Page 53 of Revenant

“Oh my gosh, was that a smile?” she mocks, grabbing her drink.

I mimic her, taking a longer drink than necessary, but they’re on the house…and she did tell me to let loose. So that’s exactly what I plan to do. “It’s just been a rough week. But I think the storm has passed,” I admit.

But all the impending doom is exhausting, and at this moment, I’m choosing to believe all of my problems don’t exist. To solidify my declaration, I finish my drink, the effects hitting me almost instantly. My head feels airy, my body weightless.

The music changes, matching how I feel, and a smile breaks free and suddenly more martinis appear out of thin air.

How do the waiters do that?

Moriah grabs her drink with one hand, and mine with the other, wearing a grin that promises trouble. “Fine. Just for a little bit, come on. We’re dancing.”

Following her to the dance floor, I glance back at the food I barely touched, then take the drink from her and let her pull me into the crowd. For a moment I forget about curses and vampires, bloodlines and nightmares. Forget about Pryce using me, Elias’s distance, and Bastian’s mouth on mine.

The latter is a bit harder to push away, especially with the effects of the martini flowing through my veins.

For a little while I’m just…me. A girl dancing with her friend in a club that smells like citrus and cedarwood. A girl who deserves one fucking night without supernatural bullshit breathing down her neck.

Unfortunately for me, the citrus reminds me of Koen—and how his shirt is waiting for me. Something about it makes me feel safe—which sounds crazy but the nightmares have been at bay since initiation. Maybe it’s a placebo, but I’ll take the wins where I can.

A few songs pass and Moriah spins me, laughing, her impeccable blow out bouncing like she’s made of light. I’m breathless, smiling, letting the music drown out everything else.

Then…her smile drops as though a switch flipped. Her eyes lock on something over my shoulder, and her grip on my wrist tightens just enough to sting.

“Moriah?” I ask, but she’s already pushing through the crowd.

“Stay here,” she commands, all evidence of her carefree attitude gone. “Don’t talk to anyone.”

I follow her line of sight and spot a man—powerfully built and wearing a suit that probably costs more than my tuition—watching her with an expression that’s equal parts irritation and concern.

Before I can blink, Moriah storms toward him.

They meet halfway, and he says something that makes her jaw clench. She fires something back at him, but then he steps closer. Too close. She shoves him back with a force that surprises even him.

I could really use that vampire hearing right about now.

“Already bored?” The familiar voice pulls me from the heated argument.

Turning around, Tristan leans against the wall, staring at them like he isn’t surprised in the slightest to see them fighting. “Just taking a breather.”

He looks down, a smirk playing on his lips like he doesn’t believe me. He pushes his hair out of his face absentmindedly, as his eyes meet mine—giving me a glimpse of a silver streak woven into the raven strands. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol, the lighting, but he looks more gorgeous than he did before. You’d have to be blind not to notice. “Remind me of your name again, beautiful?”

“Actually...” I lean in just enough to close the gap between us. “I never gave you my name.”

“Intriguing.” His eyes flick to my empty glass. “Let me get you another drink.”

Turning back around, Moriah and that guy are still oddly going at it, Moriah getting more heated as the seconds tick by. When I bring my attention back to Tristan, I’m shocked to find him much, much closer, grabbing the glass out of my hand. The proximity causes my breath to hitch, allowing the soft notes of cedarwood and citrus to enter.

“I don’t take drinks from strangers.”

“Strangers? I’m Tristan Carrow, your friend’s brother, and the owner of this establishment might I add. How much more trustworthy can I get?”

I still don’t offer him my name. “I think that means the opposite, actually,”

“Touché.” He holds the glass away from his body like he’s going to drop it, but someone comes to collect it like it’s a universal signal.

Maybe in this universe.

His hand moves swiftly, gesturing to me like an offering. “Care to dance?”