Chapter 3: Whiskey and Wanting
Clara’s breath hitched. “Stay? Here?” The words came out thin, stretched tight with disbelief. She glanced around the bar, at the grimy walls and the men who watched her like a curious distraction. This wasn’t a hotel; it was their den, all stained wood and territorial pride.
Reaper didn’t bother to confirm it again. He simply held her gaze, a silent wall of finality. Then he gave a slight nod to Havoc. “Get her settled. The back room.”
“My pleasure,” Havoc said, his hand still a warm, unwelcome weight on her back. He guided her up from the booth. Her legs felt like rubber. The wrapped book was a damp, pathetic anchor in her arms.
As they moved away from the booth, the atmosphere shifted. The initial novelty of her presence was wearing off, leaving behind a low current of something else. Boredom, maybe, or a predatory interest waiting for an opening. Havoc steered her away from the main cluster of tables, toward a dimmer area near a weathered pool table where the light from a hanging bulb cast long, swaying shadows.
“The back room’s just through there,” Havoc said, pointing to a scarred door past the pool table. “It’s not much, but it’s dry. Got a couch that’s seen better days, but it’s cleaner than the floor.”
Before they could reach it, a figure unfolded himself from where he’d been leaning against the pool table, chalking a cue with lazy strokes. He was younger than the others, mid-twenties, with a lean build and eyes that held a restless, glittering energy even in the dim light.
“Well, what’s this, then?” he drawled, stepping directly into their path. The smell of cheap whiskey preceded him, sharp and potent. He ignored Havoc completely, his focus pinpointed on Clara. A grin spread across his face, too wide, too intense. “Lost a kitten, Havoc?”
Havoc’s posture tightened almost imperceptibly beside her. “Mind your business, Chaos. Boss’s orders.”
“Chaos” chuckled, the sound low and buzzing. “Everything’s my business.” His eyes, a warm brown that should have been friendly, raked over her. “Heard we had a visitor. A librarian.” He said the word like it was a dirty joke. He took another step, closing the distance. He was so close she could see the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow.
Clara instinctively tried to step back, but Havoc’s hand on her back held her firm. Panic fluttered in her throat.
Chaos reached out. His fingers, calloused and rough, brushed against her jawline, tracing the curve from her ear to her chin. The touch was startlingly intimate, proprietary. She flinched, her head jerking away.
“Easy there,” he murmured, his grin not faltering. His thumb stroked once more, a rough caress that felt like a brand. “Just being friendly. We gotta make our guest feel welcome, right? Specially one with such pretty, scared eyes.”
“Back off, Cal,” Havoc’s voice lost its playful lilt, turning flat and hard. The shift was instantaneous. The charming Irishman was gone, replaced by something just as dangerous as the man in front of them.
Chaos’s eyes flicked to Havoc, the grin turning razor-sharp. “What’s the matter, Liam? Claiming dibs? I didn’t see your name on her.” His gaze returned to Clara, lingering on the pulse he could probably see hammering in her neck. “She doesn’t look like she belongs to anyone yet.”
The possessive wording made her stomach lurch. She felt like a piece of meat between two dogs. Havoc’s fingers pressed harder into her back, a silent warning.
From the shadows near the jukebox, a deeper voice cut through the tension, quiet but absolute. “Enough.”
Both Havoc and Chaos stilled. Reaper hadn’t moved from his booth, but his command carried across the room. It wasn’t loud. It was worse than that. It was absolute.
Chaos dropped his hand from her face as if burned, though the mischievous glint in his eyes didn’t entirely die. He gave a theatrical shrug and took a step back, his attention still fixed on Clara. “Another time, then, library girl.”
Havoc didn’t wait. He propelled her forward, past the pool table and toward the back room door. His touch was no longer guiding; it was urgent. As he pushed the door open, Clara glanced back over her shoulder.
Chaos was already slouched back against the pool table, taking a long swig from a whiskey bottle, but his eyes followed her, bright with unresolved interest. And in the deeper shadows, she saw Reaper still watching, a silent sovereign in his court, his blue eyes unreadable but intent. The storm outside roaring its approval, sealing the walls around her. She was in, and there was no out.