Apex Predators

CW: Sexual content and threat of harm

The sharp click of Reese’s heels split the bar’s chatter like a rifle crack—first step fired, second step chambered. What froze the room was the blue mini cocktail dress riding high on freshly shaved thighs. Three-and-a-half-inch stilettos—anything less wasn’t even trying. Every step announced what his grin confirmed: tonight, he was the baddest bitch this dive would ever see.

He spotted Chelsea and strutted toward her, hips swaying with calculated arrogance, daring anyone to really take him in—the lean, coiled muscle shifting beneath the backless dress.

Chelsea’s jaw dropped. She smacked her friends’ arms, pointing.

Reese stopped at their high-top, planted an elbow, and popped a hip with a smirk.

“A bet’s a bet,” he said, leaning close to Chelsea, ignoring the stifled giggles and bitten knuckles of their crew.

Chelsea tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “I… I can’t believe you went through with it.”

“Through with what? This?” Reese leaned back and gave her a slow, deliberate body roll, hands gliding down his sides until his thumb brushed the hem. The fabric’s seam felt like the edge of a plate carrier—different battlefield, same readiness.

“You’re just jealous.” He flicked his bright blue nails—a perfect match for the dress, a deliberate middle finger to subtlety. “You think your halter top and jeans can compete with me?”

“I still can’t believe you did it,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

A man in a tight T-shirt and slacks started forward. Reese extended his left arm, Semper Fi ink catching the light like a warning flare. One look shut the man down.

“Are you kidding? I feel incredible.” He inhaled deep—the bar’s stale beer and rain-wet asphalt became desert heat and gun oil for a heartbeat. His hand twitched, half-reaching for a rifle that wasn’t there. “I can get anyone in this room I want.”

“Aren’t you worried someone might try something?”

“Like Jeff in accounting over there?” He jerked a thumb at the biggest guy in the place. “The fuck’s he gonna do?” Reese had stared down warlords, smugglers, and men who actually wanted him dead.

He turned, leaning on the high-top, hips angled just enough to invite a challenge. Let them watch. Let them understand who ran the room now.

“What are you doing?” Chelsea whispered.

His grin widened. Without looking, he asked, “You can see me?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Good. Watch this.”

His gaze swept the crowd—businessmen loosening ties, girls’ night glitter, wallflowers nursing watered-down beer. Easy prey. Then he found her. Everyone else looked away when his eyes touched them. She held his stare. Unflinching.

Heat flared in his chest. Broad shoulders. A single braid sliding over flannel-rolled sleeves stretched across strong arms. Power, leashed and waiting. But what snagged him wasn’t her muscles—it was the way her table leaned in, orbiting her like moons desperate for gravity yet wary of her pull.

Reese hiked the dress a breath higher, flashing the scarred exit wound—a silent résumé of survival, a crooked invitation. At the bar he ordered a dirty martini, leaning so the hem rode up again, hips cocked, grin sharp over his shoulder. The sting of olive brine cut the air. Come get me.

She rose—exactly as he’d predicted. Predators like them couldn’t leave a gauntlet on the floor. She didn’t walk; she stalked, each step deliberate, weightless, inevitable. Her pupils tightened to slits, gold irises burning brighter. The bar’s aging shepherd mix whimpered, sliding under a booth, tail pressed to belly.

She stopped beside him, leaning against the bar with her back to him, her scent—pine and raw earth after rain—curling into his lungs until everyone else blurred. Apex hunters don’t bother with the braying of sheep.

“Bold move,” she said, voice low and velvet-rough, a half-smile coiling at her lips. “Stepping into my bar like prey that thinks he’s in control.”

“Buy me a drink,” Reese replied, eyes tracking the line of her shoulders, “and I might let you chase.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. Even in heels he had to tilt his chin up—but the angle only sharpened his smirk.

She leaned forward, brushing his arm as she passed him his martini, braid whispering across his cheek. “Most men drop their eyes by now,” she murmured. “You keep yours. That’s dangerous.”

The promise hung unspoken.

