Chapter 13
13
Anora
H e’s real.
Standing right in front of me, leaning slightly over my table, admiring my paintings like they’re something worth looking at. The man I’ve been painting for years—this exact face, this exact presence—he’s here, larger than life, and I’m frozen. I just sit here, staring up at him like a stunned idiot, my brain stuck on repeat.
I take him in slowly, trying to process every detail. His face is sharp, defined—his cheekbones cutting, his jaw strong but not harsh. His golden eyes are alive, glowing faintly even in this dull lighting, like they hold something ancient and endless in them. His nose is straight, perfect, his lips full but firm.
His locs are immaculate, long, black, and flowing neatly down his back. They’re pristine, like every strand has been carefully groomed, each one falling perfectly into place.
He’s sophisticated, undeniably so. The black and gold kurta he’s wearing fits him perfectly, the rich fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and strong frame. The gold detailing on his chest and sleeves catches the light just enough to make him stand out, as if it wasn’t obvious already. The slim black pants make his legs seem impossibly long, adding to the regal, almost intimidating energy he’s giving off.
And yet, as awe-inspiring as all of that is, my eyes keep darting back to a detail I don’t know how to handle. His ears.
They’re pointed. Not human, not at all, and they only make him more striking, more otherworldly. I fight the strange, overwhelming urge to reach over the table and trace my fingers along their sharp curves, just to see if they’re as real as they look.
His hands are behind his back, his posture calm, composed—the kind of posture that says he’s always in control of any room he’s in. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t shift his weight. He simply exists here with this quiet, commanding presence that makes everyone else irrelevant. And, despite the charm he carries so effortlessly, I can’t ignore the power he exudes.
I want to say something. Anything. But the words won’t come. All I can do is sit here, staring at him like a fool while he glances over my work, completely unfazed by my obvious shock.
“Forgive my rudeness,” he says. He moves one hand from behind his back, placing it over his chest as he bows his head slightly.
“My name is Amir,” he says softly.
I know. I’ve dreamed of him for years, heard his name over and over in the haze of sleep. Yet, even now, as he stands right in front of me, I can’t bring myself to speak. I just stare, frozen, still trying to process that he’s real.
He doesn’t move, but he’s waiting for something, his golden eyes watching me carefully. Finally, I clear my throat, breaking out of my trance.
“Oh, I’m Anora,” I manage to say, my voice barely audible.
I push myself to my feet, my hands fidgeting nervously. His eyes track my every movement, and I feel their weight. He doesn’t look away—not once. His face is like stone, unreadable but focused, as if he’s studying me. Then his lips part, and his tongue briefly flicks out to wet them, and I swear my breath catches in my throat.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I slowly start to move around him. Even as I do, I know it’s bold, out of place, but I can’t help it. This man—this creature—is everything I’ve seen in my dreams. The way I’ve imagined him so many times… it’s all exactly the same.
I need to know.
How does he smell? Is it the same as I dreamed?
His eyes stay with me, following my nervous movements. When his mouth stretches into a small but knowing smile, I feel heat rush to my face. Still, I keep going.
Finally, I reach out, my hand trembling slightly as I grab his wrist. His skin is rich, smooth, a deep chocolate tone that practically glows in the muted light of the craft fair. It’s warm under my touch, almost inviting. Slowly, I lift his wrist to my nose, my eyes shutting as I take him in.
Sandalwood. Musk. Earthy. Home.
The scent is one I’ve known all my life—familiar yet new, comforting yet thrilling. It’s exactly as I remembered from my dreams, but stronger, more real, filling my lungs until I can barely breathe. My whole body responds to it, as if every cell recognizes him, has been waiting for him. The connection is visceral, undeniable, and utterly terrifying in its intensity .
I close my eyes tighter, a whimper slipping out before I can stop it.
Then he clears his throat, and my eyes snap open. Embarrassment rushes through me when I meet his gaze.
“I—” I try to apologize, but I can’t stop the tears that are already clouding my vision. They’re warm and heavy, rolling down my cheeks before I even realize they’ve fallen.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please tell me I’m fated. Tell me you’re here to take me out of this place. Take me to Wintermoon. Please…” My voice cracks, and I hate how desperate I sound.
His eyes narrow softly, his gaze sharp but kind, and then his hands come to my shoulders. He leans in just enough so that I feel the warmth of him even through my nerves.
“Anora, please,” he says quietly. His voice is smooth, steady. “I cannot handle it when you cry.”
I sniffle, wiping at my face, but it doesn’t work. The tears keep coming, unstoppable.
As if sensing my struggle, his golden eyes glance up, scanning the room. I follow his gaze briefly, long enough to catch the way some of the humans have started to stare. Their glares are sharp, filled with judgment.
