Damn right."

And just like that, I’m laughing again. Loose and warm and alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

But I can still feelhim.

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