Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“The usual.” Mario’s gruff words reach me from the other side of the counter.
Laura rushes to serve him his Guinness, grinning while he talks steadily. He’s older than me by a few years, maybe late twenties?
I think I need to warn Laura about him, but when I alluded to the fact that he might be untrustworthy the other day, she gave me a weird look.
So I keep those thoughts to myself.
The bar hums with low chatter, the thunk of glass against wood, the distant echo of laughter swallowed up by the bass-heavy music filtering through the speakers.
The usual crowd is gathered under the neon haze of ‘HAVEN’ like sinners seeking temporary absolution.
I work on autopilot, pouring drinks, wiping spills, and nodding along to slurred conversations that don’t require real listening. But then—
Something shifts.
My skin prickles as if the air has been punctured, the oxygen thickening and darkening in increments.
I don’t see him at first. I feel him.
Like a storm pressing in before the first crack of lightning.
Jude strides in, dressed in black, built like a wall.
No, a warning.
A threat.
The low amber glow from the bar lights drags over him, sharpening every edge, casting shadows where shadows shouldn’t be. His black T-shirt stretches across his torso, and my eyes widen upon seeing what’s on his half-exposed arms.
Full sleeves of unintelligible ink.
They stand out like marks of war, like a language only monsters speak.
He moves like he owns the place. Like he owns everything.
And I hate that my pulse stutters at the sight of him.
That my entire body tenses and my senses go on high alert.
I grip the bar towel tighter, pressing my fingers into the damp fabric, forcing myself to breathe.
Because he shouldn’t be here.
He never comes inside.
He’s only ever been outside, lurking like something too big, too sharp, too dangerous to step into the light.
But he’s here now.
Like he was in my home last night.
Why…?
He sits beside Mario, but his presence carries a different kind of weight. Where Mario blends into the background, Jude shifts the entire atmosphere.
His arms rest on the bar, muscles coiled under the sleeves of black ink. Serpentine scales wrap around his forearm, climbing, coiling, each ridge and curve etched with such precise detail that I can almost feel the rough texture beneath my fingers.
A skull is inked on his wrist, cracked and hollow-eyed, as if it’s seen too much and survived anyway. Thorn-covered vines twist through the gaps, weaving between bone and shadow, like something alive waiting to bite.
Jude doesn’t glance at me. Not at first. He just taps his fingers against the counter in a slow, deliberate motion.
Then he speaks in a voice that snakes down my spine and settles in places it shouldn’t. “Double bourbon. No ice.”
His detached, dissecting gaze lifts toward me, and it’s as if he’s seeing straight through me, peeling me apart layer by layer.
I hate that Jude makes me feel this way.
I’m fully clothed, but I feel stark naked around him.
I swallow hard, my fingers twitching as I grab the glass.
There’s no reason for my throat to feel dry or for my pulse to thud unevenly.
No reason at all.
After I pour his drink, my hands steadier than I feel, I slide it toward him. His fingers brush against mine when he reaches for the glass.
And for a moment, our eyes meet, mine frantic, his intense and unforgiving, like the grim reaper I used to fantasize about.
A spark of something dark and ancient courses through me at the feel of his long, rough fingers, and I jerk mine away, feeling heat creeping up my neck.
His eyes narrow slightly, but I’m already rushing to another customer at the other end of the bar.
Even though I spend the rest of my shift trying to ignore him, I can feel him.
His eyes.
His attention.
His sheer presence.
It’s suffocating.
I’m teetering on the edge of a breakdown, trying to think about what the hell he plans to do next.
I’ve been jittery for weeks, and I don’t think I can survive this for long.
Shaking my head, I choose to focus on work.
The tray wobbles in my hand as I move through the crowded back tables, balancing drinks with practiced ease, my mind staying three steps ahead.
That’s when a sharp slap cracks against my ass.
I freeze.
The tray tilts dangerously, liquid sloshing over my fingers. A sharp inhale burns my throat, but I swallow the yelp down, choke on it, and bury it where all the other moments like this go.
This isn’t the first time; it won’t be the last.
The cold, familiar feeling of disgust slithers through me, but I force a tight-lipped smile and step back before he can trap me—
It happens so fast.
One second, I’m pulling away. The next, a rough shove knocks me backward, and my balance falters as the tray tilts from my grip.
The world lurches.
The crash of breaking glass shatters the air.