Knife to Meet You

Book 2: The Hemlock Society

by K.N. Wilder

Genres: New Adult Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

She eliminates men who deserve it. He's her next target. The only problem? He refuses to die.

Jiya Kline has mastered the art of the permanent goodbye: seduce, poison, problem solved. But her latest target, the infuriatingly gorgeous Calloway Frost, keeps surviving her best efforts. When her luck finally runs out and the police close in, she discovers her would-be victim might be her only hope for survival.

Calloway Frost is an artist of death, and as the notorious Gallery Killer, his world is one of obsessive control. He never planned for Jiya, the chaotic, pink-haired bartender trying to make him her masterpiece. He should eliminate the beautiful distraction, but finds himself captivated instead. So when Jiya's world comes crashing down, he’s ready to burn the world to the ground to protect her.

Now with the law breathing down her neck and nowhere left to run, Jiya must trust the very man she's been trying to eliminate. Because when your only ally is your intended victim, survival gets complicated fast—and falling for him might be the most dangerous mistake of all.

If you crave dark romance with body counts, bartenders who mix lethal cocktails, and gallery openings that double as crime scenes, this wickedly deadly story will leave you breathless, literally.

Release date: January 5, 2027

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 464

Sample

This customer would make a perfect next kill. Married, handsy, a ring tan he thinks I can’t see.

I’d enjoy it even. But someone else earned that honor first.

The cocktail shaker sweats against the thin latex on my palm. Customers assume it’s about hygiene. I just prefer not to leave fingerprints.

I slide the finished Manhattan across the bar to him. The guy winks. I puke a little in my mouth.

“I’ve got a feeling tonight’s my lucky night,” he says.

I force a smile. “You have no idea how right you are.”

I turn away before he can respond, already reaching for the whiskey. My focus is already three stools down, where my real prey waits.

He came in ten minutes ago, but the Thursday night rush kept me from getting to him.

Calloway Frost.

“Who’s the whiskey for?” Jake bumps my hip as he reaches for the glass I just poured.

I pull the drink back before his fingers can touch it. “I’ve got it.” My voice is low. “This one’s mine.”

Jake raises his eyebrows as he follows my gaze, but backs off, grabbing Campari instead. “The photographer? Generous tipper. Intense though.”

Intense doesn’t begin to cover it. Three months of research confirmed what I suspected the first night he walked in. Calloway Frost isn’t just another pretty face. He’s a killer.

Takes one to know one.

And if the universe didn’t want me to eliminate him, it wouldn’t have delivered him to my workplace like takeout. Right?

I tap the cherry juice off my bar spoon. “I find him interesting.”

“Course you do.” Jake’s eyes flick to my hair. “Matches your aesthetic. What color is that anyway? Electric bubblegum?”

“Pink Killer.” I twirl a strand between gloved fingers. Last week it was midnight blue, the week before lavender. The hair stays consistent only in its inconsistency.

Jake leans into my personal space, his cologne filling the narrow gap between us.

“So when are you going to let me take you out?” He polishes a glass with unnecessary focus, stealing glances at me. “There’s this new Thai place on Newbury. Heard the chef worked at Nahita before it closed.”

His words land, and I feel… nothing. Like always. It’s a dead circuit. A signal with no receiver. I’ve watched people fall in love my whole life, seen them go on dates like it’s a seasonal flu they’re all susceptible to. My immune system, apparently, is flawless.

I reach for a sprig of fresh mint from the prep station. “Your girlfriend might object.”

“No girlfriend.”

I let a small, dismissive smile play on my lips.

“And ruin this beautiful workplace dynamic? Dream on.”

“Your loss.” He shoots me a pair of finger guns, the gesture so hopelessly boyish it’s almost charming in a pathetic sort of way. He turns to a customer waving for his attention.

My loss. The words hang in the air for a second, meaningless. There is no loss in turning down something you don’t need. There is only the hunt. And my eyes are already back on the prize.

Calloway Frost. Not your garden-variety predator who drugs college girls. No, he’s the apex version. The Gallery Killer.

It’s not every day I figure out the identity of a serial killer, and getting rid of him would be like winning the first-place trophy in my personal Olympics.

He sits alone, examining each person who enters as if they’re subjects for his next kill. The sight of him sends my pulse racing in a way Jake never could. Those pale blue eyes miss nothing. Index finger tapping against the wooden surface.

