Ch. 26

“Warmth”

I don’t even have time to slip behind a group of rowdy men, their eyes thankfully fixed on a barmaid, who leans over their table with a practiced smile. The low hum of conversation seems to stutter as I entered, and I feel it — a wave of eyes settling on me, heavier than I expected. The laughter and chatter faded to a dull murmur. Not just the men, but now everyone is looking. Whispers ripple across the room, and the bustling life shifts, seeming to pin me in place. My pulse quickens, and my hands tremble at my side. My hunger momentarily forgotten in the chill of their stares.

Then I catch sight of her. The blonde, busty barmaid from my memory, gaze narrows, mouth a tight line. Her posture stiffens before she starts toward me, her eyes a challenge I’m not sure I am ready for.

Shit.

As she draws closer, my mind swirls. If she remembers me… I am so hungry, plus a drink wouldn’t hurt. Getting thrown out isn’t exactly in my plans for the night.

Just as the anxiety moves beneath my skin, gnawing at my thoughts, twisting them with a devious delight. The anxious hum in my chest increases until, with a creak, the door opens. My heart flutter as Devlyn, Iamys and Zanir stroll in, their presence both a comfort and a distraction.

My eyes dart over to them, landing on Zanir almost without thinking. His eyes meet mine, steady, and a flicker of warmth seeps into me, unfathomable yet gentle, stirs something deep inside — a spark that battles the chill that had settled in my chest. It anchors me, quieting the fear and the restless ache just enough to let me breathe again.

The floorboards creak underfoot as the barmaid strides toward me, each step loud enough to cut through the inaudible murmur of the tavern. I catch Devlyn’s gaze flickering between the barmaid and me, her scowl growing deeper as she mouths… Really? I shrug as icy panic moves through my veins.

Next to her, Iamys is already eyeing the other barmaid leaning over a nearby table, barely noticing anything else. It’s almost laughable — one wrong move and half of Faymore has me under scrutiny, yet my allies are lost in their own distractions.

Then my eyes shift back to Zanir, and his eye are on me, steady and unblinking. It’s frightening how easily he holds my attention, the way his stare seems to reach through the room and land right on the parts of me that feel unsteady. Nyx… I think, my chest tightening. His gaze uproars something I don’t have the words for — a flame that both warms and unsettles me. Just for a moment, the warmth edges out, the unease threading through me, enough to steady my nerves, if only a little.

But reality returns with the barmaid’s relentless approach, her expression a warning I know well I realize, with a sinking feeling, that I might have to act — to quiet her, to escape the attention in a way I may regret. The thought stiffens around me like a rope, but one look at the barmaid’s glare, and I know I might not have another choice.

I step quickly to Zanir’s side, pulled toward him as though he is the only steady point in this room full of curious eyes. All the attention prickles my skin, a thousand glances pressing in on me, each one cutting as if daggers themselves. I can feel them sizing me up, moving across my skin as if I owe them something, lingering too long — strangers whose scrutiny I can’t quite handle, not now. Maybe if I appear accounted for, their stares will lose their weight, dissolve into the background. And so, almost instinctively, I reach for his hand.

His gaze never wavers, still locked on me, a steady force of its own intense and unrelenting. I can feel it, the faint flame within his cerulean eyes, casting a mesmerizing glow that seems to burn past my defenses. My skin shivers under his gaze, sharp and undeniable, like a tether grounding me. Just holding his hand might silence the chaos of eyes watching me — or at least, give me something solid to cling to.

The air is thick with the pungent scent of stale ale mingling with the rich aroma of roasted meat, interspersed with the biting tang of spilled drinks, clashing with my mounting anxiety. The whispers of the crowd blends into a chaotic symphony, each note heightening my awareness of the eyes upon me. I must remedy this situation, and fast.

My hand moves slowly, almost hesitantly, but the pull is stronger than my doubt. I lace my fingers through his, and his warmth spreads like a slow, steady current, settling somewhere in the depth of mind. Everything else fades — the barmaid, the crowd, even the clawing hunger within me. It’s just us, his touch sending a fragile warmth that battles the familiar coldness of my doubts and fears.

