The familiar weight of the towel in my hands stilled as every sense I possessed zeroed in on her presence. The soft scuff of her boots against the hardwood floor. The quiet exhale that suggested she was steeling herself for something. The faint whisper of fabric as she adjusted whatever layers she was hiding under today.
And underneath it all, that scent that had been haunting the edges of my consciousness for two weeks. Something like fresh herbs and rain, with an undertone of magic that made my fangs ache and the hair rise on the back of my neck in ways I didn't want to examine too closely.
Bracing myself, I raised my eyes and watched her walk toward the bar. Tonight she wore dark jeans that actually fit her properly, showcasing legs that went on for miles, and a deep green button-down shirt that brought out the color of her eyes. Over her shirt was that same black vest from the last time I'd seen her, buttoned precisely down the front. Her dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail that exposed the elegant line of her neck, and that silver eyebrow ring caught the low lighting of the bar.
She was beautiful. Devastatingly, undeniably beautiful in a way that made something primal and possessive stir in my chest.
And she was trouble. Pure, unadulterated trouble wrapped in deceptively quiet packaging.
Something I absolutely did not have time for.
"You came," I said as she approached the bar. I set down the glass I'd been drying for the third time and poured her a glass of water, sliding it across the polished surface.
"Don't sound so thrilled about it." She settled onto a barstool, her posture rigid. "Killian said you agreed to this."
"I did," I said grudgingly. "But after that night outside the warehouse, I wasn't sure you'd want to see me again."
Her jaw tightened, and I heard frustration bleed into her voice as she said, "Yeah, well, apparently my family thinks I'm losing my mind, and they won't help me, so here we are." She looked around the empty club. "Where is everyone?"
The bitter edge in her tone caught my attention. There was real pain there underneath the anger. "What won't they listen to?"
"The truth." Her green eyes flashed with a mixture of hurt and defiance.
I reached for a bottle of bourbon, more to keep my hands busy than because anyone needed a drink. The familiar ritual of wiping down the already-clean surface gave me a few seconds to study her.
She looked tired beneath the defiance. Not physically exhausted, but the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from bearing burdens no one else would share. Faint shadows darkened her striking green eyes, and her fingers worried constantly at the edge of her vest. A nervous gesture that told me more than her sharp words had.
As we took each other in, the tension between us shifted. I found myself studying the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her lips pressed together when she was thinking, the small mole just below her left ear that I wanted to trace with my tongue?—
Jesus Christ. I needed to get a grip.
"They think you're lying?" I asked, setting the bourbon aside and giving her my full attention.
"They think I'm chasing fantasies." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but I caught the flash of pain that crossed her features. "That the stress of Alex's disappearance is making me see things that aren't there. Making me desperate enough to grasp at shadows."
"Are you?"
She laughed, but the sound held no humor. "That's what I'm here to find out. Because either I'm having a complete breakdown, or..." She trailed off, her fingers tightening around the glass.
"Or?"
Her eyes came back to mine. "Or I'm seeing things now that I'm not supposed to be able to see. Things that might help us find Alex before it's too late."
The words settled into the space between us. This was it, then. The moment where I either dismissed her concerns like her family apparently had, or opened myself up to the kind of shit that made my skin crawl.
"What things?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral.
She studied my face as if trying to gauge whether I was humoring her or genuinely asking. But whatever she saw there must have reassured her, because she straightened on the stool and looked directly into my eyes.
"Threads," she said simply. "Connections between people that look like... like strands of light. They show me relationships, bonds, the ties that bind people together across space and time."
I felt my expression tighten despite my efforts to keep it neutral. "Threadwalking."
She seemed surprised. "You know about it?"
"I know of it. It's rare magic, even among witches. Dangerous, too, from what I've heard."
She nodded, some of the tension in her shoulders easing at my matter-of-fact acceptance. "I've been having visions since Alex disappeared. At first, they were just flashes. Glimpses of light that didn't make sense. But they're getting stronger all the time. Clearer."
