The woman let out a faint, breathless murmur — half protest, half invitation.
Ryan didn't bother deciphering which.
His palm slid along the curve of her waist, fingers pressing through the thin white fabric. Her body trembled in his arms, breath uneven, lips parting as his mouth claimed hers.
He had already drunk enough to let instinct lead.
But not enough to lose control.
He pushed her gently against the leather couch—
And then her eyes opened.
Clear.
Focused.
Watching him.
Ryan stopped.
Not because of morality.
Because of instinct.
She wasn't lost in alcohol.
She was measuring him.
For a second, something cold flickered in her gaze before the haze returned like a mask snapping back into place.
"Who… are you…" she whispered.
Ryan smirked.
"You grabbed me first."
She placed a hand against his chest.
Not weak.
Not trembling.
Firm.
"Take me outside," she murmured.
It wasn't flirtation.
It was instruction.
Ryan's eyes sharpened slightly.
That tone didn't belong to a drunk club girl.
He leaned closer.
"You're not drunk."
A faint curve touched her lips.
"I never said I was."
Ryan followed her gaze toward the entrance.
Two men had just stepped inside.
Suits.
Calm.
Scanning.
They weren't here for drinks.
They were hunting.
Her fingers slid into his jacket and pressed something small and metallic into his palm.
Ryan glanced down briefly.
A tracker.
Now this was interesting.
"Walk," she whispered.
"Like you're taking me home."
Ryan wrapped an arm around her waist effortlessly.
To anyone watching, it looked like a man carrying a drunk woman out of a bar.
But his body had already shifted into something else.
Alert.
Predatory.
Because the moment they turned—
The two suited men started moving.
And Ryan smiled faintly.
Tonight wasn't going to end quietly.