Craved (Marked for Ruin #2)

Prologue

ZYRAN

The bell over the door gives a pathetic jingle when I rip it open. Warm sugar and cinnamon and whatever seasonal winter bullshit they’ve got invade my nose the moment I step inside.

I’ve been in here almost every day, but my shoulders still tense immediately.

There are too many people, and it’s too bright.

But none of that matters, not when she’s here.

Which is the only reason I can force myself over the threshold.

The heater kicks on as the door swings shut behind me, blowing hot air up my back. I’m already sweating, and now we’re adding in this—I wipe my forehead, hoping I don’t look like a mess.

The coffee shop is busy with the early morning rush, but I spot her instantly. Like I always do.

Esperr stands behind the counter with her blonde hair twisted up into a messy knot that somehow makes her look sweeter than she already is.

A strand comes loose, wavy against her cheek.

She attempts to brush it away with her hand as she laughs at something the other barista says, her entire face lighting up like someone turned the sun on inside her.

I’ve seen hardened killers, corrupt politicians, crime lords, monsters, and nearly everything else under the fucking sun.

And none of them ever hit me in the chest like she does—it’s pathetic.

But that doesn’t stop me from showing up every day.

I take my place in line and get a strong whiff of the cologne from the guy in front of me. The woman who walks in after me keeps shifting, as if she’s running behind. But she’s obviously not that worried as she’s stopped for coffee.

Not that any of that matters; my eyes stay on Esperr. Watching her move with this light bounce, it’s as if gravity doesn't hold her down the way it does everyone else. She grabs a cup while the person orders, quickly scribbling something on it—a little doodle or a word in her messy handwriting.

My throat tightens, ready to see what she writes or draws on my cup today.

I know I shouldn’t be here. About a year ago, Rhys kept pestering me to get coffee, so I stopped in here, and that’s when I found her.

And now, every morning, same time, same corner seat, and same fucking order—a coffee I don’t even like. It tastes like diabetes and regret, but one day I heard her telling a customer that her favorite was an iced latte with vanilla syrup and cream with some kind of cold foam.

Now it’s all I order, every single time, like an idiot.

When the line moves, her eyes scan the line; it’s just a split second, but they land on me, and something soft passes over her expression. It’s not fear or discomfort like I’d expect; it’s recognition.

My chest tightens, hot and unwelcome.

She turns back to the register when the person in line steps up and starts talking. I swear I see a hint of blush creep over her cheeks. Or maybe I’m just imagining it; I’ve been doing that more lately, with her.

It pisses me off.

And before I can think of anything to say to her, the cologne guy steps aside, making it my turn. She shifts behind the register, smiling up at me.

Oh fuck.

“Hi,” she says, too gently for me. “The usual?”

I nod because speaking feels like too much when I’m around her and because I’ve come here enough to have a usual.

She grabs a cup and starts doodling something on it before she hits a few buttons on the screen. “You know,” she says, flipping the computer around so I tap my card, “I drink the same thing every day; I can’t get enough of them.”

The corner of my mouth twitches; it’s difficult to tell when all I can do is focus on her hands. And instead of saying something nice or telling her it’s good, even though it’s not, I say, “Oh.”

She glances up, her hand faltering against the cup, frowning for a second, that is, until the beep tells me my card went through, and then she’s clearing her throat, smiling again.

She shrugs as she finishes the little drawing. “Hard not to notice; you come in here every day.”

Every day.

If she knew why, she’d probably stop smiling like that.

The other barista calls for help with something, and she peers over her shoulder mumbling, “Be right back.”

I should look anywhere else, should mind my own business, or, hell, even move out of the way. But I don’t.

I just watch her.

And the way she apologizes when a new girl spills sugar.

The way she wipes the counter in little circles.

And the way she bites her lip while concentrating on making a new drink.

I don’t know how long I stand there staring until she’s back in front of me, sliding the drink toward me with both hands.

I reach down too fast, our fingers brush, and she just shifts back like it’s nothing. My pulse jumps in a way no other person ever managed before.

“I added extra syrup,” she mutters, and then winces, biting her lip. “Not—um—I hope that’s not weird. I heard you the other day mention you liked it sweeter…”

I never said that.

