Chapter 14 Power of a Name
POWER OF A NAME
ALORA
As soon as I gave my order, I reached for my wallet when the cashier announced the total, but his hand came down faster.
His fingers closed around my wrist with a firmness that startled me.
The contact wasn’t rough, and it sent a flicker of heat through my chest before he released me and paid without a word.
He then led me to a table, one more secluded than the others, no doubt chosen for that reason.
I was surprised when he even pulled out a chair for me, like a perfect gentleman hiding behind the hard exterior.
Which meant we were soon sitting across from each other at the small café table, the soft clatter of cups and low student chatter filling the room around us in a gentle, distant hum.
Afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, warming the edges of the wooden table where two steaming bowls had just been set down.
I had ordered something comforting and familiar, a delicate bowl of egg drop soup, with ribbons of noodles swimming in warm broth. A steamed milk tea sat beside it, the fragrant sweetness steaming above the rim.
I had to say, now we were sitting here, and I could see him properly in the daylight, I was fascinated by the sight of him. It made the whole world feel a little too intimate, like stepping into a dream that had too much weight to be anything but real.
His handsome face was studying me, as I did the same to him.
He seemed to look at me differently here, no longer a shadow lurking between trees or a savior in an alleyway, but something solid and present in a way that tightened the air around us.
I caught his gaze, steady and unfiltered, as if he were trying to understand why I affected him the way I did.
Before I could gather myself enough to say anything, he spoke, his voice rough and abrupt in a way that felt almost accidental, as if the words had slipped out before he could catch them.
“What’s your name?”
The directness startled me. My spoon hovered over my bowl, the steam curling against my cheek as I looked up at him, pulse stuttering beneath my skin. And yet, even caught off guard, I found myself matching his intensity with a sudden spark of stubbornness I didn’t know I possessed.
“You first,” I said, adjusting in my seat as if that could disguise the way my breath had hitched. His jaw tightened, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was weighing up whether or not to give anything away. Then he exhaled once through his nose, resigned in a way that almost made me smile.
“Thane,” he said, and instantly I knew the name fit him. It was dark, sharp, powerful, like something carved from stone and darkness. My throat tightened with an emotion I couldn’t place.
“It suits you,” I whispered before I realized I had said it out loud. A faint shift softened the hard line of his eyes for just a heartbeat before the guarded mask slid back into place.
“And now yours,” he said, his voice lower now, as if my answer mattered more than he wanted me to know.
I hesitated only a second.
“My name is Alora.”
“Alora.” He repeated it under his breath, slower, deeper, with a strange softness that made my toes curl. When he lifted his gaze again, something dark and unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
“I will have to exchange little fluff for little dreamer,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what it means in Latin, or God’s light in Hebrew.”
A small tremor swept through me, caught somewhere between surprise and something far more profound.
“You… know that?” I asked.
He nodded once, and the simple gesture felt heavier than it should have, as if he understood more about me in that moment than most people in my life ever had.
“And little fluff?” I braved to ask, causing a rare smirk to appear before he nodded to my head.
“Your hair.”
I blushed at this and raised a hand to it, trying to flatten it.
“It’s unruly, I know.”
I was surprised when he shook his head in response.
“I like it,” he admitted before he could stop himself, and I could see the conflict his own words caused him. As if he wasn’t used to giving compliments, which I guess made it all the more genuine.
“Thank you,” I whispered, feeling my cheeks get warm.
“So, you speak Latin and Hebrew… those are unusual choices,” I said after a few moments of silence.
“I know many languages,” he replied, not with arrogance but more matter-of-factly.
“So, you know what my name means in more than just two languages then, and no doubt picked the two nicer translations.”
He smirked at this, and my god, he nearly took my breath away, making me wonder what a full-blown smile would do to me… Most likely, it would reduce me to a puddle on the floor.
“In Italian, it means wing or to go forward, and in Spanish, it means at that hour.”
I laughed.
“I think I prefer dreamer, as that’s what my mother always said I was, making me wonder if that’s why she named me… Like she knew I would be this way,” I told him, for once speaking of her with ease instead of sadness. I also appreciated the way he didn’t pry or press for more.
Instead, his gaze softened in a way that felt warm and startlingly gentle.
“Your mother chose well,” he said, the sincerity so unexpected it almost unbalanced me. I looked away, swallowing the emotion rising too quickly. Before the moment could deepen further, he shifted slightly forward, his attention sharpening.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
I traced a finger along the rim of my cup, suddenly very aware of the weight of his stare.