Oh, God. Of course they think this is something indecent. A supernatural lover . That’s what they’d call me. Sure, there are laws in place now to protect people like me, but it doesn’t stop the discrimination, the quiet humiliation.
Then again, here? What does it matter? I’ve spent my whole life ignored or underestimated, just for existing as a Black woman. Their stares mean nothing.
“I—I…” I try again to explain something, anything, but I can’t finish. The words won’t come.
He’s real. I see him, I’ve touched him. My dreams weren’t just dreams .
His voice pulls me back as he tilts his head slightly, those glowing eyes studying me with a calm gentleness. “I see you, Anora,” he says firmly. “You aren’t dreaming. I’m real, angel.”
The word “angel” hits me hard, and I blink quickly to clear my tears. I nod, biting my lip.
He shifts slightly, his hands still on my shoulders. “I can’t stay, and I wish I could wipe away your tears. But I can’t. I have to leave soon.”
My lip trembles again. “Can I come with you?” I ask, my voice breaking, sounding just as pitiful as I feel.
His lips curve upward, soft and nearly sad at the same time. “What about Mrs. Sarah?” he asks, his tone light, teasing.
I freeze at the mention of her. “You… you know Sarah?” I glance up at him, my heart pounding. He’s been watching me?
His smile deepens, and I wipe the tears quickly from my face, trying to reign myself in, but the amazement doesn’t go away.
Amir finally turns back toward the paintings on my table, scanning them. “How much for all of them?” he asks, his hand reaching inside his pocket.
Before I can think, I whisper, “Nothing. You can have them all.”
He chuckles at that, shaking his head as he pulls out a thick stack of cash, practically glowing against his skin. “That simply won’t do, Anora,” he says. “Give me a price.”
I stammer, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “You’re priceless.”
His laughter is soft as he shakes his head again, the sound almost intoxicating. My face burns, but I can’t look away. I am completely and utterly entranced, lost in his presence, his voice, the way he looks at me like I’ve always been his.
He sets the cash on the table—a thick stack that instantly draws attention—and then he steps closer. My breath catches when I feel the cool sweetness of his minty breath brushing against my skin, blending with the sandalwood and musky warmth already invading my senses. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s about to go up in flames.
“If this isn’t enough money, Anora, tell me,” he says, his voice calm, steady. “I can get more.”
“I don’t want your money,” I whisper, the words slipping out without thought.
Before I can say anything else, his finger gently presses against my lips, silencing me. I gasp, frozen.
“Enough, Anora,” he murmurs. His eyes bore into mine, glowing, unreadable. “You’re here because you need money. I’ve tried twice to get you out of that dreadful building, and both times, you found a way to stay.”
My eyes widen. He knows about that? He’s been watching me? Oh my god, he’s been watching me. I wasn’t going insane. All those nights, when I thought I was imagining the comfort in my bed, the presence beside me—it was him. It’s always been him.
He continues. “We need to talk, but not here. Not now.” His voice drops, quieter now, like it’s meant just for me. “And I know the trouble I’ll cause for you if I take you from here. So, let this be a simple transaction for the humans watching us. Nothing more. Do you understand?”
I nod quickly, gulping, unable to speak.
He pulls his finger away from my lips and steps back, his composure returning as he places his hands behind his back. The motion feels practiced, deliberate, like he’s done it a million times before .
Before I can process everything, a young man moves up behind him. Blond, pale, spiky hair. His sharp blue eyes scan the room before his lips curl into a smirk, flashing fangs that make me gasp.
“This is Andrew, my grandson,” Amir says casually, almost proudly.
Andrew’s smile drops instantly, and he glares at Amir like he’d light him on fire if he had the power. “I told you to stop fucking calling me that! ” he grumbles, his tone dark.
Amir chuckles softly, unbothered. Andrew rolls his eyes and moves around him, heading toward the table. He strides over and starts collecting my paintings. I stand there, useless, just staring as my work disappears into his hands.
“Anora,” Andrew says suddenly, not even looking at me. “You can find us at Thirst Trap. Stop by when you’re finished with this event and your elderly friend.”
I don’t even think to respond. My brain is too scrambled, too overwhelmed by Amir’s presence and everything he’s just told me.
Then, in the corner of my eye, I catch Mike approaching. His smug face is full of curiosity, his steps purposefully slow as he tries to figure out what’s going on. He’s coming back—to me, to my table. His nose is twitching for trouble, and once he sees the supernaturals in the room, I know exactly where his attention will land.
Amir stands tall, calm, composed, with his hands placed neatly behind his back. But I can feel it—something simmering just beneath the surface. His eyes remain locked on me, steady and unwavering, not once shifting toward Mike’s approaching shadow.
“I’m not staying, Anora,” Amir says, his voice firm but soothing. “My presence will only cause problems for you, and for me. I’m here because I couldn’t bear to see you cry. If you do anything in my presence, crying will not be one of them.”