I set the drink in front of him. “Nikka From The Barrel. Seemed to suit your taste last time.”

Calloway glances up. Our eyes meet.

My stomach flutters. An alarming sensation I haven’t felt since before I started killing men. Those eyes… Pale blue like the sky, clear against his sharp cheekbones and that messy, dirty-blond hair.

Not that I’m noticing. Much.

“You remembered.” His voice carries that slight rasp, like he’s been talking all day. Completely unremarkable voice. Absolutely.

“I remember everything about my regulars.”

“Everything?” One corner of his mouth lifts in a not-quite smile.

My eyes track the movement of his hand as he reaches for the glass. Long fingers, elegant but strong. Artist’s hands. Killer’s hands. The small camera aperture tattoo on his wrist peeks from beneath his sleeve as he lifts the drink.

“Your usual order. Your preference for the corner seat.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

“It’s my job to notice details.”

“Is it your job to look so…” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a composition he’s framing. “Vibrant?”

Heat prickles at my neck, and it’s irritating, like a rash I can’t scratch. I refuse to touch my hair or check my lipstick.

“The aesthetic helps with tips.” I gesture toward the jar on the bar.

Calloway sips his drink, and I catch myself watching his throat as he swallows, the clean line of his jaw, the way his collar falls open to reveal the hollow at the base of his neck.

“Does it?” He sets down the glass, his fingertip tracing its rim.

“Exceptionally well,” I say, my voice steady.

His fingers stop mid-tap. The silence hangs between us before he looks up.

I linger, wiping an invisible spill. “I saw your exhibition at Northside last month. Your composition style is unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

The liquor touches his lips again. No change in expression. No tells.

“Would you like to discuss it further? Perhaps tomorrow night?”

“Discuss what exactly?” His finger resumes tapping. One-two-three, pause.

“Your process. Your inspiration.” I write my number on the napkin. “Over dinner at Carmine’s. They serve an exceptional steak tartare.”

Raw meat. Let’s see if he catches the subtext.

His lips curve into a devastating smile. It transforms his face from a cold sculpture into something warm. “I know the place. Their meat is always fresh.”

Oh, he caught it alright.

The napkin with my number slides into his hand. Success pulses through me. The familiar rhythm of the hunt.

Most men would kill for a date with me. Ironic, since I’m the one doing the killing.

“Unfortunately, I’m on deadline tomorrow.” He places my napkin back on the bar, centered beneath his glass. “A magazine spread that requires my complete attention.”

Did he just say no?

Fine. His loss. Clearly, his taste in women is as questionable as his victims’ survival instincts.

“Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps.” He finishes his drink in a single swallow, places cash under the glass. Twenty-two percent tip.

I watch him stand, gather his camera, and slide into his coat. He moves with that unconscious grace some people are born with.

At the door, he pauses and turns his head, just enough to let me know he feels my eyes on him.

Then he’s gone.

“Motherfucker.” The word escapes my lips in a breath. That’s not how this works. That’s never how this works.

My hand tightens around the shaker before I remember I’m holding it.

A woman in a charcoal pantsuit enters, eyes scanning the room before landing on me. Detective Ramirez.

Perfect fucking timing.

My heart sinks. I pour myself a shot of Jake’s tequila, knock it back, and fix my professional smile in place as she approaches, her sensible shoes making barely a sound. The alcohol does little to quell the familiar tension coiling in my gut.

She smiles. “Rough night?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I wipe away the fingerprints with a bar rag. “Gin and tonic?”

“Light on the ice.” She places a manila folder on the bar.

Victim Number Six stares up at me from a partially visible crime scene photo. Elisha Briggs, hedge fund rapist. I remember the way he gurgled when the paralytic hit.

I squeeze lime into the gin, watching juice drip like the potassium chloride I’d added to his nightcap a month ago. My hand steadies as I stir.

“Working late?” Ice clinks against glass as I slide her drink across the bar.

“Following leads.”

She slides Briggs’ photo at me. Professional headshot, all cocky smile and predator’s eyes.

“Did you know this man?” Her eyes never leave my face. “He’s the second man in six months to have his last known drink right here before turning up dead.”

“That’s terrible.”

I pick up the photo, letting my brow furrow as I study it with curiosity rather than the intimate familiarity I have with those features. I know the exact pattern of broken capillaries across his nose. I know how his eyes bulged when the paralytic kicked in. “He doesn’t look familiar.”

