<h2>Chapter 1: Sparks in the Garrison</h2>
The Garrison was alive with the raw, smoky pulse of Birmingham, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and sweat. Esme Shelby Lee, all sharp edges and untamed fire, leaned against the bar, her dark eyes glinting with a dangerous kind of mischief. Her lips, painted a defiant red, curled into a smirk as she watched John Shelby, her husband’s brother, swagger in like he owned the bloody place. He probably thought he did, the cocky bastard.
“Oi, Esme, you lookin’ for trouble tonight, or just a drink?” John’s voice was rough, pure Brummie, cutting through the din of the pub like a blade. His suit was sharp, but his grin was sharper, all teeth and promise.
Esme tilted her head, her gaze raking over him slow and deliberate, like she was sizing up a prize horse. “Trouble’s me middle name, John-boy. Thought you’d know that by now. Or are ya too busy chasin’ skirts to notice?” Her tone was biting, but there was a heat beneath it, a challenge wrapped in velvet.
John laughed, low and gritty, stepping closer until the space between them crackled. He smelled of tobacco and danger, and Esme hated how it made her pulse kick up a notch. “I notice plenty, love. Like how you’re standin’ there, lookin’ at me like I’m a fuckin’ feast. Hungry, are ya?”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. Esme Shelby Lee never did. Instead, she leaned in, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered, “Starvin’, John. But I ain’t one for scraps. You got somethin’ worth bitin’ into, or are ya all talk?”
His eyes darkened, a storm brewing in those Shelby blues, and his hand brushed against her hip, bold as brass. “Keep talkin’ like that, Esme, and I’ll show ya exactly what I’ve got. Right here, right now, if ya ain’t scared of a little mess.”
Her laugh was sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Scared? Me? I’ve danced with devils worse than you, John Shelby. Question is, can ya keep up, or will ya be pantin’ at me feet before we even start?”
The air between them was electric, charged with unspoken promises and raw, feral need. Esme’s skin prickled as John’s fingers tightened on her hip, pulling her just close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. She could see the hunger in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding himself back from devouring her on the spot. And fuck, she wanted him to try. She was no wilting flower, no damsel waiting to be saved. She was a storm, and if John wanted to play, she’d make damn sure he got burned.
They moved as one, unspoken, toward the back of the Garrison, the noise of the pub fading as they slipped into the shadowy corridor. The wall was rough against her back as John pressed in, his body hard and unyielding against hers. “Last chance, Esme,” he growled, his voice dripping with raw, Brummie grit. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away.”
Her smirk was pure defiance as she hooked a leg around his waist, pulling him closer until she could feel just how hard he was beneath that tailored suit. “Walk away? Nah, John. I want ya to make me feel somethin’. Make it hurt, make it burn, but don’t you dare fuckin’ stop.”
His breath hitched, and she knew she had him. The game was on, and Esme was playing to win.
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