The Confession

The bar's dim lights blur into a haze as I tip back my third whiskey, the burn sliding down my throat like a lover's taunt. It's been two days since Julian pinned me against my wall, his hands and words carving into me, leaving me raw and restless. I came here to forget—the fight, the questions, the way Mara's shadow keeps creeping into my thoughts—but the liquor's only sharpening the edges. My skin hums with a restless heat, and I'm half-tempted to pick up the brunette eyeing me from the corner when I feel her before I see her.

Lena. Her presence cuts through the smoky air like a blade, all sharp edges and wildfire energy. She slides onto the stool next to me, her leather skirt riding up just enough to flash a glimpse of thigh, and orders a tequila shot without looking at me. "You're a wreck," she says, her voice low and teasing, that dancer's lilt curling around the words. "What's got you drowning tonight, Sasha?"

I snort, swirling the amber in my glass. "You don't get to play therapist. Not after you vanished from the penthouse like a ghost." My tone's sharper than I mean it to be, but she just smirks, licking salt off her wrist before downing the shot. The way her tongue flicks out—deliberate, provocative—sends a jolt straight between my legs, and I hate her for it. Hate how she still knows how to unravel me.

"Maybe I had better things to do," she says, leaning closer, her breath warm with lime and liquor. "Or better people." Her eyes glitter, daring me to bite, and I do—because it's us, because it's always been this dance.

"Who?" I ask, my voice a challenge, though part of me already knows. She laughs, a sound that's half-mocking, half-seductive, and leans in until her lips brush my ear.

"Mara," she whispers, and the name lands like a punch, stealing my breath. "I fucked her, Sasha. Right after the ball. Bent her over her own damn couch while Julian was off sulking somewhere." She pulls back, watching me with those catlike eyes, waiting for the explosion.

I should be furious. Should shove her off that stool and walk away. But the whiskey's buzzing in my veins, and all I can see is the image she's painting—Lena's hands on Mara, their bodies tangled in spiteful, glorious chaos. My mouth goes dry, and something dark and hungry twists inside me. "You're a bitch," I say, but it comes out breathless, not angry, and her grin widens.

"Yeah," she agrees, her fingers brushing my thigh under the bar, light enough to tease, heavy enough to promise. "But you love it." She's right—I do. Betrayal shouldn't taste this sweet, shouldn't make my pulse race like this, but with Lena, it always has.

The bar fades around us, the noise of clinking glasses and laughter swallowed by the heat building between us. "Bathroom," I mutter, sliding off my stool, and she follows without a word, her heels clicking a staccato beat behind me. The door swings shut, and I lock it, the click loud in the cramped space. It's grimy—flickering fluorescent light, cracked tiles—but it doesn't matter. Not when she's already on me, her hands fisting in my shirt, her mouth crashing into mine.

She tastes like tequila and trouble, her lips soft but bruising, and I kiss her back with a hunger that's all teeth and desperation. My hands find her hips, shoving her against the sink, and she gasps into my mouth, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Missed me, huh?" she taunts, her voice rough, and I don't answer—just bite her lower lip hard enough to make her moan.

The sink's edge digs into her thighs as I press myself closer, my hands sliding under her skirt to grip bare skin. She's not wearing anything underneath—of course she isn't—and the discovery sends a fresh wave of heat through me. "Slut," I mutter against her neck, and she laughs, wild and unrepentant, her fingers tugging at my jeans.

"Takes one to know one," she shoots back, and then she's got my zipper down, her hand slipping inside with a boldness that makes me groan. The cold tile wall presses against my back as I lean into it, letting her stroke me through the fabric, her touch firm and knowing. My head tips back, eyes half-shut, but I don't let her have all the control—not yet.

I grab her wrist, pulling her hand away, and spin her around so she's facing the sink, her palms slapping against the porcelain. "You don't get to call the shots," I say, my voice low and ragged as I yank her skirt up, baring her to me. She's glistening already, and the sight makes my mouth water, makes me ache. I don't wait—don't give her the satisfaction of teasing—just slide my fingers into her, deep and rough, and she cries out, her hips bucking against my hand.

"Fuck, Sasha," she gasps, her head dropping forward, hair spilling over her shoulders. The sound echoes off the tiles, muffled by the hum of the bar outside, and it's filthy, perfect. I curl my fingers, finding that spot that makes her tremble, and she's panting now, her bravado crumbling under the onslaught. My other hand grips her hip, holding her still as I work her, the slick heat of her driving me wild.

She's close—I can feel it in the way she clenches around me, hear it in the broken little moans she can't hold back. "Say it," I demand, echoing Julian's words from two nights ago, though this feels different—sharper, sweeter. "Say you're mine."

"Never," she spits, but her body betrays her, shuddering as she comes undone, her knees buckling. I catch her, pressing myself against her back, my own breath ragged in her ear. She turns her head, kissing me sloppy and desperate, and I taste the salt of her sweat, the tang of her defiance.

We're a mess—panting, half-dressed, the air thick with the scent of sex and liquor—when she pulls away, fixing her skirt with a shaky laugh. "You're still fucked up over him," she says, nodding like she's figured me out. "And her."

I don't deny it, just wipe my hands on my jeans and meet her gaze in the smudged mirror. "Maybe. But you're no saint either." She smirks, unlocking the door, and slips out, leaving me alone with the echo of her words and the ache she's stirred up all over again.

I splash water on my face, staring at my reflection—flushed cheeks, wild eyes. Loyalty's a joke in this game, and craving's the only truth. Lena's right—I'm a wreck. But as I head back to the bar, the taste of her still on my lips, I can't help but wonder: who's betraying who?