“Take another look.” She taps the edge of the photo. “He was here about a month ago, according to his credit card statement. Elisha Briggs.”

I study the photo with feigned curiosity. “We get hundreds of people through here every week, Detective. I can’t remember everyone who passes through, especially from a month back.”

“You seem to remember your regulars well enough.”

“The repeats, sure. That’s my job.” I shrug. “But a random guy from a month ago?” I raise my eyebrows. “That’s asking a lot.”

“I suppose it is.” She doesn’t move the photo, leaving it between us like a challenge. “His friend says he met someone here. A woman.”

“He probably did. People hook up here all the time.” I mix another drink for a waiting customer, giving my hands something purposeful to do. “It’s kind of the point of a bar, Detective.”

Detective Ramirez sips her gin, watching me over the rim of her glass. The ice shifts as she sets it down, her fingernail tapping against the photo.

“You know, I find it odd.” Her gaze fixes on mine. “He was found dead, naked, in bed. Like he was waiting for a woman.”

“That is odd.” I arrange the bottles on the back shelf, each label facing forward. “And tragic.”

“Tragic,” she repeats, her voice flat. “What’s more tragic is that he had multiple sexual assault allegations that never stuck.”

My hand pauses on a bottle of St. Germain. “Is that right?”

“Some might call it karma.”

I turn to face her, leaning against the shelf. “And what do you call it, Detective?”

“Murder.” She slides the photo back into her folder. “Premeditated, methodical murder.”

Jake passes behind me. He gives the detective a curious glance but knows better than to interrupt.

“Sounds like you’re building quite a case.” I wipe down a spot on the bar that’s already clean. “Though I’m not sure what it has to do with me or Penumbra Bar.”

She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a business card, placing it next to her half-finished drink. The embossed letters catch the bar’s low light: Detective Sofia Ramirez, Homicide Division.

“I still have the one you gave me from the last time.”

Ramirez’s lips thin into a stiff smile. “Consider it a replacement. I wasn’t sure you’d kept the first. If you remember anything, or notice anyone suspicious taking an unhealthy interest in your customers, I’d appreciate a call.” She taps the card with her index finger. “Anytime, day or night.”

I pick up the card, making a show of examining it. “Of course, Detective. I’m always happy to help the police.”

“I’m sure you are, Ms. Kline.” She drains the rest of her drink and slides the glass toward me. “Though I wonder if your definition of ‘help’ aligns with mine.”

“Is there something specific you’re trying to say?” I keep my voice light, my expression open.

She stands, straightening her jacket. “Just that bartenders see a lot. Hear a lot. I’m curious about what your observant eyes might have witnessed.”

“If I see anything relevant to your case, you’ll be my first call.” I slide her card into the pocket of my apron.

Detective Ramirez nods, gathering her folder. “I’ll hold you to that.” She turns to leave, then pauses. “By the way, I like the new hair. Looks good.”

My pulse skips as she walks away, and I follow her with my gaze until the front door swings shut behind her.

I pour myself another shot, grateful the bar manager overlooks our occasional “stress relief” pours. Right now, I need it.

The liquid burns less this time, settling into a warm glow that does nothing to extinguish the ice in my stomach. Ramirez knows something. Her eyes tracked me like a sniper’s laser sight.

The short walk to the employee bathroom seems like a mile-long trek. I keep my chin up, a tight smile plastered on my face for Jake’s benefit, or anyone who might be watching.

The bathroom door is a godsend as I reach it. I slip inside, the lock clicking shut behind me.

My back hits the door, and the facade crumbles. My breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps. The ice in my stomach threatens to shatter me from the inside out. For one terrifying second, I am not the hunter. I am the prey.

I grip the edges of the porcelain sink until my knuckles turn white, and force myself to look up. My reflection stares back from the cheap mirror—wild-eyed, face pale beneath the makeup, the vibrant pink of my hair a mocking splash of color against my fear.

Get it together, Jiya.

I press my forehead against the cool tile of the wall, the chill of it a welcome shock.

“She has nothing,” I whisper, like a mantra. “Nothing but suspicion.”

My crime scenes are immaculate. No DNA. No prints. No witnesses. Just dead rapists arranged in their beds like they died mid-orgasm. She can suspect all she wants. Suspicion isn’t evidence.

I splash cold water on my face, careful not to smudge my makeup. My hands no longer shake. Control returns with each deep breath.

