AT THE PARTY NEXTDOOR BY MELLA

Miami was supposed to be a fresh start. A place of palm trees, salt air, and the quiet focus I needed to finally build a life.

Instead, I was living inside the ribcage of a vibrating beast.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The bass from the penthouse next door wasn't just loud; it was invasive. It crawled up the legs of my bed and rattled my very teeth. I stared at the digital clock on my nightstand. 1:42 AM. My first day of classes at Miami Central University started in six hours, and I was losing a war against a subwoofer.

"Tyla, just put the pillow over your head," a muffled voice groaned from across the room.

My cousin, Skyler, was buried under a mountain of blankets. "It's Miami. People party. It's practically in the city charter."

"It's a Tuesday, Sky!" I snapped, shoving my hair out of my face. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a wreck wild curls and eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. I was wearing an oversized grey t-shirt that reached mid-thigh, a faded relic of a band I'd long forgotten. I looked like a girl on the verge of a breakdown.

"Don't go over there," Skyler warned, sensing my movement. "I saw the guys in 12B moving in. Expensive cars, dark suits the kind of security that looks like they've buried bodies."

"I don't care if they're the cartel," I muttered, sliding my feet into my fuzzy slippers. "I have a Bio-Chem lecture at eight, and I'm not failing because some trust-fund brat thinks he's a DJ."

Adrenaline is a liar. It made me feel taller than five-foot-four. It made me forget I was just a girl in a sleep-shirt walking into a lion's den.

I marched down the hallway. The air already smelled like the party expensive tobacco and a heavy, masculine cologne that seemed to coat the walls. I stopped in front of the matte-black double doors of 12B and hammered.

"Open up!" I yelled.

For a long moment, the music roared on. Then, the heavy door groaned open.

The air that hit me first was industrial-strength cold, thick with the scent of something intoxicating. Then, my eyes traveled upward.

The man standing in the doorway wasn't a "brat." He was a titan.

He was shirtless, his bronze skin glistening under the dim hallway lights as if he'd just come from a fever. A trail of dark hair disappeared into the waistband of low-slung silk joggers. His chest was a roadmap of hard muscle, but it was his face that stopped the air in my lungs. Sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes the color of a stormy Atlantic, deep, turbulent grey.

He didn't speak. He just leaned against the doorframe, his gaze traveling slowly from my messy hair down to my bare legs.

The anger that had fueled me evaporated, replaced by a sudden, terrifying heat.

"The... the music," I managed to choke out. "It's nearly two in the morning."

He shifted, and for a second, I thought he was going to apologize. Instead, he took a step forward.

I instinctively backed up, but my heels hit the opposite wall of the hallway. Before I could blink, he slammed his hand against the plaster right next to my ear, trapping me.

The scent of him, sandalwood and expensive bourbon, swamped my senses. Up close, I could see the dampness of his hair. He didn't look annoyed. He looked... hungry.

"You're the first person to ever knock on my door without an invitation," he rumbled. His voice was a low baritone that vibrated right through my ribs.

"I'm your neighbor," I said, trying to regain my fire, though my heart was hammering against my chest. "And I have a right to sleep."

His eyes darkened to charcoal. He tilted his head, his nose almost brushing mine. "A neighbor," he repeated, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. He didn't pull back. If anything, he leaned closer, his chest grazing the tips of my breasts through the thin fabric of my shirt. "I've lived here for three weeks, and I haven't seen anything worth looking at until this moment."

"Turn the music down," I whispered, my breath hitching.

He reached out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he tucked a stray curl behind my ear. His touch felt like a live wire.

"I don't take orders, Little Neighbor," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. "But I do take what I want. And right now..." He leaned down, his breath hot against my skin. "I think I'll keep you."

My heart stopped. The possessiveness in his tone wasn't a joke; it was a claim.

Panicked by the sudden, overwhelming urge to melt into him, I ducked under his arm. I didn't walk I bolted back to 12A. I fumbled with my keys, my hands shaking, and threw myself inside, slamming the door and throwing every deadbolt we had.

I leaned against the wood, gasping for air.

Outside, the music suddenly cut to a dead stop. The silence was more deafening than the bass had been.

I crept to the peephole. Daniel hadn't gone back inside. He was standing exactly where I'd left him, staring at my door. As if he could see right through the wood, he traced his fingers over the spot on the wall where my head had been.

I backed away, the silence of the night feeling like a physical weight on my chest. Miami was supposed to be a fresh start, but as I stared at the locked door, I realized the party next door wasn't over.

Daniel Thorne was just getting started, and he had already decided that I was the grand prize.