Chapter Six

The bartender refills my glass without another word. Foam curls along the rim, slow and thick, spilling a little over the edge.

He slides it towards me with a knowing smile that feels too gentle for this kind of place.I lift the glass to my lips, but this time I don't finish the contents.

I glance around, I don’t want to think about Kael’s face when I lose sight of him. I don’t want to think about the bodies.

But that’s all my mind can seem to replay. I’m not drunk, but I feel the effects slowly kicking in. My nerves start to relax little by little.Then I feel it again, that stare.

The stranger is still there. In the corner, where the light doesn’t quite reach. Every time I lift the glass, I can feel his gaze.

Not in a way that feels threatening. Just curious. Attentive. Like he’s waiting for something. I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

I’ve dealt with enough eyes in my life—hungry ones, curious ones, ones that thought they could own me. This one is different though. His gaze has weight, not greed.

It makes me uneasy, and I’m not used to that. I take another sip. My throat burns. Good. It reminds me I’m still here. A couple of men stumble from a nearby table, laughing too loud.

One of them catches sight of me and gives a look that starts at my boots and doesn’t stop until it reaches my face. He grins in a way I am familiar with.Lazy, entitled, and stupidly brave.

“Hey, darling,” he slurs, sliding into the stool beside mine.

“You look like you could use a little help.”

I ignore him, focusing on my drink.

Another one laughs. “Oh, I think she's shy. I love shy.”

The one sitting next to me grazes my shoulder with his hand, the touch light but unwanted.

“You don't need to be shy, let's buy you a drink.”

I shift just enough for him to notice the knife strapped to my thigh. “I already have one.”

That earns a whistle from the third. “Feisty. That’s rare around here.”

“Back off,” I say quietly.

But quiet never works on men like this. It only feeds them.The second one reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of my hair.

“Don’t be cold, girl. We’re just—”

Before he can finish, I grab his wrist and twist. Hard. The sound he makes is half shock, half pain.

His friend curses and shoves me, and the stool behind me screeches across the floor.

“Don’t,” I warn, my voice low.

The second man sneers, “Or what?”

I don’t answer. The first one lunges again, and I meet him halfway, slamming my knee into his gut. He folds instantly, gasping. I shove him aside, ready for the next, but he’s already frozen, eyes flicking past me.

The stool beside me screeches against the floor as someone stands. Heavy steps, deliberate, cutting through the noise of the bar.

The stranger. He stops behind them, voice low and calm.

“She said back off.”

The men turn. The one nearest to me sneers.

“Who the hell are you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just take a step closer, eyes steady, posture relaxed in that way that only dangerous men manage.

“This isn’t your business,” the drunk spits.

The stranger’s tone doesn’t change.

“I’m making it mine.”

Then the man closest to me lunge sloppy, all pride and liquor. The stranger catches his wrist mid-swing, twists until there’s a crack and a cry.

The others stagger back, courage draining fast. “You done?” the stranger asks, still calm.

They glance at each other. No one answers. “Good,” he says, shoving the man he’s holding toward the door. “Leave.”

They go. One limping, the others muttering curses.I sit there, staring at the ripples in my beer, pretending my pulse hasn’t picked up speed.

“I didn't need the help.”

“You are welcome.” he answers, picking up the stool next to me.

“I never said thank you.”

“I know.” He almost smiles. “But that's the least you should have said.”

“There is no need to say it, I didn't need your help.”

He takes the stool one space over, signals for a drink, and I ignore him, as we sit in silence. My blood boils with rage. I hate the feeling of being helped, it feels like weakness.

After a minute, I say, “You always step into other people’s fights?”

“Only when they’re outnumbered,” he says, sipping. “Or when I’m bored.”

I study him. The line of his jaw, the faint scar along his temple, that stillness that doesn’t fit with violence. He doesn’t look like a man who picks fights for sport.

Something about him scratches at the edge of my memory.

“That's good for you.” I reply.

He nods slowly, eyes flicking to the faint silver marks on my wrist, my lunar mark.

We talk a bit. Nothing that matters.

His voice is low, steady, the kind that settles somewhere deep in my stomach. At some point, I realize I’ve been looking at him for too long.

I stand, meaning to leave, but the sudden movement sends the drink tipping down my shirt.

“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing napkins.

He stands too, holding out a clean towel from behind the bar before the bartender can move. “There’s a sink upstairs. My room’s there. You can clean up.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You’ll smell like beer all night.”

He’s right. I sigh, take the towel. “Fine. But just the sink.”

He smirks faintly. “Just the sink.”

The staircase creaks beneath our steps. His room is small, tucked under the eaves, lit by a single yellow bulb. He turns his back while I rinse the beer from my shirt. The cold water bites my skin.

My reflection in the cracked mirror looks tired, eyes shadowed, hair sticking to my cheek.

I don’t look like the girl who trained to kill Alphas. I look like someone running. When I turn, he’s watching me through the mirror. Not hungry. Just thoughtful, like he’s trying to solve something.

“You’re not from here,” he says.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

His gaze lingers on me, steady but unreadable. There’s something in it that pulls at me, something unsettlingly familiar.

“You keep looking at me like that,” I say, “and I’ll start to think you know me.”

“Maybe I do,” he says softly.

I laugh under my breath. “Doubt it.”

“Maybe not by name,” he continues, “but there’s something about you. It feels like I have known you for a long time.”

I don’t have a reply for that. He steps closer, close enough for his warmth to reach me. His hand brushes my jaw, fingers rough, thumb tracing the corner of my mouth.

My body shivers under his touch. It feels like standing too close to lightning, dangerous, alive. He kisses me and the world folds in on itself until there’s nothing left but heat and breath.

The quiet sound of something inside me breaking loose. Making me forget myself.