7. Chapter seven #3
Then those dark eyes find me. They rake over me, slow, deliberate. From the curls plastered damp against my forehead, down to where I’m putting my dagger back in its sheet, to the flip-flops on my feet he hates so much. Protective, searching, like he also needs proof I’m in one piece.
His gaze is hungry too, like he can’t stop himself from taking me in.
Like he doesn’t want to.
I know I should listen and get back to my bar, but I can’t find it in myself to move as everything else but Max blurs into static.
He takes a step closer, heat rolling off him, fingertips brushing my cheek, leaving tingles in its wake, sliding slow, steady, grounding.
“You okay?”
I uncoil under his touch, unravel in ways I don’t want to admit, but still manage a frown. “Where the fuck were you?” I hate how it comes out. Too needy, too sharp at the edges.
Something flashes in his gaze. Guilt, anger, or maybe just exhaustion.
I can’t tell. “Watcher business,” he mutters.
“Some unsanctioned bullshit went on up North. They’re getting thrown in the Pit.
Took so long because we had to catch Walkers to throw in with them.
Messy as fuck, trying to corral those things alive. ”
When his hand slides lower, I circle his wrist and follow his movement. His palm spans my throat easily, those strong fingers splayed wide, thumb pressing over the frantic thrum of my pulse. He doesn’t squeeze… just traces it, slow, like he’s testing proof that I’m still here.
Like he’s testing me .
And I don’t give a shit that the entire bar is watching. Let them. The only thing that matters is that he’s here, in one piece.
Something in me settles, like a knot pulled loose, letting my shoulders unwind.
“As heartbreakingly touching as this little reunion is,” a new voice cuts in from behind me, cool and sharp, “I think you and I have a problem, Max.”
Max exhales hard. He tilts his head back, eyes rolling like the ceiling just insulted him, then cuts her a sideways smirk as he turns. “What’s it this time, Noura? Someone stole that hideous curtain you call a cloak? Pissed on your lawn? Which, by the way, would be an upgrade.”
I press my lips together to hold the laugh in and follow his gaze as I turn. Everyone else lowers theirs. I’m the only one dumb enough to look her in the eye besides Max. The magistrate.
She’s smaller than I expected. Petite, maybe in her early thirties, with amber-toned skin and dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. The red cloak is a slash of color in an otherwise bleak room.
“It’s Magistrate El-Amin to you.”
“Then you can call me Sergeant Skarlatos ,” Max fires back. “If you want to keep things official, Noura .”
Her mouth flattens. “You went against the orders of one of the Nine. Insulted one. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Max raises a brow, flicks open his tin, and pulls out a cigarette. He takes his time, striking the match, lighting it, drawing in smoke like he hasn’t a care in the world. “Depends. Which fucking time do you mean?”
I swear her head nearly explodes. Color rises in her cheeks, her jaw flexing as she snaps, “You think this is a game? Continue and you’’ll be locked up where you belong.”
“This bullshit again? Just get it over with, you ungodly bitch.” Max exhales slowly, smoke curling from his mouth, heavy with mock boredom. Then he unclips the pistol at his belt and tosses it at Tass. She catches it with both hands, lips twitching despite the tension. “Hold on to that for me?”
“I hereby place you under tribunal custody,” Noura declares, her voice slicing clean through the bar’s silence. She turns to the Watchers flanking her, her own personal guards. “Strip him of his weapons. Let’s see how he fares without them. Make it a bit more fair for the poor Walkers.”
A stone settles in my stomach, heavy and cold.
But Max? He just chuckles, then shrugs like it’s nothing.
His fingers work the straps across his chest as he keeps the cigarette in his mouth, unclipping the sheaths from his arms. He doesn’t hand them to the Watchers’ waiting hands, he thrusts them into mine. The weight nearly knocks me back.
For one heartbeat, I can’t breathe. His blades. Whisper. The cleaver. Legends on their own, deservedly so.
He nods at me once, galaxies filled with promises swirling in those eyes, a look that says more than words, then leans toward Tass, murmurs something too low for me to catch.
And just like that, he turns, lets himself get hauled away by Noura’s Watchers, hands in the air, smoke still curling from one of them.
As he passes Joyeus, he doesn’t even glance her way. Just flips her the middle finger over his shoulder. She nearly chokes on her own seethe, lips parting in outrage.
I swallow hard, my grip white-knuckled on the blades. “Without his weapons…”
Tass snorts, leans back against the counter like it’s all routine as she twirls the gun around her finger, which for her it probably is.
“Without them he’ll still be fine. Don’t worry about that.
Max is a weapon. He doesn’t need his precious babies.
And besides, they’ll still give him something to defend himself with. We do have some rules.”
Her grin fades, just for a second, as the double doors shut behind him. The bar hums back to life like nothing happened, but my chest stays hollow, echoing.
Because I know where he’s headed.
The Pit.