Watching me.
I knew it with a certainty that defied logic. In a room full of people, his eyes were on me.
A shiver ran through me, not entirely unpleasant. I should have looked away, should have felt violated by the scrutiny. Instead, I found myself staring back, challenging the unseen observer.
The moment stretched, electric and dangerous, until Lila bumped into me, breaking the connection.
"You okay?" she shouted over the music, noticing my distraction.
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Just needed a breather. I'm going to get another drink."
She gave me a thumbs up before turning back to the attractive stranger who'd been dancing nearby.
I made my way to the bar, ordering a water this time. I needed a clear head. As I waited, I couldn't resist glancing back at the balcony.
The figure was gone.
Relief and disappointment warred in my chest, an unsettling combination that made no sense. I took my water and found a quiet corner, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of being observed.
It was probably nothing. A trick of the light. A product of my overactive imagination and Lila's talk of watching and being watched.
But as the night wore on, as I rejoined Lila on the dance floor and later at a table with people she'd met, the feeling returned again and again—that prickling awareness, that certainty of being the focus of someone's undivided attention.
Each time I looked up, searching the balcony, the shadows, the edges of the crowd. Each time finding nothing concrete, just glimpses of a tall figure that vanished when I tried to focus on it.
By midnight, the sensation had become almost a presence itself—a shadow following me through the club, watching, waiting. It should have frightened me. Instead, it created a strange, heady tension that hummed beneath my skin like electricity.
"I need some air," I told Lila around 1 AM, the press of bodies and the weight of unseen eyes becoming too much.
She frowned, concern briefly cutting through her alcohol-induced cheer. "Want me to come with?"
"No, stay. I'll be right back."
I made my way through the crowd toward a side door marked with an exit sign. It opened onto a small courtyard, once part of the church grounds, now transformed into a smoking area with stone benches and potted plants.
The night air was cool against my flushed skin, the relative quiet a relief after the pounding music inside. A few other patrons lingered in the courtyard, smoking or talking in low voices, but it was peaceful compared to the chaos of the club.
I found an empty bench in a corner, partially hidden by the shadow of an ornamental tree, and sat down, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths.
What was wrong with me? I'd come out tonight to escape, to be free for a few hours. Instead, I'd spent the evening jumping at shadows, imagining eyes on me, feeling hunted in a way that was both terrifying and thrilling.
Maybe Lila was right. Maybe I did need to get out more, if one night at a club was enough to make me paranoid.
"You look lost in thought."
The voice came from beside me, low and smooth, with an accent I couldn't quite place—not quite Boston, not quite New York, with something older underneath, like whiskey aged in oak.
I opened my eyes, startled to find someone standing a few feet away. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit that fit him perfectly. His face was in shadow, features indistinct in the dim light of the courtyard.
My heart rate spiked, that same electric awareness rushing through me. It was him. I knew it with a certainty that defied explanation.
"I'm not lost," I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded. "Just taking a break."
He moved closer, into a patch of moonlight that illuminated his face for the first time.
Dark hair, cut short and neat. Strong features—a straight nose, high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass. But it was his eyes that caught and held me—dark, intense, focused on me with a concentration that was almost physical in its force.
He was handsome in a severe way, all sharp angles and controlled power. The kind of man who commanded attention without trying, who moved through the world expecting it to yield to him.