Not exactly anyway.

Cyran had asked me on the phone one morning why the hell I drank this sugary shit and I had said, ‘Sweet is better than bitter.’

She watches my face like she’s waiting for me to take a drink and possibly hate it, or worse, hate her for the assumption.

Instead, I nod, the corner of my mouth tipping up. “Thanks.”

Her shoulders relax, and her smile brightens. “You’re welcome.”

I hesitate and then turn toward my usual corner table, but before I make it more than two steps, she’s clearing her throat. Her voice is barely above a whisper, like she’s afraid to ask, “See you tomorrow?”

It's almost hopeful, like she’s wondering if she scared me off. And completely dangerous. She shouldn’t be thinking about me at all.

My jaw works back and forth, the word no on the tip of my tongue, but instead, “Yeah,” slips out.

Her smile widens, and it hits me in the chest, twisting deeper.

I sit in the corner, pretending not to watch her, pretending to enjoy every sip I take of this stupid drink and pretending like I don’t already know when her shift ends.

And I finish every drop because she made it, plus it makes her smile when she looks over at me. Despite knowing how much trouble I’m in around her, I know I’ll be back tomorrow.

This warehouse is a fucking maze—filled with rusted beams, broken pallets, and enough thick smoke that it’s making me choke.

And all I hear is fighting, metal crashing, and then a body hitting the concrete.

Raiden’s voice is somewhere to my right—low, furious, and strained. Then there’s Slater’s to my left, a snarl followed by a grunt of pain.

We came here expecting a few men, but there’s a lot more than that.

I slam my back against the steel column; my breath is harsh and hot in my chest while I try to blink through the smoke. My gun is drawn, eyes scanning and ears ringing.

It’s then that I see Raiden’s silhouette flicking through the stacks—he’s outnumbered, with four of them on him. He’s still holding his own, but barely, one man hits him in the jaw with a crowbar, and he stumbles.

Fuck.

I glance over at Slater, who’s struggling, taking on two men with blades. They pin Slater’s arm against the metal crate while one of them drives a knee into his ribs, hard enough I swear I can hear it crack from here.

This was a trap, just like Raiden’s girl thought, and we walked right into it.

I push off the column, aiming for Raiden first—he is more of a threat; they’ll want to take him down first. I sprint across the concrete, gun raised, finger pushing for the trigger—there’s a flash of silver in my periphery, and a single pop before a sting hits me.

A fire rips across my throat—hot and viscous—like someone carving a line straight through my jugular. My legs buckle immediately, and I hit the ground hard, my hand flying to my neck.

Warm blood gushes through my fingers, slick and constant as the taste of copper floods my mouth.

Oh fuck.

The world tilts, edges of my vision blur as my head fuzzes like cotton being stuffed in my skull.

I was barely conscious, forcing myself to lift my head, just to see Raiden get knocked down to his knees and then something flashing in the dim light, stabbing him in the neck.

“No…” The word scrapes out of me, wet and broken, barely a sound at all.

I try to stand, but my limbs give out.

Trying again, my vision narrows and my hand slips in my own blood. A pair of boots stops in front of me, and for a sliver of a second I smile, thinking it’s Slater here to help me. Only the butt of a rifle slams into my shoulder, knocking it out of place, and pain shoots down my arm.

My head drops to the concrete, blood pooling around me—hot and fast.

Against my better judgment, I still try to lift my head, watching as two men grab Raiden’s arm and begin to drag him to the door of the warehouse. They move fast, and I crawl too slow.

I choke on a breath, in pain, trying to force air into my lungs. But everything in me slows, my hand slips, and eventually my body drops to my elbows—I can’t fucking breathe.

Everything in me screams to get up, help him, and stop them.

But all I do is bleed.

With the last ounce of my strength, I push up on shaky arms, my teeth gritted and blood pouring down my chest. But I’m too late.

The whole warehouse spins, and Raiden disappears through the back door.

Gone.

And the second that door slams shut, my body gives out, my eyes drop, and my forehead hits the cold concrete.

Darkness overtakes me.