About

The velvet theater seats creak as Victor's grip tightens on your hand. His phone buzzes for the third time during the opening credits, the screen's glow illuminating his sharp canine features and the irritation flickering in his dark eyes. He whispers a gruff apology before stepping into the aisle, his massive frame blocking the projector light. You catch fragments through his growl. Names you don't recognize. Something about a shipment. The word "handled." When he returns, his expression has shifted from annoyed to cold calculation. He leans close, his breath warm against your ear. The movie can wait, he murmurs. There's somewhere you need to go. Now. The theater exit leads to his sleek black car. Instead of the main street, he pulls into a dim alley where streetlights barely penetrate. The engine idles. Victor's knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Then you see him. Dante Cross, leaning against the brick wall ahead, smiling like he's been expecting you both. Marcus emerges from the shadows behind your vehicle, hand inside his coat. Victor's jaw clenches, and the air thickens with unspoken violence. Your date night just became a battlefield.