"Nice to meet you, Casper."
He nods slightly, accepting the formality but not playing into it. Instead, his gaze intensifies, his tone softening.
"So." His voice is quieter now. "What are you doing here?"
I lift my chin. "I came for a drink."
He steps forward. He doesn’t touch me, but I feel him all the same—the sheer gravity of him, the presence that pulls at my core.
"I don’t believe that’s the real reason," he says, the words curling through the air like smoke, a challenge wrapped in invitation.
I lift my chin, feigning indifference, though my heart drums harder with every breath.
“And what makes you so sure?”
He cocks his head slightly before letting his gaze drift downward, settling on my bare feet.
“Most women don’t wander into taverns barefoot,” he says as his eyes return to mine. “Nor do they look like they have one foot in this world and one in whatever they’re running from.”
Heat creeps up my neck as I shift slightly, tugging at my dress to cover my feet. I square my shoulders, trying to hold steady, but my brows pull together despite myself.
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking. Then his voice dips lower, smooth yet smoldering.
"Tell me what you're really doing here."
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Because the truth is, I don’t know. I came here hoping to vanish for just one night, to slip into shadow and be forgotten. But now, standing in front of him, I find myself aching for something more, as if disappearing was never what I wanted at all.
"I told you—a drink," I say again, as if repeating the lie will make it real, will ground me in something other than this.
The moment stretches—seconds turning into hours—then his fingers move. A whisper of touch against my skin, just below the edge of my mask. Slowly, gently, he brushes a loose strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear as if the gesture itself is sacred.
I freeze. My breath catches.
The touch is fleeting, barely there, and yet it feels like a spark to kindling, a thread pulled taut, ready to snap. Heat races through me. His lips hover near my ear, his breath warm against my skin. His voice—low, velvet over steel—unraveling me.
He exhales a quiet laugh, his voice dipping lower, almost indulgent.
“You can say that, but I can feel the lie in your pulse."
The comment strikes me, the implication deeply unsettling. The way he says it—like the truth is something palpable—makes my breath falter. No ordinary man speaks like that.
“Maybe I’m not,” I say. “But wouldn’t you like to know?”
His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. It holds me, ensnares me.
A slow beat of silence.
His jaw clenches, the muscle feathering beneath his skin. Then—just barely—I catch the low growl of approval, deep in his throat, like he’s savoring my defiance. Something tightens in my core. I force a soft smile, tilting my head as if his reaction hasn’t shaken something loose inside me.
“Maybe I’m just looking for trouble,” I add, my voice softer now, teasing—but the way he watches me makes the air thicker, heavier. My own words betray me, their weight settling deep in my ribs.
He studies me, his gaze lingering a moment too long, as if searching for something buried beneath the surface. When he speaks, his voice is low and devastatingly soft.
"I think we both know that’s not true."
I barely have time to react before his eyes drop to my lips. A second, maybe less. But it’s enough. I can feel the mood shift, the atmosphere darkening.
And then, I see it.