When I return to the bar, Jake has already covered my section. He winks at me over the head of a businessman ordering an Old Fashioned. I sync back into the rhythm of the bar, muscle memory taking over as my mind drifts.

Calloway Frost. The devastatingly attractive serial killer who said no.

Would his eyes stay that striking, transparent blue as the life drained from them?

My hand tightens around the cocktail shaker. I’ve never had a target refuse me before.

A customer waves me over, and I slide back into my role. Charming bartender. Creator of perfect concoctions. The pink-haired beauty who remembers your drink and makes you feel special enough to leave extravagant tips.

Not a killer of killers.

If the seduction won’t work, I’ll have to adapt. Break into his apartment. Darkroom chemicals. A faulty shower. Poison in his food. I’ll find a way.

The hunt is far from over.

The trick to arranging severed genitals in someone’s mouth is all in the wrist rotation.

The pièce de résistance sits in my hand. Gerald’s cock. Fourteen children silenced by this pink little tyrant, that I know of.

“Open wide.” I pry his jaw until it cracks. The meat squelches as I wedge it in place. Step back. Assess the symmetry.

Every detail matters. This is art.

“Not quite.” I nudge it deeper, making sure it stays visible between his lips. “Perfect. Suffocating on your own dick. The metaphor is… Chef’s Kiss.”

The gallery’s back office hums with Toxic. The bass line vibrates through my chest as I bob my head to the rhythm.

“Hold still,” I instruct Gerald’s corpse. “This is the money shot, darling.”

Gerald Hoffman, celebrated gallery owner and secret collector of “special commissions” featuring children, looks almost peaceful now. Well, except for his eyes—wide with the particular terror that comes from watching someone slice your dick off while explaining why you deserve it.

“You know what your problem was?” I position his head at forty-five degrees, admiring how the blood congeals around his neck. “You confused art with entitlement.”

The shadows need to fall just so across his torso, echoing the heavy contrast in Bacon’s Figure with Meat1. I whistle the chorus of the song along with Britney while making final adjustments, arranging Gerald’s intestines in dramatic loops around his body.

The human body contains about twenty feet of intestines. A fact I find endlessly fascinating. So much potential for composition.

“Let’s see… We need the sides of beef.” I drape the longer sections of intestine over his shoulders, creating the vertical meat elements from Bacon’s famous work. “This piece screams surrealist horror, Gerald. You’d sell the shit out of this if you weren’t, you know, the subject.”

I step back, framing the scene with my fingers like a director. Something’s missing. I add a final splash of arterial blood across his chest.

“What is wrong with me?” I laugh, catching myself mid-Britney hip sway, hands still slick with blood. “Focus. This is serious art. You need to live up to your name.”

I set my camera up on the tripod, adjusting aperture and shutter speed.

“Xander would have a field day with this composition.” I huff. “But will he loan me those sweet hidden cameras for a complete 360-degree documentation? Nooo.”

I adjust the aperture, making sure the depth of field captures Gerald’s face while keeping the intestinal arrangement in focus.

“One time—one time—I forgot to return his precious little spy cam after a job.” I mimic Xander’s voice, which sounds nothing like him but makes me feel better. “‘This is specialized equipment, Calloway. Do you have any idea how much these cost?’”

The memory still irritates me.

“So tight with his toys.” I rotate around the body, capturing different angles. “Would it kill him to share? We’re literally in a murder club together.”

I pause, considering the irony of my word choice, then laugh.

I need to work fast. This light won’t last forever. Gerald’s skin is already losing its rosy flush, turning that distinctive waxy shade of recent death.

“Work it, baby,” I murmur, clicking the remote shutter. “That’s it. Give me dead but meaningful. Channel your inner Francis Bacon nightmare.”

The camera captures image after image as I adjust last-minute details. Sometimes I wish I could sign my work, display these death portraits in my gallery.

“Frost captures the essence of justice with visceral honesty.”

But that would be suicide, professionally and literally.

Instead, I hide my vision inside homages to other artists. It’s so frustrating, borrowing aesthetics to express my justice.

“Last few shots,” I tell Gerald, moving the light to create a different shadow pattern across his mutilated torso. “The composition of your intestines is… iconic, honestly.”