“Too long,” I whispered. His eyes narrowed at that, as if my answer wasn’t enough.
“How old are you?” he asked with a slight frown, as if it had only just occurred to him to ask.
“Nineteen.”
He scoffed quietly, leaning back in his chair with a dismissive sound that pricked my pride.
“Too young?” My brows shot up.
“Too young for what?” His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite annoyance. “For me?”
My breath hitched at that, but his comment only made me bristle more.
“And you? How old are you?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Older than you.”
I let out a frustrated breath, pushing my bowl aside slightly.
“You don’t really answer anything directly, do you?”
He tilted his head slightly, as though the accusation amused him.
“And you ask too much.”
I laughed at that and pointed out, “Says the man who is asking most of the questions.” Unsurprisingly, he had no reply, making me brave enough to continue. “You expect answers from me but refuse to give any in return.”
He hummed and asked, “Your point being?”
“It doesn’t seem very fair now, does it?”
“That depends on your definition of fair, as sometimes knowing too much can be dangerous,” he replied, making me sigh.
“Is that why you refuse to tell me about yourself, because you think it will be dangerous?”
“Perhaps, but as to who it will be more dangerous for is what I’m still trying to figure out,” he replied, making me smirk this time.
“Any luck with that?”
Again, his lips quirked at the edges.
“No, but I’m still sitting here, so I guess only time will tell if I’m willing to give it time to figure out.”
I nodded, trying to hide my grin as I went back to my food. But then, when the silence between us continued, he exhaled through his nose, the smallest crack in his shield starting to show. Then after a long moment, he said,
“I have been in Shanghai for eight years.” Something in his voice made it clear that those eight years were not simple ones.
“Do you… have family here?” I asked gently. His expression shuttered instantly.
“No,” he said, the word clipped clean.
“I have no family to speak of.” The weight of that sentence struck something tender inside me.
“What about friends?” His eyes darkened before replying, as if the concept of friends was a foreign one to him.
“I don’t have time for friends.”
My chest tightened at the cold honesty of it, and my expression must have reflected that, because his voice snapped suddenly sharper.
“Do not pity me.”
I straightened at the bite in his tone, surprised but not scared.
“It’s not pity,” I said quietly. “It’s just… we have more in common than you think.”
His eyes flicked to mine, something unreadable stirring there. Then, after a moment, he asked, “The boy you were with, is he not a friend?”
The faintest shadow of jealousy threaded through his voice, so subtle I might have missed it if I wasn’t staring directly at him. A tiny smile threatened to pull at my mouth.
“You mean Luca? He is friendly enough,” I said lightly. “But he’s not someone I’m willing to break the rules for.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Rules?”
I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware of how personal this was becoming.
“My father is strict… very strict,” I said, and Thane muttered something under his breath, something I couldn’t quite catch but felt heavy with meaning. “Something to share on that?” I asked, being bold enough to voice it.
“A father has a need to be protective,” he said, though it sounded like he barely believed it. A laugh escaped me, one quiet, bitter, and hollow.
“It’s not protectiveness, it’s control, simple as that,” I said, and his posture stiffened. Also, for a strange moment, his eyes burned with something dangerously close to fury, but not at me.
“We don’t get along,” I admitted. “Not since…” My throat tightened painfully. “Not since my mother died.”
Silence moved between us again, but this time it wasn’t awkward or cold.
It was heavy and full of something raw and unfamiliar.
He didn’t look away. He didn’t withdraw.
Instead, he leaned in slightly, his expression shifting with a slow, subtle intensity, as if my words had struck somewhere deep.
And then, unexpectedly, he reached for my hand.
His fingertips brushed mine first, warm and tentative, before curling around my hand gently.
His touch was careful, as though I was something precious he didn’t quite know how to hold.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, the words low and sincere, so sincere that for a moment I forgot how to breathe. The warmth of his hand steadied something inside me that had been trembling since the day I arrived in Shanghai.
“Thank you,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat as I held onto him just a little tighter.
His thumb pressed once, softly, against the back of my hand before he let go, and the air between us felt changed.
As if charged with something neither of us knew how to name.
For the first time that day, the tight ache in my chest eased, replaced by something warm and frighteningly hopeful.
And beneath all of it, a quiet truth settled into the space between us…
I didn’t want to stay away from him.
And deep down I knew that, despite everything he tried to say…
He didn’t want to stay away from me either.