6. Zyran
ZYRAN
Idon’t mean to stay; I really didn’t.
And that’s the lie I start with, at least.
I told myself I’d sit here for a few minutes and let whatever adrenaline that was coursing through me when I followed her while she ran wear off. That I’d pretend this was just a detour and just an entire afternoon that slipped through my fingers.
But then minutes turned into hours, and now the sun has begun to shift, shadows stretching across the road. The apartment stayed quiet in an eerie way; a dog somewhere off in the distance barked once.
I stay where I'm parked, engine off, windows cracked, almost like I’m not here. Mindless scrolling on my phone, locking it and then opening it again. Time slowly passes by, and her door never opens.
It’s good; it means she’s inside and safe.
Eventually, boredom starts to set in, and it’s not the restless kind; it’s the dull, heavy one that reminds me it’s probably time to go.
I rub a hand down my face, fingers brushing over my throat and the scar that still feels wrong under my skin, even after all this time.
It’s old and healed, supposedly harmless now.
But that doesn’t stop my pulse from jumping when I touch it; it’s like my body remembers something my mind prefers to keep buried, and I hate that.
I drop my hand and stare out the windshield.
Staying here was a big mistake. I know that. But I seem unable to start my truck and drive away. Not even when I check the time again and see that Sybil has texted me six times and Cyran has called.
I should go?—
Suddenly Esperr steps out; her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, face-framing pieces falling loose instead of pulled back like I’ve seen it hundreds of times.
It catches the light differently this time, pale and almost silver-blonde, soft and uneven—framing her face that makes her look younger than she is and freckles scattering across her nose and cheeks.
Her blue eyes almost look too big for her face, light and sharp somehow at the same time, like she’s taking in more than she lets on.
There’s a tad bit of pink in her lips, subtle but not too much, and something about it makes my chest tighten for reasons I don’t bother trying to unpack.
She looks careful—her outfit is simple, a black long-sleeve shirt and a dark grey sweater she begins to zip as she steps out, with black pants that fit tight in all the right places. And then black converse high tops, well worn in.
She smooths the front of her zip-up once and then again, glancing between the streets and then back at the door before she heads down the sidewalk. There's a slight hesitation in her movement, just a small fraction of a second where she braces herself and starts running again.
I sit there, watching as she jogs down the street, and just before she becomes out of sight, I pull out of the parking lot and ease into traffic while following her back into town.
I keep my distance, doing the same thing of staying behind her when I can and then easing off to the side. Letting the flow of traffic make this feel accidental instead of me stalking her.
My phone lights up in the console, Sybil's name coming across the display in my truck. I ignore it and continue following until it lights up immediately—Sybil, again.
I exhale through my nose and answer before she calls for the third time or have Rhys track my phone.
“What.”
“Oh good, you’re alive,” she sighs. “I was starting to think you’d been murdered or worse, abducted, and you know, honestly, I can’t decide which is more likely.”
Despite myself, I smile, shaking my head. “I’m driving.”
“No shit,” she replies. “But uh, you missed training.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, glancing in my rearview. “I know.”
“Raiden does not take ‘I know’ as a good enough excuse,” she mutters. “He’s been pacing like some caged animal for the last twenty minutes.”
“I’ll make it up to him.” I lie, because there’s no making things up to Raiden. Not unless you’re a certain redhead that he’s been obsessed with for four years, three of those behind closed doors.
“Mmmm–hmmm, you said that last time.”
When Esperr turns around a building, out of my view, I ease back into traffic, flicking my blinker on before turning sharply.
“Where are you?” she asks, her voice sharper now.
“Out.”
Esperr continues running, mindless of me following her. My jaw tightens, hating that she’s running to who knows where, running like people wouldn’t be following her.
“Out where?” Sybil presses.
“Driving.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
She runs through a crosswalk just as the light turns yellow. I could lose her if I stop. I follow through the now-red light and then ease off the gas once I make it through so it doesn’t look like I’m doing anything but trying to get through the light.
“Are you listening to me?” Sybil asks.
“Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
I blow out a breath, checking my rearview mirror again. “I hear you.”
“Then answer the question,” she sighs. “Where are you?”
The road narrows as the town buildings begin to appear, and I adjust my grip on the wheel, eyes staying forward.
“Not home,” I finally tell her.
“No fucking shit, that much is obvious.”
She slows down, turning another corner. My mouth pulls tight, and I ease off the gas, pulling off into a handicap parking spot.
Sybil gasps. “You’re with her.”
“I’m not with anyone.”
“Fine, then you’re near her,” she corrects. “Which is worse, because now you’re pretending that it’s accidental.”
I don’t answer. There’s no need to.
“Raiden’s going to ask questions.”
“Let him.”
“Oh, I will. And I bet you he’s not going to like the answer.”
I grit my teeth, watching her pick up speed.
“I’ll be back later,” I say, thumb hovering over the red button on my steering wheel.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
There is a pause and then, “Don’t do anything you can’t explain.”
I almost laugh, a small huff escaping through my lips.
“And try not to commit a felony.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, and then hang up.
Traffic grows as we get farther into town, storefronts creeping past as she slows down to stop.
She tugs at her zip-up, glancing around before hesitating to slow down, and then she reaches the bar.
Stopping just outside, she bends at the waist for ten seconds before straightening and disappearing through the door.