Reese slid a stray braid behind her ear, lips quirking. “Still waiting for you to impress me.”

She laughed—not a shallow sound, but low and rich, a vibration that slid beneath his skin. Her hand snapped up, catching his wrist midair. Nails—no, claws—bit just enough to draw a bead of blood. Reese didn’t flinch. Danger was his oxygen—the reason he enlisted, the reason he volunteered for every op.

He drank in her slitted gold eyes.

“Whiskey. Neat.” Her gaze never wavered. She didn’t request; she commanded.

Eyes locked, Reese downed the drink, letting the burn stretch into a challenge.

“How about you quit circling,” he said, straightening the hem of his dress, one hand sliding to his hip—a dare disguised as an invitation, “and make a move. Or I’ll find a woman who knows how to handle a man like me.”

Her smile widened, lips peeling back just enough to flash two sharp canines. “Well, Marine…” Her clawed hand traced the ink on his arm, slipped into the gap, and yanked him closer—staking her claim.

His pulse spiked. The hunt was on. Heels and boots clicked across the wooden floor. The crowd didn’t scatter—they parted like tall grass before a storm. Reese stepped outside first, pausing just long enough to wink at Chelsea before the night air wrapped him in smoke and rain.

She snatched the nearest drink, drained it in a single pull, then tapped the rim against the table—a clean signal to the pack: this was her hunt.

Even the bar’s old door seemed to yield as she filled the frame, shoulders broad beneath the flannel. She moved without hesitation, boots crunching gravel in three deliberate steps. Moonlight slicked her braid and shoulders; for a heartbeat, her canines flashed—wildness spilling into the night. “You had my attention with the heels,” she said, spinning him in a single fluid motion. “Now you’ve got all of it.”

In one effortless motion she lifted Reese and set him on the tailgate of a lifted truck. Their eyes locked—predator to predator—her unspoken admission that he wasn’t prey. He was competition.

“Keep it up,” he purred, crossing his legs and denying her hungry gaze, “and I might even let you spoon me after. Else…”

Her clawed hands settled on his knees—graceful, deadly. “Else what?” she asked, squeezing just enough to let him know she could take him apart if she wanted.

“Else,” he murmured, thumb tracing the edge of her wrist where her claws pressed, “you get to tell everyone about the one that got away.”

She undid one more button on her flannel, letting him wonder what waited beneath. Her right hand glided up his thigh, stopping at the hem of the dress, thumb slipping under. The claw grazed his scar—just enough pressure to make him flinch, but not enough to make him pull away.

“That wasn’t from a bar fight,” she murmured, voice like silk hiding a blade, curiosity threading the edges of her words. She let go, and in that brief absence he felt the hollow echo of every night since the war. She lifted her shirt and lowered her jeans, a pale crescent of teeth marks just above black lace. “Mine wasn’t either.”

He leaned in, and so did she. Thunder rumbled far off, the air sharp with ozone; The halo of the streetlight, the whimpering bar dog, the distant hum of a highway that never stops moving—all of it faded. For a heartbeat their world was breath and shared violence.

Reese moved his lips to her ear and whispered, “I bite too.”

Reese slid off the tailgate in one smooth motion, sashaying past her—the dress swaying like a taunt—as he tossed a glance over his shoulder.

She moved next to him, her palm landing on his lower back—possessive, not gentle—sending a shock that was half warning, half promise.

“Quit hesitating.” His eyes stayed forward, but his pulse hammered.

Her hand dipped, squeezed, then spun him around. A blur of flannel and strength pinned him against the side of the truck. The metal was icy against his shoulders; her breath was hot against his cheek. Golden, slit-pupiled eyes locked on his, unblinking. Her sly grin told Reese everything he needed know.

“I’m Reese.”

“I’m Kara.”

Reese smiled, feeling the terrifying relief of finally finding someone who wouldn’t look away. His grin sharpened, laughter catching in his chest. “Let’s see if you’re the baddest bitch here.” For the first time since the war, someone met him where he stood—and it didn’t matter who won.