Chapter 1 - Caelan #2
“Haven’t decided yet.” I lift my glass and take a sip, holding his gaze over the rim. “I’m still exploring my options.”
The hint of interest in his eyes grows into something hotter. He reaches for the glass I offered, and his fingers brush against mine as he takes it. The contact sends another jolt through my body, same as before, but stronger. My wolf practically howls inside my chest.
“Dangerous game,” he comments. “Exploring options with strangers in bars.”
“I like dangerous.” The words come out breathy and unsure, but I mean them.
I like this feeling, this wild recklessness that the curse would have stamped out before I could even recognize it.
I like the way he looks at me like I’m something worth looking at.
I like the heat pooling low in my belly when his knee bumps against mine under the bar.
I like all of it, and I want more.
“I’m Caelan.” I extend my hand, and after a moment, he takes it. Strong fingers wrap around my hand and squeeze once before letting go.
“Patrick.”
Patrick. The name suits him somehow. Simple and solid, no frills or pretension.
I lean closer, close enough that I can smell him now—something woodsy and masculine beneath the sharp bite of whiskey. “So, Patrick, what are you trying to drown at the bottom of that glass?”
His jaw ticks for a second. Whatever he’s running from, it’s not something he wants to talk about with a stranger. I recognize that look. I’ve worn it myself, back when I had feelings I couldn’t explain and no one to explain them to.
“Nothing worth discussing.” He signals the bartender for another round. “What about you? What brings a Llewelyn woman to a Grayhide bar in the middle of the night?”
I give an exaggerated shrug and reply, “Freedom. I spent my whole life not feeling anything. Now I can feel everything, and I don’t want to waste a single second of it being careful or sensible or safe.”
Patrick squints at me now. “That sounds like a recipe for trouble.”
“God, I hope so,” I grin at him, and this time, he smiles back.
The bartender brings our drinks. We talk.
About nothing important at first—the music, the crowd, and the quality of the whiskey.
Then, about other things, like his travels through different territories, my studies under Matriarch Lydia, and the strangeness of being in Grayhide, where men hold power and women defer to them.
It’s the complete opposite of everything I’ve known.
“Must be strange for you,” Patrick says. “Coming from a place where women run everything.”
“Strange in a good way, mostly. Though I think my father would love it here. He’s been having a hard time since the curse broke. All the women in his life suddenly have these intense emotions and are free to express them. I don’t think he knows what to do with us anymore.”
Patrick lifts an eyebrow. “Sounds like he preferred the old arrangement.”
“Maybe.” I take a long sip of my whiskey to avoid saying more.
The truth is, I’ve barely spoken to my father in months.
He’s been distant in a different way than before—not the comfortable distance of the curse, but something colder.
Something that feels like resentment. I don’t want to think about what that means, so I push the thought away and focus on the man in front of me instead.
“But I didn’t come here to talk about my family. ”
He listens when I talk, really listens, leaning in to catch my words over the noise of the bar.
I watch his throat move when he swallows his whiskey, his hands as they wrap around his glass, strong and capable, and his eyes as they watch my mouth when I lick a stray drop of liquor from my lower lip.
The heat between us builds with every minute that passes. Every accidental brush of skin, every loaded glance, and every laugh brings us closer together.
By the time I finish my fifth drink, I know exactly what I want. And I’m pretty sure he wants it, too.
I stand and hold out my hand. “Dance with me.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow. “I don’t dance.”
I grab his hand and pull, using my whole body weight to drag him off his stool. He could resist easily—he’s twice my size—but he lets me tow him toward the dance floor like I actually have the strength to move him. “That’s why it’ll be fun.”
The music pulses through the floorboards and into my bones. I turn to face him and place his hands on my waist before I drape my arms over his shoulders. His fingers flex against my hips, pulling me closer until our bodies mold together from chest to thigh.
We move together, badly, at first, stepping on each other’s feet, bumping into other couples, and laughing at our own clumsiness. But then something clicks, and we find a rhythm that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the chemistry between us.
His breath is hot against my temple as I curl my fingers into his shirt. I can feel every inch of his body pressed against mine—the hard planes of his chest, the solid muscle of his thighs, and something else that’s growing harder by the second.
I look up at him. He looks down at me.
And I know, with perfect clarity, exactly how this night is going to end.