Grasping his hand felt both reckless and necessary — a lifeline thrown into the chaos of a storm. With each pulse of warmth from his skin, and I feel a hint of something that I don’t dare name or address. Shove that away, now.

A storm of confusion and longing swirl within me — an inexplicable urge to pull away, yet an equally powerful need to stay close — his warmth battling the chill of fear and hunger. The unspoken request for refuge in that single touch, but there’s a steadiness in the way he holds my hand, like he is offering something deeper than just comfort. And I realize I can’t bring myself to let go.

The warmth of his skin is almost startling against my own — frigid. Why am so cold? I’m barely able to process the thought before I notice the blonde, busty barmaid is only a few feet away now, her eyes darting between me, Zanir, and our intertwined hands.

My breath hitches, but I force it down.

No, focus.

Her eyes narrow, a nasty glint flickering within them as she sizes me up. “What’s this? Stealing another woman’s man?” She sneers, her voice laced with accusation.

I scoff at the idea. I have never stolen anyone’s man — let alone wanted the attention from anyone in here, now or then. But as I squeeze Zanir’s hand in reflex, the warmth of his skim reminds me of the attention I am getting now, searing through my attempts to ignore it. His thumb brushes mine, almost as if he knows the exact train of thoughts racing through my mind. It’s confusing, but there is a steadiness to his touch that draws me in, making me wonder if he somehow understands more than he should.

The thought of letting go crosses my mind, to retreat to the farthest corner, but the subtle unwavering he grips my hand keeps me right in place. I’m like a tightly wound knot ready to snap, filled with too much power for a mere human to handle — and even less likely to want their affections. If only the blonde barmaid knew that I would devour any one of these men, chew them up and spit them out like nothing more than the blood of my last meal.

Nyx, I need food. Yet as much as I want to wrench my hand away and snarl, I keep my hand right where it is, unwilling to disturb the unusual steadiness Zanir seems to offer, something I have always had to figure out on my own, something no other has ever… just given me. Not that I would admit that.

I steal a glance at him, time seems to slow down. I wonder if feels the same flame sparking from our hands that I do, but he simply holds my gaze with a knowing look, his cerulean eyes flaring with something almost… amusement? Or maybe it’s understanding. The notion claws at my mind, but there’s no way.

My skin prickles, growing colder the longer my fingers stay entwined with Zanir’s, exposing a chill I have always kept beneath the surface. The coldness, like a dense mist wrapping itself around my heart, has always been unwelcomed, but a familiar companion — a steady reminder of the danger I carry. But with Zanir’s hand in mine, that dread falters, replaced by the quiet, creeping warmth of his skin. It doesn’t melt the chill away, but it battles it, steadying in a way I don’t want to admit I might need…

No. I’m losing my train of thought. Hungry, I’m hungry.

I blink, only to find Zanir’s eye on me, studying me in that unnervingly calm way of his. “Hmm…” he mutters, his voice barely a rumble, yet I feel it vibrate through his hand and up my arm.

Standing this close, I suddenly realize how tall he is, towering over me so that even the top of my head barely reaches his shoulders. I would have to tip my head all the back to… I catch myself scowling, but a softness moves across with sharp features mixed with intent — that draws my eyes back to his face, almost against my will.

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of mischief in his expression as he leans a fraction closer, the corners of his lips curling into a teasing smirk. “Stolen?” he muses, his voice low and taunting. “I think we both know the one doing the stealing here.”

The words linger in the air, ambiguous but deliberate, twisting their way under my skin. I feel my breath catch, half from indignation, half from the strange thrill that seems to light up the chill inside me, blurring the line between what is real and what he is suggesting.

I resist the urge to let a full scowl twist my face as a wave of goosebumps prickles my skin. Is there a draft in here? Why is everything so heightened? The tavern air brushing against me, the faint pulse of his warmth, the beating of my heart, the weight of his hand around mine? I hate it.

“Seems we’re stuck together now.” Zanir raises out joined hands, his voice dripping into a soft, almost possessive tone.

The blond, busty barmaid’s eye move over Zanir, lingering on him with a mixture of curiosity and something sharper — maybe judgment, maybe warning. She takes in his dark mahogany-brown hair, swept back but still wild enough to hang over his ears, framing his face with the stubborn strand that falls against his temple, braided.

