We still don’t know for sure if Rowan is her match, but I have a feeling he is.
And even if we don’t match, I don’t care.
I still want her just the same.
But tonight’s shift is different. Blair enters the bar, dressed in dark leather pants and a black tank top, and my mouth waters.Her eye makeup is darker than usual, and her hair flows in wild waves down her back.
She’s terrifying and beautiful.
When she looks at me, I catch the redness in her eyes and frown.
“Everything okay?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” she says, her smile wide and fake. “Just tired.”
That’s not the face of someone tired, though.
Hers is the beautiful face of someone defeated.
Someone in mourning.
When she stands next to me at the bar, even her scent is different.
There’s a chemical smell to it, as if she’s been reapplying deep cleaning agents or scent blockers to herself.
But what tiny amount of violets I do catch smell burnt, like smoke and char covering her sweetness.
Something is seriously wrong, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I’m not her Alpha.
Hell, I’m not even sure if I’m her friend anymore.
My fist clenches around a glass so hard that I don’t even realize it’s shattered until Blair’s gasp.
“Holy shit! Travis, are you okay?” It’s the most alert I’ve heard Blair in days.
Blood runs down my hand, and I stare at the broken shards in surprise.
“Kora, can you take over for a few minutes?” I hear Blair ask. “And can we get someone to sweep up the glass? Travis is bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” I say gruffly. “Let me just get a rag and I can sweep it up.”
“I’ll help you,” Blair says. “Let’s go.”
I follow her to the backroom, cradling my hand while she rummages in the supply cabinets.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “You go back out there. I’ll handle it.”
As tempting as it is to be alone with her, I won’t keep her back here just so she can tend to me.
Even if it’s the most attention she’s given me in days, I won’t take advantage of her hospitality.
“You dummy,” Blair says fondly, placing a roll of paper towels on the small table. “We need to get the glass out of your hand. I have tweezers in my purse. Sit down.”
I tear off a few sheets of the towels and wrap my hand in them. Blood soaks through the material, and I tear a couple more off.
“This is a health code violation,” Blair mutters to herself, pulling a chair next to me and sitting so we’re almost eye level. There are a pair of silver tweezers in her hand. “Let me see,” she murmurs, and I hold my hand out to her.
