Wonder (Forbidden Fairytales #3)

1. 1 – Alyss

1 – Alyss

T his bourbon tastes like caramel and bad decisions.

Swirling it in my hand, I drain the final dregs and place it down, pushing the glass across the chipped wooden counter. “Same again when you’re ready.”

The bartender eyes me, but nods.

He doesn’t need to worry – not yet, at least. I learned to manage my tolerance for alcohol in a far more dangerous place than this crappy little rundown bar. Paint peels off the neglected walls around me, posters advertising long-passed Battle of the Bands nights faded and curling over at the edges.

The thought of how exactly I learned to hold my liquor… those memories burn the back of my throat far more than any bourbon ever has.

Six months.

Today, in fact.

The dark corner I’m hiding in lights up as my phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen, my lips pressing together.

Chess.

The bartender slides a fresh glass my way and I look up, nodding in thanks before my finger presses down to reject the call.

Sorry, Chess.

I’m not in the mood for a row tonight.

Although if he was less of a lecturing asshole, I might have been in the mood for something else .

I take another sip of the bourbon.

Bad fucking decisions.

My eyes lift, glancing around the bar.

Slim pickings. A few stools up from me, two middle-aged men with weathered faces and wedding rings argue over the game showing on the tiny television on the wall. Across from them is a group of kids who clearly got in on someone else’s ID. They’re looking around nervously, as if they might be swooped on by law enforcement at any second for daring to buy an underage beer.

My throat tightens as I turn.

That’s that, then—

Wait.

I pause.

In the far corner, there’s another man.

And he’s watching me.

My hackles rise, instinctive wariness kicking in as I pick up my glass and take another sip, watching from the corner of my eye.

His arms are bent as he rests them on the battered table, white shirt sleeves pushed up over his elbows to reveal golden, lithe, corded muscle. It flexes as he lifts his own drink, throat working as he downs it.

His face is hidden in the shadows as he sets the glass down, and I find myself suddenly…

Curious.

I take my time finishing my own drink, my eyes flickering to the empty glass that sits in front of him.

But he doesn’t leave. I nod to the skeptical bartender for another refill as I stand and wind my way around the bar. The restrooms are located on the far side – and in rather fortuitous planning, I’ll have to pass him to get to them.

I slow down as I approach, my hand digging into my bag before I let my eyes drift.

His eyes are the same color as bourbon. Not the cheap shit I’ve been throwing down my neck here, but the good stuff - warm and smoky and well-aged in a decent barrel.

Experienced .

Whoever he is, he’s seen things, this man. And the thought makes me hesitate, because I’m not here to pick up a pretty-eyed guy with a sad, puppy-dog gaze that might see too much.

He looks like he might need more than I’m willing to give.

The man stays still as I openly study him.

Tight, dark copper curls sit against his skull, the sort that look at their best when you’re running your fingers through them.

And he’s wearing fucking braces , tan braces that only highlight the muscle beneath that pristine white shirt.

With his golden-brown skin and those damn doe eyes…

Heat curls in my abdomen.

Trouble , I tell myself. Turn around, Liddell. Go home.

I should call Chess.

Chess is safe. Familiar ground, even if we’re both so fucking pissed at each other that we’d rip each other to shreds verbally before tumbling into bed and working out our aggression another way.

This man is trouble . I know it, purely because he’s a mixture of all of my favorite things.

And all of my favorite things are bad for me.

Full pink lips curl up at the edges. “You gonna stand there all night?”

There’s an invitation there. Even his voice is built for sin, sultry and rich and tempting, so damn tempting.

Beneath his gaze, it feels as though my veins are fizzing, coming back to life after months of feeling nothing but numb.

I offer him a polite, bland smile before walking straight past him and into the restroom.

Taking my time, I wash my hands thoroughly, drying them before I look up into the filthy mirror.

Under the cheap lights, the tiredness in my face is evident.

The deep, almost-blue circles beneath my eyes wash out my already pale skin, making my blue eyes appear more gray beneath the strip lighting. At least my hair is half-decent, the sleek blond bob shining and sharply cut to just below my chin.

I frown at my lips, at the chapped skin there before I turn away.

He has his head down, pointedly not looking my way as I walk back past him. I pause, mentally awarding him brownie points for not invading my space when I gave him every indication I wasn’t interested.

“Hey, bourbon.”

As those eyes lift to mine, I tilt my head toward my seat before nodding at his empty glass. “Feel free to join me, unless you’re heading out.”

I don’t wait for him before heading back across the bar and sliding into my seat. I murmur to the barman as the low sound of footsteps follow, and my lips tug up.

