Prey
It was too early to go home. Twyla would be hip deep in whatever new project she’d started, and I didn’t want to worry her with how I looked. My hair was still plastered to my skin from the heat of the club, and the biting night air sent goosebumps down my back in stark contrast.
The thought of climbing the creaky stairs to my apartment above the general store made my stomach twist. Twyla would be up there surrounded by half-finished craft projects, her purple micro braids catching the light as she bounced between them with her endless energy. She’d notice the blood, the bruises, the way I was favoring my left side. Twyla would see right through any excuse I made. She’d already taken a chance on me, giving me both a job and a home when my history should have sent her running. I couldn’t burden her with this, too.
The street was dark as I headed to the bar, street lights flickering. With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, I let a small orb of blue light form above my palm, just enough to illuminate the uneven sidewalk ahead. The familiar cool tingle of my magic was comforting after the day I’d had.
Instead, I ended up at The Rusty Nail, a dive bar just a few blocks from home. The familiar smell of stale beer and pretzels wrapped around me like an old blanket. A group of regulars clustered around the TV mounted above the bar, their collective groan at a fumbled play drowned out the classic rock playing over the speakers. No glamours here, no hidden cameras or supernatural predators lurking in dark corners. Just humans being human.
I slid onto the least sticky barstool and ordered a Dark ‘n’ Stormy.“Carajo,”I muttered under my breath, “what a fucking day.” I rolled up my sleeves to keep them from sticking to the tacky bar surface, revealing the intricate tattoos that covered both arms from wrist to shoulder. The swirling designs—part tribal, part art nouveau—had been my one significant expense after escaping the Madam’s world. Each session had felt like reclaiming another piece of myself, covering the skin she’d once treated as merchandise with art of my own choosing. I traced one of the spiraling patterns, following it as it wound around my forearm like smoke.
My phone buzzed—Madam Michelle, of course. A winky face and a heart, as if we were old friends sharing an inside joke. I could block her number, change myown, disappear into the city’s sprawl. But…I just couldn’t do it. So I did what I always did—ignored the message and scrolled social media instead, scrolling through pictures of other people’s carefully curated lives.
The clock in the corner of my screen reminded me that Twyla would be up for hours yet reorganizing the store’s entire inventory or designing new window displays with whatever craft supplies had caught her eye this week. The woman was a marketing genius when she could focus long enough to finish a project.
“This seat taken?” The voice rumbled like distant thunder. I looked up to find a mountain of a man indicating the empty stool beside me. Red hair and beard, both slightly wild, framed a face made for friendly smiles despite the impressive muscles that stretched his henley.Damn.
I shook my head, trying not to wince at the movement. “All yours.”
“Rough night?” The redhead asked, gesturing to my scraped hands with his beer bottle. He spoke with an accent I couldn’t quite place—something old world, but smoothed by years of American living.
“Something like that.” I took another sip of my lime tinged drink, the burn helping to ground me.
He nodded, not pushing for details. “Kronos,” he offered instead, extending a hand. I hesitated before taking it, surprised that his grip was gentle despite his size.
“Alex.” The thrum of my magic caused his pupils to dilate. Guilt twisted in my stomach—I wasn’t even trying to use it tonight, but sometimes itleaked out when I was tired or hurt.Shit.I slid my hand out of his, trying to put some distance between us. I wasn’t in the mood for company. Especially not the obsessive kind my ‘talents’ enthralled.
“Greek?” I asked, trying to place his name. My knowledge of mythology was rusty at best, colored by what little I’d picked up from Twyla’s info dump stories during slow days at the store. She’d had a fixation on mythos once she realized monsters were in fact real after the Great Revelation about ten years ago. That’s how I got the job, telling her about my abilities. She didn’t want to use them, though I would have to draw in clientele. No, she just wanted to ask about a million questions a day.
A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Something like that.”
The game ended, the crowd dispersed with good-natured arguing about bad calls and missed plays. The space between us felt charged and a little too intimate for my liking. Kronos ordered another round for both of us, sliding a fresh drink my way. I caught the lime before it could slip off the rim, my fingers brushing his. The contact sent electricity racing up my arm.
Kronos traced patterns in the condensation on his glass—strong, scarred hands that had seen their share of action.I wonder what they’d look like wrapped around my throat.
“You military?” I asked, noting the proud way he carried himself.
“Private sector.” He took a slow sip of his drink.
“So what kind of private sector work are we talkin’?”
He took a slow sip of his beer, eyes never leaving mine. “I find people who don’t want to be found.”
The words should have set off warning bells, made me pull back. Instead, I shifted closer, intrigued. “That sounds like it could be a dangerous line of work.”
“You could say that.” His voice dropped lower, a rumble that I could feel in my chest. “Though I get the feeling you know something about dangerous work yourself.”
“Nothing as exciting as hunting people down.” I turned toward him fully now, my knee pressing against his thigh. His body radiated heat like a furnace. “Must make you a lot of friends.”
“I’ve never had any complaints.” There was something in his smile that made my pulse spike. His silver eyes glowed in the dim light of the bar. “When I want something, I tend to get it.”
The rum made me bold. Or maybe it was the need to feel something–anything–other than the helplessness that had been choking me all night. I let my hand rest on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under my touch. “And what do you want right now?”
His hand covered mine, thumb brushing over my knuckles. The touch was gentle, but there was restrained power in every movement. “I think you know what I want.”
I drew in a shaky breath, hyper aware of every point of contact between us. “Oh yeah? Whydon’t you show me?”
Kronos’s fingers tightened over mine, just enough pressure to make his strength clear. “Here?”
