They say when someone really gets under your skin, they stay there. Well, whoever he was, he’s done more than that. He’s freaking moved in, rearranged the furniture, and changed the Wi-Fi password.
Note the sarcasm please.
I was holed up in some café with exposed brick, overpriced espresso, and enough indie folk music to make anyone question their life choices. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions, and the lighting made everyone look ten percent more mysterious.
Sitting in the back booth, laptop open, coffee going cold, I pretend to be just another freelance writer chasing a deadline. Total lie. I was spiraling.
I had the audio file open again, what little was salvageable, anyway. A bit of Renshaw’s sleaze, a few half-sentences, then him.
That voice. “What a beautiful mate.” Unfortunately, his low and husky voice was recorded.
I hit pause for the millionth time, my hand clenched around my pen like it owes me rent money. I’d written the same four words over and over in my notebook like it was going to summon answers: Alpha. Tall. Blue eyes.
Who even uses ‘Alpha’ outside of bad furry fanfiction or frat parties? Not politicians probably. Not the kind of guys who sit next to governors in secret clubs and make rooms go dead silent just by existing.
No. He wasn’t part of the political world.
He was something else. The kind of man people didn’t look at, they looked away from. I sighed, slammed the notebook shut, and downed what was left of my lukewarm espresso. It tasted like regret.
I headed to The Courier, the local paper I technically freelanced for, under the excuse of dropping off a fake article about tech corruption. Total filler piece. Just enough to make it look like I was being a responsible adult.
Juno Lane, Editor-in-Chief, caffeine addict, and professional cynic, barely looked up when I walked in.
“You’re early,” she said. “Or you’re lost.”
“Both,” I shrugged, tossing the file on her desk. “And maybe bored.”
She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t get bored unless someone’s lying to you.” Guilty.
I leaned on her desk, casual. “You heard anything about a new guy circling Renshaw? Tall, scary, the kind of man who makes a room forget how to breathe?”
Her smile dropped. Just like that. “Why?” she asked slowly.
“Just a gut thing.”
“Lyra…” Her voice got low, like we were being watched. “If this is about your little extracurriculars, you better tread lightly. People near Renshaw? They don’t just get dirty. They disappear.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not an amateur.”
“No,” she said. “But the last guy who chased Renshaw’s money trail? We don’t even have a photo of him left. Be smarter.”
Her warning rang in my ears long after I left. But fear has never been my thing. If anything, it just makes me push harder. So I went back. Back to The Burning Sun.
The moment I walked in, the place felt… different. Same lights, same music, same fake sparkle. But colder. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
“You’re up. VIP Room Three,” the manager muttered, handing me a fresh black mask.
My stomach twisted. “Same clients?”
“Some of ‘em. Just go.”
The bass kicked in low and slow as I stepped onto the stage. I knew this dance by now, what to touch, how to sway, where to let the spotlight hit. I moved like I wasn’t thinking. Like this was just another routine.
Then I saw him in the back corner. Half in shadow. Same dark suit. Same carved-from-marble face. My heart skipped. No, it slammed against my ribs.
I didn’t know his real name yet, but why does it feel like we have known each other for a long time?
He didn’t move nor blink. His hypnotizing, melting and burning eyes settled on me. Like he was reading every inch of me and daring me to flinch.
I tried to focus on the others. I forced a smile and flirt. Did my job right. But every time I looked up, he was there. Not blinking, like a storm in a suit.
Then, after a couple of minutes watching me, he will suddenly disappear. No dramatic exit. No sound. One second there, the next… poof.
I stepped off the stage, pulse slamming in my throat. I scanned the room, trying to pretend I was just cooling down. The corner? Empty. But I could still feel him. Like he’d left something behind in the air, something that curled around my skin and wouldn’t let go.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
Shit. I hate this.