I pack my equipment. Each piece has its place in my custom case. Camera, lights, specialized tools. No evidence left for the cleaning service to find in the morning. Gerald’s grotesque tableau will remain undisturbed, his blood cooling to a rusty brown by dawn. His janitorial team won’t arrive until 6:00 AM, giving me plenty of time to disappear.

“Because… we are living in a material world…” I snap my gloved fingers, wiping down the metallic desk drawer Gerald’s trembling hands had clutched at earlier. “And Gerallllddd here was definitely a material boy!” I twirl, spinning the spray bottle of bleach solution like a dance partner.

The chorus hits again, and I can’t help but shimmy while saturating the carpet beneath his workstation. Industrial-strength enzyme cleaner works wonders on blood, breaking it down at the molecular level. I learned that from a forensics podcast. Research is essential for any serious artist.

“Your financial portfolio was giving very ‘how to hide money from the IRS’ vibes, Gerald,” I address the cooling corpse as I work. “But that offshore account in the Cayman Islands? Honey, that’s where you got sloppy.”

His passcode had been his dog’s birthday. Six digits that unlocked everything I needed to know about him, a revered fashion photographer and child rapist. His laptop sits open on the desk, screen still glowing with a folder I’ve left accessible.

“The police are going to find those images, you know. Consider it your contribution to law enforcement training,” I say, patting his cheek. The skin feels rubbery beneath my latex glove.

I stand to survey the scene. The bloodstained keyboard, the fallen champagne glass, the spilled cocaine.

I tuck a small USB drive into the potted plant by his desk. Not too obvious, but findable with a thorough search. On it, encrypted conversations with other photographers and agents, discussing the “special shoots” they arranged with underage models. Names, dates, locations. Enough to start an investigation.

“Everyone loves a good mystery,” I tell Gerald, bleaching my footprints as I back toward the door. “Either way, they’ll start looking in all the right places.”

I hum Madonna’s bridge as I make a final sweep of the space, erasing my presence with meticulous care. The smell of bleach mingles with the metallic tang of blood and his cologne.

“The Gallery Killer,” I whisper to myself, smiling at the moniker the press has given me. Xander is so jealous. Every serial killer dreams of getting a nickname that sticks, preferably something with flair. But most end up with pedestrian labels like “The Route 29 Killer” or “The Freeway Murderer.” No imagination in law enforcement these days.

I snap my case shut, Gerald’s death captured forever on my memory card. The images will join my private collection tonight.

Xander’s voice echoes in my head from our last meeting. “Your pattern will be your downfall, Frost. You’re too extravagant.”

All that talk about consistency and signatures being dangerous. But what does he know? His kills are so… utilitarian. No artistry. Just quick, efficient death. Like swatting flies. Where’s the meaning in that?

Xander, my best friend, found himself a girlfriend. A woman who knows his worst secrets and loves him anyway. The easy affection between them makes my fingertips go numb whenever I watch them together. The casual touches, the inside jokes, the silent conversations they have across crowded rooms.

I’m happy for him. I truly am. Love like that doesn’t come easy. Some nights, I let myself imagine what it might be like to be wanted. Loved.

Love? I filed that away years ago. Even if I weren’t a killer, I’m…defective. Nobody wants damaged goods. And even if they did, there’s the other thing. The thing I never talk about.

A face flashes in my mind. High cheekbones, hazel eyes that shift from gold to green depending on the light, and that full mouth always on the edge of a smirk.

Jiya. The bartender. She invited me to dinner, and I said no.

If I were anyone else, I’d have said yes. I’d have let her take me to some dimly lit restaurant, let her ask me questions, have some fun. But I don’t do dinner. I don’t do relationships. I do nothing that requires trust, or vulnerability, or the honesty that leaves you exposed and bleeding.

All I could ever offer her is sex—quick, rough, transactional. The only kind I know how to give.

She deserves more than that. She deserves someone who can sit across from her at a table and not flinch when she looks too closely. Someone who isn’t broken in all the ways that matter.

I wonder what she’d think if she knew who I am. What I’ve done.

“But then she’d have to die,” I whisper to the empty gallery, my voice echoing off the pristine white walls. “And that would be a waste of something beautiful.”

I drive with the windows down, letting Boston’s cool night air blow away the chemical smell of bleach clinging to my clothes. Ninety-five percent of a successful murder is proper cleanup. The other five percent is pure dumb luck.

But tonight feels different. Charmed. Like the city itself conspires to shield me.

