Pete's nights had always been structured—patrols, surveillance, readiness—but tonight, chaos had a new face. Vegas Montclair. Every movement, every smirk, every word was a provocation, a spark in the powder keg of Pete's controlled world.
He tried to focus on his assignment, protecting his client from the rival Montclair influence. But every thought kept returning to that smirk, the dangerous glint in Vegas' eyes, and the way his voice had rattled something deep in Pete—something he wasn't ready to name.
The night deepened, rain slicking the streets. Pete moved through shadows, silent, alert, senses stretched taut. Somewhere ahead, footsteps echoed—heavy, deliberate. Vegas' signature strut.
"Petey…" Vegas' voice slithered through the rain like a promise of trouble. "You're looking tense. Need someone to… relax you?"
Pete's fingers twitched near his gun. "Stay away, Vegas."
Vegas chuckled, a sound both cruel and intoxicating. He stepped out from the shadows, rain dripping from his dark hair, eyes gleaming with mischief and danger. "Or what? You'll shoot me?"
"I might," Pete said, voice low, controlled. But his chest betrayed him, tightening with anticipation and fear.
Vegas closed the distance, too fast, too close, heat radiating off him. His hand brushed Pete's arm—not threatening, not violent, but charged, teasing, almost intimate. "Good luck resisting me," he whispered.
Pete swallowed, mind racing, body alive with tension he couldn't escape. Vegas was poison. Delicious, lethal poison, and every instinct screamed to run.
But he didn't.
The fight started again—this time, more calculated, more personal. Vegas pushed, tested, and Pete countered, muscles straining, hearts hammering. With every grapple, every brush of skin, the tension built—raw, electric.
"You're stubborn," Vegas growled, pressing Pete against a wall, so close he could feel Vegas' breath, warm, intoxicating. "I like that. Makes breaking you… interesting."
Pete's pulse raced, hands gripping Vegas' shoulders. "I'm not yours," he hissed, though the lie hung between them, heavy and fragile.
Vegas' lips curved into a wicked smile. "We'll see about that," he murmured, voice rough with desire and amusement. He leaned closer, just enough to tease, to threaten, to promise.
Thunder rolled overhead, rain drenching both of them, but the world had shrunk to the space between them—danger, lust, power, and tension interwoven like a knife-edge dance.
And then, as abruptly as it began, Vegas pulled back, disappearing into the shadows with a laugh that burned in Pete's mind. Pete stood there, rain soaking him, body alive, pulse thrumming—not just from the fight, but from the fire Vegas had ignited.
He hated himself for it.
But he couldn't stop thinking about him.
Vegas Montclair.
And he was coming for him.