He’s not classically handsome. His nose is crooked, probably broken more than once, and never set properly. His jaw is too square, his brow is too heavy, and his whole face is arranged in hard lines that suggest he’s seen things he’d rather forget. But there’s something about him that makes my stomach flutter. Something in the way he holds himself, coiled and watchful even while drowning his sorrows.
I stare at him for a long moment, willing him to look up. When he finally does, his eyes meet mine across the crowded room.
They’re amber-gold. Not brown, not hazel. Amber-gold, like honey held up to firelight, and they pin me in place with an attention that makes my breath catch.
Something jolts through my chest, electric and unexpected and completely overwhelming. My wolf rushes forward, suddenly interested in a way she’s never been before. She scratches against the inside of my skin, straining toward this stranger like she knows him. Like she’s been waiting for him.
I don’t understand the feeling, nor can I explain it. All I know is that I’m already sliding off my stool and walking toward him before I consciously decide to move.
He watches me approach without looking away. He doesn’t smile or do anything except track my progress across the bar with those incredible eyes. Up close, I can see more details, like the shadow of stubble across his jaw and the way his knuckles are scarred, the skin rough and uneven from what must have been countless fights. And then there’s this small nick above his left eyebrow, barely healed, and my fingers itch to touch it.
I gesture to the empty stool beside him. “This seat taken?”
“Does it look taken?” His voice is low and rough, like gravel scraping against stone.
“It looks like you’re trying very hard to be alone.” I sit down anyway and add, “Which is a shame, because I could use some company.”
Something comes alive in those amber eyes. Interest, perhaps. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re drinking alone in a bar at midnight, looking miserable.” I signal the bartender for another round, holding up two fingers. “That’s enough to start a conversation, isn’t it?”
He’s quiet for a long moment as he watches me with a degree of attention that should feel uncomfortable, but doesn’t. I watch him take in my silver-blonde hair, my pale blue eyes, and the curves of my body beneath my dress. His gaze lingers on my neckline for half a second longer than is strictly polite.
“You’re Llewelyn.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Just an observation.” He picks up his whiskey and drains it in one swallow. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Maybe I like being far from home.” The bartender sets two fresh glasses in front of us, and I push one toward him. “Maybe I came here looking for something I couldn’t find there.”
His mouth quirks. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. “And what might that be?”
“Haven’t decided yet.” I lift my glass and take a sip, holding his gaze over the rim. “I’m still exploring my options.”
The hint of interest in his eyes grows into something hotter. He reaches for the glass I offered, and his fingers brush against mine as he takes it. The contact sends another jolt through my body, same as before, but stronger. My wolf practically howls inside my chest.
“Dangerous game,” he comments. “Exploring options with strangers in bars.”
“I like dangerous.” The words come out breathy and unsure, but I mean them. I like this feeling, this wild recklessness that the curse would have stamped out before I could even recognize it. I like the way he looks at me like I’m something worth looking at. I like the heat pooling low in my belly when his knee bumps against mine under the bar.
I like all of it, and I want more.
“I’m Caelan.” I extend my hand, and after a moment, he takes it. Strong fingers wrap around my hand and squeeze once before letting go.
“Patrick.”
Patrick. The name suits him somehow. Simple and solid, no frills or pretension.
I lean closer, close enough that I can smell him now—something woodsy and masculine beneath the sharp bite of whiskey. “So, Patrick, what are you trying to drown at the bottom of that glass?”
His jaw ticks for a second. Whatever he’s running from, it’s not something he wants to talk about with a stranger. I recognize that look. I’ve worn it myself, back when I had feelings I couldn’t explain and no one to explain them to.
“Nothing worth discussing.” He signals the bartender for another round. “What about you? What brings a Llewelyn woman to a Grayhide bar in the middle of the night?”
I give an exaggerated shrug and reply, “Freedom. I spent my whole life not feeling anything. Now I can feel everything, and I don’t want to waste a single second of it being careful or sensible or safe.”
Patrick squints at me now. “That sounds like a recipe for trouble.”