I ease my truck down the street until I find the parking lot, and I pull into a spot in the way back near the dumpster.
Killing the engine, I step out of the truck, shove my keys into my pocket, and lock the door.
The air smells like booze and old pavement with something fried drifting through every time the door opens.
I move around the building, stopping just short of the entrance, and catch my reflection. Neutral expression; nothing stands out, but I see the twitch in my eye.
Ignoring it, I pull the door open and step inside. The place is dim in the way that annoys my vision—wood is everywhere, a long bar is set to the left, and a booth lines the opposite wall. The air smells like grease and old beer mixed with too much cologne.
I spot her first—I always do.
Not because she’s the loudest or the prettiest, though I’d fuck the shit out of her right here in front of everyone and then buy her coffee afterwards to treat her right.
But that’s besides the point; she’s the opposite of someone that begs for attention—she folds herself small, like she’s always accounting for how much space she’s taking up.
Months to a year of watching her behind the coffee station has taught me that.
The way she keeps her shoulders slightly rounded, like she’s bracing for impact that has been beating her over again and again.
The way her smile arrives early and leaves late, stretched thin so no one has to ask if she’s okay because if they did, she’d fall apart.
And she can’t afford to fall apart—not right now.
But she will soon realize I’m right here and have been standing in her corner since before I ever realized it.
Because I see the way her hands still for half a second when someone raises their voice, or the way she checks the door every time it opens, or the way her eyes go flat when she thinks no one’s paying attention, like she’s setting something heavy down for just a second before picking it back up again.
That’s what makes her stand out.
It’s everything about her—from the way her mind works to her face. And it’s always hidden, layered under routine and manners and showing up for other people, all until she’s forgotten.
But I know that hurt; I’ve lived with that kind long enough to recognize the shape of it.
Esperr laughs, pulling my attention to her mouth as she slides a beer across the table to some jackass.
I take the long way around, skirting the edges of the room where the light dies down and people don’t look too closely at it. A corner near the back, half-shadowed, is the perfect spot you choose when you don’t want to be part of the night, just want to witness it.
I slide onto a stool and rest my forearms on the high table.
A waitress comes over, smiling with teeth that look too big for her mouth. I don’t bother giving her a chance to say anything before muttering, “Coors Light, bottle is fine.”
She gives a small frown, a smile dropping before she heads off to the bar where Esperr is.
It takes a long five minutes before my beer is dropped off and the bottle sweats into my palm. I take a slow pull, letting the cold liquid fall down my throat. And then I set it back down, untouched for a while, all while my gaze stays glued to Esperr.
She moves easily behind the bar, all practiced motion, a smile here and then it’s gone when she thinks no one is watching. Giving people just enough to keep them happy without giving them anything real—and I recognize it because I do the same thing.
I don’t look away.
I let the room fade until there’s only her and the rhythm of her hands, the way her shoulders tense when someone leans too close—I catalog it all.
My beer stays mostly full as the night stretches on and I keep watching, staying in the corner. I nurse the same beer for an hour and then two, letting the neck turn warm against my palm until the waitress has stopped checking on me altogether.
Esperr laughs when she’s uncomfortable, tucking those strands of hair when someone lingers too long.
I watch her do her best to reset herself between customers: a breath in, shoulders back, and a fake expression back in place.
She tries to keep her hands busy when she wants a conversation to end. Like right now.
The guy with his whiskey glass doesn’t leave.
At first he’s just another body at the bar, leaning in too close while she leans back. He talks, and she answers without missing a beat. I don’t hear a word of what they say, but I don’t need to. I know the cadence; I’ve watched it play out a hundred different ways.
She turns, busying herself to give the guy a clue that she doesn’t want to talk, but when she comes back, he hands her his empty glass.
His fingers catch her, and there’s no way it’s an accident.
I see the way she stills; it’s just for a second, but it’s long enough that her jaw ticks before she schools it—smooth for someone whose job isn’t trained on watching others.
She says something, shrugging before he is saying something else that makes her freeze. It’s subtle, a pause that doesn’t belong, and then she’s swallowing, shifting her weight. Her hand curls around the rag like it’s the only thing that’s keeping her grounded.
My focus sharpens; everything else in the bar falls away.
Esperr nods once, a small noncommittal movement, and he takes that as encouragement—of course he does. He leans closer, eyes dipping while the smile plastered to his stupid-ass face makes me want to shove this beer bottle down his throat and watch his body convulse until he stops moving altogether.
Esperr doesn’t mirror that smile, though her lips part and then close again.
Her shoulders draw in, not much but it’s enough that anger bubbles inside me.
Whatever she says this time makes the air around him shift.
His posture changes and his face hardens in the mirror behind the bar—the mask dropping fast.
I watch in the mirror as he says something low and sharp, and her reaction is immediate, as if she’d been slapped.
The color from her face drains, and even from here I can see the shake in her hands. She looks down, then away, blinking too fast. I know what kind of hurt that is—the kind that doesn’t scream but the kind that begins to cave inward.
My jaw ticks, but I don’t move. Instead, I keep an eye on him and her—watching her grip the rag, scrubbing the same spot over and over again. Her breathing is off, shallow and uneven.
I drain the rest of the bottle, dropping a fifty onto the table as something settles inside me. It’s not anger, but more like a decision.
A dark one.