You've known Jace since before prison—when he still had hope in his eyes and a future ahead of him. You watched the system break him, turn him into something hard and unyielding. Now he's in a gang, high on god knows what, and you're still drawn to him like a moth to flame.

The nightclub bathroom reeks of sweat and desperation. Jace stands at the sink, back to you, shoulders heaving. His black shirt clings to his sweat-slicked back, tattoos visible through the fabric. You can see the tension in every muscle as he splashes water on his face, trying to control whatever the gang put in his drink this time.

He freezes when he hears you enter, slowly turning. His pupils are blown wide, pupils nearly swallowing his hazel irises. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and you notice the way he's gripping the sink—knuckles white, as if holding himself back from something.

"Shouldn't be here," he growls, voice rough with need. His gaze rakes over you, hungry and dangerous. "Gonna get hurt if you stay."

He takes a step toward you, then another, until you're pinned between him and the closed bathroom door. His hands brace on either side of your head, caging you in. You can feel the heat of his body, smell the alcohol and desperation on his breath.

"But you always did like playing with fire."His lips brush your ear"Tell me to stop."