Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I open my eyes and scan the crowd again, checking faces out of habit. Making sure no one looks too interested, too familiar, too dangerous. Every time I check faces, I expect to see one of them—the Crow who leaned close to wipe his blade on my father’s shirt, his grin etched so deep I still see it when I close my eyes. I see my father’s back as he shoved me into the closet, hear his whispered command to stay quiet, stay hidden.
Obedience saved me. Cowardice haunts me.
But that’s when I see him.
He’s not a Crow from that night, but there’s something about him . . .
Sitting alone at a corner table, he stares through the audience, pinning me in place. I almost miss my next line—something that never happens. But this man is throwing me off balance for some unknown reason.
Dark hair falls across his forehead, and there’s something dangerous in the curve of his smile that’s hidden by a thick beard that makes me want to run my fingers through it. It’s long and dominates his face, but I can still make out the distinct line of his jaw beneath it. His mustache is subtly curled at the ends, giving the villain vibe I didn’t know I wanted—maybe even needed—until now. This is a man who clearly is comfortable in his own skin, who exudes confidence and danger in equal measure.
His suit is impeccable, but there’s a wildness in his presence that tells me he’s anything but tame.
The suit is obviously expensive, perfectly tailored. It’s an understated luxury that whispers money instead of shouting it. Most men his age in jazz clubs wear leather jackets, trying to look younger, cooler. But this man doesn’t need to try.
Dad would have said that confidence belonged to men from his generation, not mine. Maybe he’s right . . .
This guy’s got to be in his forties at least. Old enough to know better than to look at me like that. Old enough that I should know better than to like it.
I can practically taste the mystery rolling off him in waves.
I’ve had my share of admirers, sure. Being a singer in a jazz club, you get used to the attention. But I’ve never been one to mix business with pleasure. Music has always been enough—that and staying inconspicuous, staying safe, staying one step ahead of whoever might still be looking for Sara Mitchell.
But this man . . . he’s different. His gaze holds mine as I continue to sing, and I feel exposed, as if he can see past the stage persona I’ve carefully crafted. As if he can see through Saylor Mitchell straight to the frightened girl who chose her new name in a Greyhound bathroom stall with shaking hands.
I hold his stare as I continue to sing, my voice growing huskier with each verse. My fingers trail along the microphone stand suggestively. I’m performing for the whole room, but in this moment, it’s just for him.
As the song reaches its climax, I descend from the stage, weaving between tables like I do every night. The patrons reach out, trying to touch me, but I dodge their grasping hands with practiced ease. I’m heading straight for my mysterious observer.
I reach his table just as the final notes fade away. Up close, I can see the glint in his dark eyes, the slight curl of his lips that hints at cruelty. The lines edging his thick lashes that confirm what the suit suggested—he’s got at least twenty years on me.
I should care. I don’t.
I smile, a simple gesture that feels more genuine than any I’ve given in this club before. Then I turn and make my way back to the stage, my heart racing as I feel the intensity of his stare following my every move.
I return to the stage and finish my set, but my mind is elsewhere. As I belt out the final notes of my last song, I steal a glance in his direction. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t taken his focus off my face for a second.
The applause washes over me as I take my bow, but it’s all background noise. There’s a hum in my ear. The same hum I felt that night, minutes before they slit my father’s throat. The one that says danger is coming.
But this time, I don’t run.
After my final song, I head to the bar, deliberately passing close to his table. My throat is dry from singing, but that’s not the only reason I need a drink.
His gaze burns into me. I’m a match and he ignites the flame.
“Whiskey, neat,” I tell the bartender, my body buzzing from my performance and—
“Make that two,” a deep voice says from behind me. The sound is low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. The voice of someone who’s lived long enough to know exactly what he wants.