I sound like such a nosey bitch, but I’m almost certain he knows Ezra isn’t human.
“Ah, well, not technically prying since I’ve mentioned it a few times, but also nothing I really want to discuss. Basically, he found me in a dangerous situation out on the trail, took pityon me, gave me a job, and here I am,” Thane explains, with a chuckle.
A crash near the bar yanks my attention away. I turn just in time to see two drunk assholes take pathetic swings at each other.
Cheap entertainment is still entertainment.
But before I can enjoy the show, the air shifts.
Not the fight. Not the crowd.
The space.
Like something ancient just opened its eyes.
One of the drunks stumbles forward with another punch.
And suddenly, there’s someone between them.
Not suddenly like he walked in, suddenly like the world reshaped around him.
Like he was nevernotthere.
Jesus fuck, he’s massive—and inked to hell and back. Neck, jaw, arms, hands—everywhere.
Wait. Are theyglowing?
Shit. I’ve seen this guy before. He was draped over Flannel like a goddamn jungle cat the other night.
He wasn’t glowing then.
Or maybe I just didn’t know what I was looking at.
The drunk barely gets a chance to look up before his survival instincts kick in.
His face goes pale.
His knees buckle.
Then he runs.
The other follows.
Tattoo Guy doesn’t move. Doesn’t even watch them go.
He just waits. Lets the air settle. Lets the world forget.
Then, just as effortlessly as he appeared, he moves.
One massive, inked hand fists into the bartender’s shirt and yanks him forward.
Not over the bar. Just far enough to make him brace himself, his hands gripping polished wood, breath punching out in surprise.
And then—
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Tattoo Guy kisses him.