Twenty minutes later, I’m parking outside Penumbra, the upscale cocktail bar where Jiya works.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Frost?” I ask my reflection in the rearview.

I should go home. I should shower, burn my clothes, upload tonight’s masterpiece to my encrypted drive, and pretend I’m not a monster. Instead, I’m here, debating whether to walk inside and ask the most beautiful woman in Boston to take me home and ruin me.

Just sex, I tell myself. That’s all I can offer. No dinners, no dates, no morning-after coffee. Just bodies and sweat and the illusion of connection. Should I?

My reflection offers no answers. I grab the camera case, slinging it over my shoulder.

The bouncer nods as I approach. I’ve been here often enough to be recognized.

Inside, Penumbra pulses with low, ambient music.

I scan the bar, and there she is. Jiya. Her pink hair catches the cobalt-blue backlighting, creating a halo effect any photographer would kill to capture. She moves with efficient grace, mixing something complicated for a woman in a power suit.

For a moment, I just watch. There’s artistry in how she works. The exact measurement of liquids, the precise timing of her shaker, the theatrical pour into a chilled glass. Her fingers dance over bottles like a pianist’s over keys.

I could have her. I could have her tonight. I could tie her up and lose myself in her, just for a little while. Pretend I’m someone who deserves it.

When she looks up, our eyes meet across the room. Her smile blooms slowly, recognition followed by something warmer. Despite myself, I smile back.

The Gerald-high still hums in my blood as I weave through the crowd, camera case bumping against my hip with each step. I slide onto the corner barstool.

“Calloway,” she says, my name sounding different in her mouth, like it belongs there. “Changed your mind about that dinner?”

“Not exactly.” I set my case on the floor between my feet. “But I craved the best Old Fashioned in Boston.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Just the drink?” She reaches for a bottle of bourbon without looking, her gaze never leaving mine.

“And the company,” I admit. The residual adrenaline makes me reckless. “I had a… productive evening.”

“Did you now?” Jiya selects a sugar cube, dropping it into a mixing glass. “Breakthrough with your photography?”

I watch her hands as she adds bitters to the sugar. “Something like that. Created a masterpiece tonight.” The words feel dangerous, delicious on my tongue.

“So this masterpiece,” she says, eyes flicking up to meet mine, “is it part of your gallery show?”

“Not exactly gallery appropriate,” I say, the double meaning making my lips twitch. “Some art is meant for a private collection.”

“Private, huh?” Jiya leans forward, elbows on the bar. Her fingers brush mine as she slides the drink over. For a split second, her eyes flick downward before meeting mine again. “I’ve always been curious about the things artists keep to themselves.”

I take a sip, the bourbon warming my throat. “Be careful where curiosity takes you. The private stuff is usually private for good reason.”

“Or maybe,” she says, voice dropping lower, “it’s the only honest work you do.”

The statement hits close to home. My pulse quickens. She’s not wrong.

“And what about you?” I deflect, gesturing at the surrounding bar. “Is this the real Jiya, or just another performance?”

Her smile shifts into something sharper. “That’s quite the philosophical question from someone who just wanted an Old Fashioned.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I bet you are.” She tilts her head, pink hair cascading over one shoulder. “For instance, I’m surprised you turned down dinner with me. Most men wouldn’t.”

“I’m not most men.”

“Clearly.” Her eyes travel over my face with deliberate slowness. “Most men don’t look like they walked off a Norse mythology book cover, either.”

A laugh escapes me, unexpected and real. “Norse mythology?”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “You know exactly what you look like, Calloway Frost.”

“If I’d known you were into Vikings, I would’ve worn my horned helmet.”

“Now you’re just trying to turn me on.” The playfulness in her voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

“Would that be so terrible?” I take another sip, watching her over the rim of my glass.

“Depends on your follow-through,” she counters, leaning closer. “All tease and no action makes Jiya a frustrated girl.”

The air between us crackles with possibility. I know I should pull back, maintain distance. But there’s something about her that makes me want to lean in instead, despite every self-preservation instinct screaming at me.

“Trust me,” I say, voice low, “my follow-through is impeccable. But that doesn’t make it a good idea.”

Her eyebrow arches. “So you admit you’re tempted.”

“I’d have to be dead not to be.”

“Then why resist? Life’s short.” Her fingers slide across the bar, stopping just short of mine. “Some might even say brutish.”

“And some of us ar. . .