I roll my eyes, but something unpleasant stirs in my chest as the barmaid’s gaze lingers on Zanir. She is sizing him up, her eyes tracing the bruise on his forehead, then drifting over his shoulder, down his arm, to where my fingers are laced with his. The way she looks at him, assessing, makes me feel… irritated. The realization stings, irritating and impossible to ignore. But it is ridiculous, I tell myself, forcing my grip on hand to stay casual. What do I care where her attention goes?

My lips press together, a faint twinge of annoyance tickles the back of my mind, quick and absurd. This is pointless.

Just as I’m about to drop his hand, Zanir shifts, subtly brushing his thumb over my fingers, and I feel the heat of his gaze before I meet it. He’s watching me, lips curving into a perceiving smirk, catching me off guard. His eyes are too sharp, seeing right through me, feeling every confused beat of my heart as if it was his own.

My eyes snap up to his, pulled from the barmaid in an instant. That smirk. Like he is amused by something. I narrow my eyes, but his grin only widens, a slow, infuriatingly warm smile that makes my pulse trip.

“Something on your mind, little bat?” he whispers as he leans down over me, voice dripping low, playful even.

A shiver traces up my spine, and I scowl, trying to hide the slight rush of warmth flaring beneath his stare. This tavern must have a draft, after all.

“Careful with that one.” The barmaid's voice draws both of our attention away from each other. Her tone is marked, eyes darting to the wound still visible on Zanir’s neck, and the half-healed gash peeking out from the collar of his shirt. “She’s a snake, with claws.” She adds, giving me a pointed look.

I feel my face twist in protest. A snake? Really? Sure, I have my moments, but I have picked a snake form in ages, thank you very much.

I give her a mocking smile and raise my free hand to point squarely at the yellow bruise on his forehead. “I only claim this one.” I say with exaggerated enthusiasm, standing on my tiptoes to make sure everyone knows exactly which injury I am talking about. A smug grin tugs at my lips until my eyes fall to Devlyn, whose eyes are searching my face for something, and I don’t want to know what it is.

Right on cue, Zanir doesn’t miss a beat to drag my attention away, glancing down at me with a bemused blaze in his eyes. “Good aim, little bat,” he says, the words as warm and rich as the way his thumb subtly grazes my knuckles. “Rocks don’t slip through your fingers, but I wonder… what does?”

A strange tightness rises in my chest, like I am supposed to understand his words, but don’t quite. Slip through my fingers? No, what an absurd thing to say. Nothing slips through my fingers.

My pulse skips again, another shiver twisting through me, cold and unwelcome. I glance around as if this draft has a source, yet the tavern is crowded, sealed tight — no open windows, no doors ajar, only and bodies pressing closer.

Zanir's gaze is constant, his smirk softening, almost like he is watching my every thought unfold, aware of something just beyond my reach. His hand still clasped in mine — warm and grounding, a continual reminder against the surrounding noise — and the realization makes my heart stutter, a warmth blooming and then fading from the cold under my skin. In past encounters and even my own flames, warmth had often been a prelude to destruction, but with Zanir, the uncertainty felt different.

“Yes,” he says, his mouth curling into a full fangless smile. “She can be… among other things, too.” His thumb circling one of knuckles, a small infuriating gesture of our currently shared connection. “I have discovered quite a bit already,” he continues, his voice a shade lower, as if the words are only meant for me. “Lucky for you, I do enjoy a challenge.”

My lungs freeze, my whole body goes rigid with cold that moves through me like winter itself. I swear, if I opened my mouth, frost might escape. But his hand is still holding me, anchoring me whether I want it to or not.

Another small squeeze tightens over my fingers, like his way of keeping me in place — or pulling me back from something…

A claw drags down my mental door, scraping against the damaged wood, echoing in my skull.

No, not now. Remain, calm…

I pull in a jagged breath, finding my voice. “Can we get a table?” It comes out too loud, too sudden. I’m starving, or delirious, or both, and the walls feel like they’re closing in. I need… food, a distraction, something to make sense of this madness.