ISKERA
The shadow is right.
The wholesome male is watching me, keenly, his gaze a physical weight against my skin even though there is no flicker of intrigue on his face.
It's a blank, methodical study, like one would stare at a canvas to understand the hype of an artist who claims it is their masterwork.
Under that relentless scrutiny, I'm suddenly unsure what to do with my fingers—which twitch at my sides—or my feet, which itch with a sudden, vain desire to be encased in fine shoes like the ones Seren wears daily.
Go to him, the shadow urges again. This time, it's more persistent, a low vibration in my pulse. And even though I'm starting to overthink the terrifying idea of getting ruined, I move forward.
I'm drawn by an invisible thread toward the male who continues to watch me as if he has all the time in the world—without blinking, without glancing away, his focus entirely, suffocatingly on me.
Before I reach him, however, a server cuts through the air, stopping abruptly in front of me. She holds a thin, silver tray containing just one flute of pale, bubbling champagne.
"Courtesy of the man over there…" she says, her red-painted lips attempting and failing to hold a genuine smile. Her eyes dart down to my bare toes, and I catch the judgmental squish of her nose.
But I find myself feeling rather grateful that no one in this club recognizes me; if they had, I would have been thrown out instantly, or the room would have emptied for my sake to avoid the taint of my presence.
So, yes, I count my blessings.
I turn my head to look at the section of the club she is pointing toward. A middle-aged bloke with a blooming pot belly sits with his friends around one of the circular tables, talking and laughing while looking directly at me. He raises a glass in a mock toast and beckons me over with a flick of his fingers.
But before I can get a single word out, the shadow scoffs within me.
He just wants to toy with you; he sees you as mere entertainment, it says. Don't bother with him. Our man is still waiting for us. Fast, before he leaves.
Our man?
I roll my eyes at the possessiveness. However, I decline the drink—much to the visible surprise of the server and the waiting male—and walk around her. I continue my journey toward the strange man who still watches me with that unnerving blankness.
As I get closer to him, a smile is teased onto my lips. I find myself ignoring others trying to catch my attention, doing so before I am even fully conscious of the motion. It makes me scared of the shadow within me, just a tad bit.
Did it have control over my physical reflexes, too?
Stop worrying your pretty head, vessel, it purrs. A smile will push this matter fast.
I try frowning at the statement and its dark implications, but the effort is futile.
My muscles refuse to obey; my lips relax into a soft, inviting curve, and I can even feel the treacherous brightening of my eyes.
Oh well. I'm surely getting ruined today.
When I'm finally within his personal space, his scent—a rich, grounding chord of sandalwood—seems to excite the shadow. Hell, it excites me.
It makes me want to press my face to the broad heat of his chest, to inhale him until my lungs ache, to stay and rest as if this stranger were home.
"Hey…" My tongue gets loose on its own accord, or rather, the shadow's accord.
Left to me, I would have been silent. I have not spoken to a male since Rian, even before him, and that had only earned me heartbreak and a bitter rejection.
Humph.
The stranger doesn't respond at first. Instead, his eyes trail slowly downward, starting from the hair on my head to my face—lingering on every inch of my features—then moving to my neck, my chest, and the rise of my breasts…
By the time he is done with his visual feast, I feel hot.
I feel as though I've been physically undressed right there in the open. I feel halfway ruined already. My tongue is dried of liquid, and I find myself thirsting for him, for his words, for anything he might give.
I have never felt this way before.
But the stranger takes his delicious time, a silence that seems to thrill the shadow.
"You look like you don't care if the world burns down," he says.
His voice is a low thing that vibrates deep in my marrow. I like it.
I lick my lower lip, and I shift closer to him before I can think to stop myself, his scent drawing me in like a moth to a flame, until I am barely a foot away.
"Maybe, I don't," I whisper.
No, I drawl it. I'm surprised again at the smoky, almost slutty quality of my voice.
It must be the shadow, I decide; it must be the force behind these tingles spreading across my arms and down my spine, pooling at the peaks of my breasts when the stranger finally smiles.
It is a toothless one, but potent, nonetheless.
"Interesting."
"I'm just looking for a match," I continue when he refuses to say anything else, content to simply watch me.
He raises a single brow, and I swear that is another hot gesture that makes my mouth water.
And so, without thinking, I act. I stretch out my hand and take his. I can't help but smile when his second brow shoots up in genuine surprise.
I have caught him off guard. Good.
"Am I interesting enough for a night in the sheets?"
He smiles again, a flash of mischief blooming in those dark eyes. "Lead the way, princess."
I might have jerked in fear at the word princess, but the shadow keeps me rod-straight.
It's just a term of endearment, vessel. Take him.
I relax then, forcing a playful wink at him, acutely aware of the tension humming between us, a cord of electricity that I realize has been taut since our eyes first met.
I lead him leisurely out of the loud atmosphere of the club, toward the hallway I feel led toward the private rooms.
I stop at the last door in the hallway and twist the knob without hesitation. The door opens into a dimly lit room holding just a bed, a table, and a lone chair to the side.
The air here is different, cooler, smelling of old cedar and the faint, metallic tang of the city outside. Shadows pool in the corners, dancing in the amber glow of a single wall sconce.
I lead him inside and shut the door firmly behind him. I let his hand free and face him fully, completely enthralled by the silver gaze that is heightened by the low light.
His physique is overwhelming; I only come up to his chest, and his scent threatens to drive me crazy with a primal sort of want.
"Are you sure of this, princess…?"
His voice makes the final decision for me. I nod, my breath hitching in my throat.
I want those strong hands on me, marking me, grounding me. I don't ask his name. I don't care.
If tomorrow the Priest's blade finds the soft curve of my throat, I want to know what it feels like to be wanted first.
I want to give away the one thing my father couldn't take by force.