He settles onto the chair beside me, those strong arms leaning on the counter. “I really was heading out.”

“Somewhere to be?”

He pauses as the bartender puts a fresh, filled drink down in front of him.

“Nowhere I’m in a rush to get back to.” He lifts it, nodding in thanks. “What’s your name?”

“Alyss Lidell.” My leg brushes against his as I shift on the bar stool. “Yours?”

“Hatter.”

I glance at him fully then, unable to hide my surprise. And slight irritation, since I gave him my actual name. “That the name your mother gave you?”

He smiles slightly. “No. But it’s the name I was given.”

A club name, then.

I survey him again, a little more slowly this time. I don’t recognise him. “You from the Spades? Diamonds?”

I can only imagine the heart attack Chess would have if I took a rival gang member home for a night of fucking.

But he only frowns, looking genuinely confused. “I… no.”

I’m getting more and more curious now. Because anyone in this city would recognise those names. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

His brows draw down. “No. I’m here for… work. You ask a lot of questions, Alyss Lidell.”

I hide my smile in my glass.

“Well,” I say finally. He waits patiently for a response, not pushing into the silence. “I’m interviewing you, as it happens.”

Burnt golden eyes meet mine. “What for?”

I hold his gaze. “A temporary contract. One night only.”

His pupils contract; a deep, bronze flush spreading over sharp cheekbones as if he’s genuinely surprised. “I see.”

Studying his hands, the slim elegance of his ringless fingers as they wrap around his drink, I check. “You’re single?”

For a scant second, darkness flits over his face. “I… yes.”

I hesitate at that look. Because I recognise it, see it in my own reflection far too often. “Should I stop?”

Part of me hopes he says yes.

But the rest of me wonders if I would stop, if I wouldn’t push just a little more. If I wouldn’t ask a second time, just in case.

Because I want him. Want this sad, beautiful man with a desperation that makes my stomach clench as I wait.

I haven’t wanted anything I could actually have in a long time.

Hatter’s foot slips between mine on the stool I’m balancing on. My breath catches as his fingers move to stroke over the top of my hand. His touch is cool, sending tingles up my arm.

Not enough.

“No,” he says quietly. “Don’t stop.”

Thank fuck for that.

I push down the guilt that threatens to rise up my throat, pushing away any thoughts of Chess. I’ve made my position clear, more than a few times.

He continues those slow, curling touches as we order another drink. Flipping my hand over, he draws some sort of symbol in my palm. “Do you enjoy riddles, Alyss Lidell?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I suppose so. I enjoy a challenge.”

Or I used to.

A dimple appears in his cheek. “I always run, but am never tired. I will follow you, only to be ignored. And I am infinite, everywhere, always , and yet contained within a small circle I cannot escape. What am I?”

My amusement escapes in a small sound as I turn the words over in my head, considering. “You know, I can think of better things to do with our time than waste it with riddles.”

“If you knew time as well as I do,” he says softly, watching me, “then you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. Tonight… this night is not a waste.”

A small flip in my chest.

“I know time well enough.” I know what it feels like to run out of it, to grab at those seconds and watch them slip through my grasp too quickly.

But I don’t want to think about that right now. So I swallow the rest of my crappy bourbon, relishing the burning trail down my throat.

And I turn. There’s no hesitation in my movement as I press my lips against Hatter’s. He inhales sharply, wrapping his arm around me to steady us both as I press into him, my hands lifting to his face. My fingers push through those curls that look made for the bedroom.

I want to undo this man. Unravel him.

I am not gentle with him, although something tells me I probably should be.

I don’t want gentle tonight. I’ve no appetite for it as I push between his lips with my tongue in silent demand. I drink down the taste of him – honey and burnt caramel and oak, and I want more .

Hatter’s hands rise up to grip my cheeks, lips parting beneath mine.

And then he seizes control, tilting my head as he delves between my lips, chasing the last drops of alcohol lingering before his teeth sink into my lower lip. A responding thrill sinks into my stomach.

Yes.

We’re both breathing heavily when he lets me go. His gaze is burning, even as something close to surprise lurks there.

“Time,” I breathe. “The answer to your riddle is time .”

His head lowers in a nod, eyes fixing on my lips. “I don’t have much time to waste, Alyss Lidell. And I want to be buried inside you within the next ten minutes.”

My apartment is seven minutes away.

Holding his gaze, I slip off the stool, digging in my bag and tossing down a wad of cash for the bartender without bothering to count it.

And when I take Hatter’s hand in mine, he holds it tightly.