PROLOGUE
THREE MONTHS AGO
SEBASTIEN
The Last Prayer isn’t the kind of place you come to forget. The opposite, really. It’s the kind of dive you hunker down in to fucking disappear so the world forgetsyou.
Dim lights. Peeling paint. Smoke in the air despite the ‘no smoking’ signs posted on the walls and in the bathroom. Some dented jukebox stands near the back, playing songs about heartbreak, homicide, or some haunting combination of both. No one looks like they want to be here. Shit, most men in the Order wouldn’t even be caughtdead inhere.
Of course, that’s one of its selling points for me. It’s why I like it.
It’s why, when I need a break from the eyes on me down at the Court, I take a ride about ten minutes out of Harmony Heights—firmly in Sackerville—and lean my bike up next to the others parked out front. The Last Prayer… guy named Jones owns the joint and he’ll serve you a beer with a glare, neverpretending this seedy ass bar is anything but what it appears to be.
Good. Then I don’t have to be anything different, either.
In the Last Prayer, no one cares who I am. Sebastien Reynolds, second son of a founding family, Order royalty, and consistent disappointment. I can be Bas, with my bike helmet parked on the stool next to me as a warning for other patrons to keep their distance, and my motorcycle gloves covering up the ruined skin on my palm.
Sackerville is too close to Harmony Heights for me to risk flashing my Order brand around. The first two bar fights I ever got into had something to do with a townie thinking I’m high and mighty because I’m one of the Owed, but I sure as fuck don’t look like it. They expect slicked-back hair and a suit. Me? I have helmet hair and you’ll never catch me without my road jacket.
I fit in here, and sometimes that’s all I need. A break from being a Reynolds and all the expectations that carries—plus all the ways I’ve failed to live up to them. I wasn’t looking for anything else tonight.
Doesn’t mean it didn’t find me, though.
I’m two beers in, pretending I’m not listening to the bartender talk to the owner about a leaking pipe somewhere in the back, when the air shifts. A shiver runs down my back, not because the door outside opened to mid-December weather, but because I can sense someone hovering a few steps behind me.
They hesitate, seeing the helmet on the stool next to me. Letting out a soft breath, they shift away from me, climbing on top of the empty one on the other side of my helmet.
I glance at her, then nearly snap my neck doing a double-take.
She’s a beauty all right. Shiny brown hair falling in waves down her back, a delicate face with a sloped nose and pretty brown eyes. There’s innocence in her expression, somethingpure that extends to the simple white fitted tee she’s wearing over a pair of tight light blue jeans. She has a puffy black coat crumpled up on her lap. Realizing it’s not very comfortable the way the stools are posted so close to the bar, she follows my lead, laying her coat on another empty stool.
My first impression is that she doesn’t belong in this hellhole. There are plenty of women at the Last Prayer, but it was easy to ignore all of them… until her. Now I’m watching her closely out of the corner of my eye, picking up on some details I didn’t notice at first.
Her eyes are brown, but they’re also rimmed with red. Her hair is fluffed out, like she’s run nervous fingers through the length a hundred times before she forced herself to walk into the bar. Her knee is bouncing. Her gaze darts over to me one, twice, and I can sense when she’s gotten a good look at me, too.
I know what kind of face I have. One that, no matter how I mess it up, the fuckingprettinessof it shines through. When I was younger, I used it to my advantage. Now, only a year away from thirty, I’m a little choosier about who I smile for.
I smile at her.
She chokes on a breath before quickly turning her attention to the bartender. While I’d been scoping her out, he’d come by to take her order. She murmurs something—some kind of cocktail that I doubt they serve up in here—but the bartender nods anyway. Two minutes later, he’s placed a drink in front of her.
She touches the side of her neck with unsteady fingers before lifting the glass, taking a sip. By the time she winces like the drink hurt, I can’t bring myself to look away.
So, instead, I shift my position, turning toward her. I clear my throat. “Bad day?”
She doesn’t glance up. “Please don’t.”
Interesting. “Don’t what?”
“Talk to me. Flirt with me. Try to be the nice guy who sees a lonely girl at a bar and thinks she’ll be an easy target.”
My jaw flexes. I just wanted to check in with her, but… “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She takes another sip, blinking too fast. Shit. Those aren’t tears, are they? “I can’t handle kindness tonight.”
I hate to hear that. Especially since it’s obviously what she needs. And I’m the sort of guy who could give it to her. Sure, I know my rep. I’ve had my fair share of women, but despite what half the town thinks, I’m not a user. I’m not a player. If you need a shoulder to cry on, I’ve got a leather-clad one to lend you. And if you need to lose yourself for a night… I’m excellent at doing that, too.
But she doesn’t know me. I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her at the Last Prayer before—I would’ve remembered—so she probably thinks I’m just another barhound hitting on her.
