Page 26
“Not always with this name, though.” It’s a guess, based on what Reef told me a couple weeks ago, but Orien’s slight nod confirms it.
“It was a speakeasy before.” He leans back, shifting so his knee touches mine once more. “It went by a different name.”
“What was it?” I ask, burning at the contact.
“The Red Lantern.” His mouth curves into a small smile. “Original, right?”
“Very subtle.”
“Subtlety wasn’t the point in those days.” He lifts a finger to run along my high collar before slipping beneath. “Survival was.”
Heat spreads through me from the intimate contact, and I swallow hard, my throat clicking as my head tilts to the side of its own volition, my lashes dropping to half-mast.
The band shifts into another song, a heavier beat vibrating through the floor and up through my bar stool. The lead singer steps closer to the front of the stage, her voice rising to carry over the increased volume.
Orien leans in as she hits the chorus, his mouth near my ear. “She used to sing backup for—”
I turn my head toward him, the words landing close enough to my ear for his breath to warm the sensitive skin below it. Close enough for me to catch the stomach-clenching scent of his pheromones and the hint of bourbon beneath.
“—Delilah Rhinehart,” he finishes.
“Right,” I rasp, and take another swallow of whiskey to stop myself from kissing him again.
The song hits the bridge, the tempo dropping as the guitarist takes a solo, fingers flying over the strings. Around us, the crowd shifts, some moving toward the dance floor, others clustering closer to the bar.
The guitarist holds Orien’s full attention, appreciation written in the slow tap of his shoe. “He’s good.”
“The best in the city, according to Kain,” I agree, turning toward the stage. “They’re playing at the Riverside next month.”
Orien stiffens ever so slightly. “When did he tell you that?”
“We talk sometimes,” I say, aiming for nonchalance. “When he’s not on stage.”
Orien’s head turns toward me, his pale gray eyes holding mine. The silence stretches, that sizzle of awareness creeping in. Slowly, I set my glass down and shift my hand to his shoulder, fingers curling, my palm fitting the curve of his shoulder through the fabric of his henley.
Orien stays perfectly still, a challenge in his stare to cross the line neither of us has broken yet.
Heat builds under my skin at the thought, the flush starting at my chest and working its way up to my cheeks. A tremor goes through me. It would be so easy to lean forward and act on the attraction simmering between us.
But I lost my head last time, and it scared me. What if it happens again? The plan at the end of this is to leave and never see Orien again.
With a shaky breath, I withdraw my hand and grab my glass instead, downing a large gulp and letting the burn distract me from the warmth spreading through my body.
Orien doesn’t comment as he lifts an eyebrow. “Another?”
I tilt my glass to rattle the ice cubes at the bottom. “Yeah, thanks.”
He signals Ghost with a raised finger, and the bartender gestures in acknowledgment.
Orien turns back to me, somehow shifting closer in the process. “What’s on your mind?”
I lick my lips. There’s too much on my mind, but this is as good a moment as any for some insertion that’s not the insertion my body is craving.
I lower my gaze to my drink. “I wasn’t sure who I should talk to. It might be an issue that aligns with your…business. But I don’t know who I’m supposed to approach. Should I talk to Ghost? Or maybe Petra?”
Orien’s lips thin, as if this wasn’t the topic he wanted. “Talk to me.”
Of its own accord, my hand returns to his body, settling on his arm this time as if I can’t help myself from touching the Alpha, which it appears I can’t.