His words knock the air from my chest. I see his hand start to rise, almost like he wants to touch my face—his fingers just a breath away—but then he stops, pulling it back before it reaches me.
“I must go,” he says softly, regret woven tightly into the words.
“No, please—” I start, my hand reaching for him, grasping at anything to keep him here. But he pulls his hand behind his back again, closing off the chance of contact.
Andrew steps in smoothly, his arms full of my paintings. I hadn’t even realized he’d gathered all of them. “We’ll be at Thirst Trap if you’re looking for us,” Andrew says, a mischievous smile twitching at his lips. “But trust me, you’ll be seeing Amir again no matter what.”
Amir’s gaze snaps to Andrew, his ears twitching slightly. My heart leaps at the sight—I’ve seen him do that in my dreams so many times. It’s real. He’s real.
Then Amir’s golden eyes meet mine for the briefest, fleeting moment, something heavy and unspoken passing between us, before he bows his head slightly.
“Andrew,” Amir says, his voice now cold and sharp, “if I don’t leave soon, there will be a slaughter.”
His words make my stomach knot. I narrow my eyes at him, confused, but before I can respond, I hear the unmistakable voice of Mike growing closer.
I turn my head sharply, frowning at Mike as he walks toward my table, his nose buried in his phone. Annoyance churns in my stomach. The audacity. I want him to see Amir, to know he’s messing with the wrong person. But when I glance back to where Amir was standing, he’s gone.
Gone .
What? He just left?
I stand there for a second, staring at empty space, my heart pounding. I don’t bother looking at the stack of cash still sitting on the table. Instead, I whip around and scan the crowded craft fair, ignoring the dirty stares and whispered comments from the humans around me. “ Supernatural lover ,” someone mutters, but I don’t care.
“Anora, what the hell?”
I spin toward Mike, who’s finally put his phone away. He’s at my table now, reaching for the stack of cash like it belongs to him. I rush over, snatching it from his hands before he can touch it.
“Get away from my table,” I snap, stuffing the cash into my bag.
Mike’s eyes dart to my paintings—or what’s left of my table—and a look of confusion flashes across his face. “What happened? I heard some supernaturals were here,” he says, glancing around like he can sniff out the commotion.
I ignore him, grabbing my purse, pulling on my coat, and collecting the few supplies I have left. I’ve had enough of him and this entire event.
“Go to hell, Mike!” I shout, my voice rising above the noise in the room. Heads turn, whispers grow louder, but I don’t care anymore. Let them watch.
Mike glares at me, stepping closer. “Is this how you want to play it, Anora?”
I whirl around the table, my temper snapping. “Those supernaturals came for me, ” I hiss, walking right into his face. I don’t know if it’s true, but I say it anyway, letting the fire build in my voice. “I’m fated. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll back off, Mike. Don’t be stupid enough to mess with me. You won’t survive it. Trust me. ”
Something shifts inside me as I say the words—a surge of power I didn’t know I had.
Maybe it’s just meeting Amir, knowing he’s real, but I feel different. Stronger. The fear that used to freeze me when Mike got close is gone, replaced by a quiet certainty. I’m not just some girl he can intimidate anymore. I belong to something bigger, something ancient and powerful, even if I don’t fully understand it yet.
He glares at me, his anger simmering under the surface, but he doesn’t say a word. Good. That’s all I need. I take a step back, grab my empty rolling cart, and turn away from him for the last time.
I storm out of the fair, my attention shifting entirely. Amir. Andrew. I have to find them.
The cold air bites at my face as I step onto Woodward Avenue, but I don’t stop. I glance around frantically, hoping to catch even the faintest sign of them—maybe a flicker of his coat or the shape of his tall frame in the crowd. Nothing.
They’re gone.
Frustration and desperation crash together inside me, but I force myself to keep moving. I pull out my phone, quickly typing in the address for Thirst Trap.
The name sparks something—a memory. I’ve heard of it before, an old abandoned church turned into a nightclub. And the rumors? It’s run by supernaturals. That has to be it.
As I walk, I open an app and order an Uber. I have a plan now. First, I’ll stop and get Sarah the groceries she needs. Then, I’ll head to Thirst Trap.
I don’t care what it takes. Amir has been in my dreams for years. Now he’s real, right in front of me.
I have to know why.
My hands are shaking, but not from fear—from something deeper, something unknown. The world feels different now, like everything’s shifted slightly off its axis. The dreams weren’t just dreams. The comfort I felt wasn’t imagination. Amir is real, and with that knowledge, everything has changed.
I don’t know what’s waiting for me at Thirst Trap, but for the first time in my life, I’m ready to embrace whatever comes next. Because somehow, deep in my soul, I know this is just the beginning.