Page 2 of Sadistic

Like playing house when you know someone's coming to tear it down.

"You know what?" Dalla stands abruptly. "Fuck this. If we have to face this shit Monday, we're going out tonight."

"Dal—"

"No, I'm serious. When's the last time we actually went out? Had fun? Acted like normal college kids?"

She's already in my closet, rifling through clothes. "If one of us is about to be sold off to the Bratva, we're at least going to have one last hurrah."

Maybe it's the stress, maybe it's the acceptance letter still burning in my pocket, or maybe it's just that she's right—we deserve one night of normal. "Fine. But somewhere close. And not too late."

"Yes!" She pulls out a black dress I forgot I owned. "Wear this. You look like a badass in it."

Two hours later, we're at Pulse, a trendy club near the universities.

The bass thrums through my body as we navigate the crowded dance floor, and for a moment—just a moment—I let myself forget about Monday.

Dalla's in full party mode, dragging me onto the dance floor, buying us drinks we probably shouldn't have on empty stomachs.

But it feels good to move, to lose myself in the music, the bodies pressing against us, and the simplicity of being a young woman.

"See?" Dalla shouts over the music. "This isexactlywhat we needed!"

A guy approaches—tall, clean-cut, probably a business major from his cologne and carefully styled hair.

He offers to buy me a drink, and I let him.

Why not? In three days, I might be someone's reluctant fiancée.

Tonight, I'm just Revna.

We're talking at the bar, his hand resting on my lower back as he leans in to hear me better, when Dalla goes rigid beside me.

"Rev," she says, voice strange. "You won’t freaking believe this. Don't look now, but?—"

I look anyway.

And my blood turns to ice.

The VIP section has a perfect view of the entire club, andhe'sbeen watching.

I don't know for how long, but Doran Volkolv sits there like a king surveying his kingdom, dressed down in dark jeans and a black button-down that probably costs more than my rent.

He's not alone—two men flank him, the kind of men who scream danger without even trying.

When our eyes meet, he raises his glass in a mock salute.

"How long has he been there?" I ask, throat dry.

"I don't know. Fuck, Rev, what do we do?"

The business major is still talking, oblivious to my tension.

His hand slides lower on my back, and I'm about to step away when he suddenly freezes.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammers, backing away so fast he nearly trips. "I didn't know you were—I have to go."

He's gone before I can ask what the hell just happened.

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