Cook had only looked away for a minute. Dior wasn’t usually hard to find—she was the quiet one, hovering at the edge of the madness with a tired smile, the one dragging people out of fights and making sure nobody choked on their own sick. She barely touched alcohol, hated the harder stuff everyone else seemed to treat like sweets, so when he realized she’d vanished from beside him, an uncomfortable knot settled in his stomach. He shoved through the crowd, barking over the music, asking anyone who’d listen. “Seen Dior? Oi, anyone seen her?”

Someone finally looked up from the sofa with a lazy shrug. “The redhead? Think she’s in the kitchen with Blake.” Cook frowned, brows instantly furrowed. “Who?” The lad only pointed toward the kitchen area.

Cook followed the gesture and froze for half a second. Some tall bloke dressed head to toe in black—dark hair falling into his face, looking like he’d wandered out of an emo band—had one hand on the back of Dior’s neck while tipping a bottle straight to her lips. She coughed around the burn, laughing despite herself, and the sight hit Cook somewhere ugly. Part of him was relieved she was actually letting loose for once. The much louder part wanted to smash the bottle over the stranger’s head.

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “Move.” The single word cut through the room, and people who knew Cook knew better than to stand in his way. Conversations died as bodies shuffled aside, a clear path opening between him and the kitchen. He stalked forward without taking his eyes off Blake, already spoiling for a fight before he’d even reached the doorway.