4. Chapter four #2
For the next three months, I can still pour drinks, trade small talk, and almost feel like I’m living. Actually living, for once in my life. Even though it’s not freedom, not really… it’s still a life. And that’s more than I ever had out there.
I freeze when I get close.
He’s there, the Watcher from the docks. Max. Shit.
He’s here at almost all of my shifts. Only this time, he’s not in the booth he usually claims with Tass—the beautiful Middle Eastern warrior princess with a grin sharp enough to cut—or with the new addition, the dark-skinned guy, probably from the southern lands, always smiling like nothing on this island can touch him.
They’re always huddled there together. Talking.
Smoking. Eating. Him endlessly sharpening that wicked sword of his, the muscles on that arm with the big alligator tattoo flexing, eyes scanning the room like he’s already picked who he’d kill next, smoke pouring out of that sinful as fuck mouth.
And just like on the docks, there’s always space around them. Around him , mostly.
Because when the others wander to the bar, when Tass or that other guy mingle with the crowd, people talk to them. Easy. Like they’re part of the room.
Not him. Never him. And now I finally know why.
He’s Immune. Immune to the rain. Immune to the virus.
The Immune.
I’ve heard of Immune people before, but I never met one.
Where I came from, whenever someone like that appeared, they were never seen again.
Snatched up. Turned into lab rats for the scientists.
My mother used to hush me when I asked. Said if you were Immune, you kept your head down.
You let no one know. Or they’d take you.
Don’t tell them , she’d whisper when she thought I was asleep. Don’t tell them, don’t tell them. Keep quiet. Keep safe.
But Max… he doesn’t keep his head down. Not even close.
And no, it’s not just the immunity. That’s only half of it. The rest? He’s a legend. A warrior through and through, if I have to believe half of the drunken stories told around here.
Crazy, the girls whisper to me when they pick up trays of drinks for his table. Unhinged. Unstoppable. Unbreakable.
He craves blood. Lives and breathes violence. Could snap at any moment, just for the thrill of it.
But he’s untouchable because he’s Immune, because he bleeds willingly for the handful of scientists here who still pretend they’re normal, submitting to tests every other day.
Because he takes sentences like everyone else, but instead of fearing the Pit, he hungers for it. A gladiator in his own right.
So yeah. The patrons avoid the booth when he’s there. Shit, most don’t even sit there when he isn’t. The space belongs to him now, claimed by blood and fear.
But this time, Max isn’t in his booth.
And my stomach knots hard because of it.
He’s right there at the bar. My bar. Lounging on a stool like he owns the place. No Tass. No smiling dreadlock guy. Just him.
My heart stutters—no, it outright skips a fucking beat.
But fuck me, I’m no coward. I’m not the shivering mess he found on that boat. I survived this far, I can survive him.
I keep walking, head high, spine straight, like I’m not burning under the weight of him.
Like I don’t notice how big he is when I pass close, how the air seems to shift around him.
How he smells like Ashwood smoke and something else.
Something earthy, feral, dangerous. Like the outside clings to him, no matter how deep inside the walls he goes.
I force a smile at Ben, the guy I’m relieving from the day shift.
We go through the motions—tabs, stock, the usual rundown.
All the while his hands twitch like he can’t wait to be free of Max’s orbit.
Like expected, he mutters a quick “good luck” as soon as he can, slipping out and leaving me with…
him. Since the rest of the bar is almost deserted this early in the evening.
I’ve never had him this close before. Not since he put his callused hand on my throat, tilting my head back like I weighed nothing, like he owned the air I breathed.
When I finally drag my eyes up to meet his, they’re dark. So immensely dark. But from this close, I catch the tiny silver flecks for the first time, like the night sky itself is staring back at me.
Yes, he’s staring. Unmoving. Unblinking. Only that damn trail of smoke curling from his lips, like it always does.
“Hi.” The word slips out before I can stop it as I start polishing a glass that’s already clean.
One dark eyebrow arches. “Hi?”
Oh shit. Lame. Real smooth, Kieran.
He doesn’t let me recover. “I see you got my present. The shirt looks good on you.”
I fucking fumble . The glass in my hand skids, slips, then crashes to the floor. Shards scatter across the tiles, catching the light like tiny stars.
Heat burns up my neck as I crouch, grabbing at the bigger shards, careful to not step onto it with my flip-flops. I feel his eyes on me this whole time, like he planned this, like he’s enjoying it.
I slam the pieces into the wastebasket before I get up to glare up at him. Hard. “You were in my room?”
My glare sharpens when he slides a coin my way with one long, scarred finger, casual as anything, ignoring my question. “For the glass.”
My eyes narrow. I shove the silver token right the fuck back across the wood. “I got it. Thank you. And you can keep the shirt.”
“What are you going to do, strip right here?”
To cover the heat creeping up my neck, I grab one of the bread baskets below the counter, push it his way with olive oil and sea salt, the way he always eats it. His eyes flicker wide for half a second before he mumbles a thanks. Since he already has a drink in front of him, I leave it at that.
“Why?” I finally ask, trying my damn best to calm my racing heart.
“Why what?”
I blink. “The clothes.”
“Consider it my debt paid.” He drags another hit from the cigarette dangling from his tatted fingers, and I want to ask what he means by his debt, but all I can do is gawk at that mouth .
Sometimes I don’t even know if people stare at him because he’s Max—the Pit legend, The Immune freak everyone whispers about… or because he’s… well, godsdamn gorgeous.
Ridiculously good-looking. Drop-my-pants-and-show-me-the-stars good-looking.
Not that I’d ever say that out loud.
But shit, I can’t look away. And the curve of his mouth says he knows it.
And as I stare into those piercing eyes again, endless, like the whole night sky, I take a deep breath, remembering exactly what my second plan is in case my medical indispensability fails.
Find the biggest brute. Smile. Flirt. Use them for protection.
It wouldn’t be the first time I played the part to stay alive. On the road, survival meant smiling at the guys staring too long, letting him think I wanted it. Protection, food, a bed for a while. Call it what you want.
I’m not weak—I’ve trained, kept myself strong—but when strength is the only currency, you learn to spend what you’ve got. And sometimes, what I’ve got… is this face.
And here, the biggest brute of all? That’s Max.
I wet my lips and don’t miss the way his eyes drop. I fight the twitch of a smile threatening to break loose. Play the part, Kieran. Don’t think, just do.
You already have his attention.
“Well, I guess I should thank you then.” I tap my stomach over the blue shirt, and his gaze tracks the movement.
Heat spikes in my chest, dangerous and addictive.
My brashness makes me turn inward again, retreating and finding the shadows.
“I have to say that I like it. Can I do anything for you as a thank you?” My voice is steady, but my pulse hammers in my throat.
I’m talking to a Pit legend. A Watcher. A man with a body count and a reputation that already feels like a legacy carved in blood.
But he doesn’t waver. A drag of smoke, a slow exhale, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough, low, dangerous. “There’s actually something I need.”
I lean in, already caught in it, breath shallow. “And what’s that?”
The corner of his mouth curls. Certain and final. “I need your help with an investigation, Kieran Freyr.”