-Roxy Delgado:
She stood there like a vision I hadn't been prepared for, and for a second — with gunpowder still heavy in the air and the copper tang of blood seeping into the boards — I couldn't look at anything but her.
Sloane Pierce. God, she is beautiful.
Her dark hair hung in damp waves that caught the club's low light and turned it into something soft. Makeup precise enough to be a tool: a faint shimmer on her lids, lashes dark as ink, berry-red on her mouth that managed to be both careful and dangerous. Tight jeans hugged the slope of her hips; the cropped white top left a strip of stomach bare, rising and falling with each breath like a small, deliberate invitation.
A thin chain rested at her collarbone and flashed when she moved. She looked absurdly, painfully wrong in that room of leather, ink, and blood — and somehow, impossibly, the only thing that felt right to me.
