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CHAPTERSIX
Nova
The clinkof glasses and the low hum of conversation wrap around me like a suffocating summer heat. I'm perched on a high stool at The Marlin, a swanky seaside bar known for its eclectic mix of modern art and vintage nautical charm. The salt-tinged air from the nearby ocean mingles with the scent of expensive cologne and seafood appetizers, creating an atmosphere that's both invigorating and overwhelming.
"Nova Sinclair," he greets me, voice smooth like aged whiskey, "the face behind the screen."
I force a smile, my heart fluttering with a cocktail of anticipation and anxiety. "That's me," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. I tuck a loose strand of blonde hair behind my ear, the small seashell earring catching the light. Every inch of me is curated, from the beach wave curls to the delicate tattoos that peek out from under my sleeve—a mermaid riding the crest of a wave.
"Let's talk business, shall we?" His eyes, a little too close, trace the line of my jaw.
"Of course." I nod, but something about his gaze feels like hands inching too close to forbidden territory. I cross my legs, the fabric of my dress sliding against my skin, whispering secrets of vulnerability.
He leans in, his breath hot against my neck as he murmurs, "I've been watching you, Nova. You have something...enticing."
My pulse quickens, a rabbit caught in a snare. "Thank you, but let's focus on the campaign," I suggest, my voice a strained melody, trying to steer us back to safe waters.
"Ah, but it's hard to ignore such... beauty." His hand reaches out, brushing against mine, and I recoil as if scorched by an unseen flame. The clamor of the bar recedes, leaving just the thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
"Please, that's not appropriate." My words are icebergs in a sea of discomfort, only their tips breaking the surface of what I really want to scream.
His chuckle rumbles through the space between us, a dark cloud presaging a storm. "You're so much more alluring in person. Those videos don't do you justice."
I swallow hard, tasting the tang of fear. The stool no longer feels like a throne but a witness stand, and I am the accused—my innocence standing trial beneath the weight of his stare. My throat tightens, a knot of dread that won't be untangled. He is a wave threatening to crash over me, and I am desperately searching for a lifeline.
"Let's keep this professional," I insist, but my voice trembles, betraying my cool exterior. Inside, I'm screaming, clawing at the walls of my own mind for escape.
"Come on, Nova. Don't be so coy," he says, his hand finding my knee, a presumptuous spider making its way up my leg.
Panic blooms in my chest, a wildflower in the wrong season—beautiful but unexpected, unwelcome. I can feel the eyes of others, but they seem a universe away, stars oblivious to the plight of a single planet.
"Stop," I say, firmer now, my will crystalizing into a blade sharp enough to cut through the tension. But still, he advances, undeterred, a predator in a room full of prey too preoccupied to notice my silent alarm.
"Relax," he whispers, mistaking my terror for shyness, "I'll take good care of you."
But I don't need his tainted version of care; I need safety, a sanctuary from the threat that sits before me disguised as opportunity. I long for the protective embrace of someone who understands the unspoken fears that lurk beneath the surface of every lone woman's skin.
Blaze.
"Please," I breathe, barely audible, a prayer to anyone listening, a plea for rescue from the undertow of this man's unwelcome desire.
The room's air seems to thicken, each breath laced with the scent of his cologne—a toxic musk that clings to my skin. My voice is a broken record stuck on please, but he only smiles, shark-like and eager to consume my discomfort. The chair beneath me feels like a sinking ship. I'm drowning in broad daylight, surrounded by oblivious bystanders.
Suddenly, the door swings open with purpose, and the atmosphere shifts. Blaze storms in, an avenging angel in ink and metal, his dark eyes scanning the room until they lock onto mine. I see the moment he recognizes the silent scream etched into my expression, and his jaw clenches.
"Nova," he calls out, voice ringing with authority as he strides toward us, every step deliberate, every movement brimming with protective ire.
"Blaze," I exhale, the word a lifeline cast into stormy waters.
"Is there a problem here?" Blaze stands over us now, an imposing sentinel, the tattoos on his arms like war paint, visible markers of his readiness to battle for those he claims as kin.
"Everything's fine, man," the guy replies, his hand retreating from my leg as if scorched by Blaze's presence.
"Doesn't look fine from where I'm standing," Blaze counters, unyielding, his stance wide, a barrier between me and the unwelcome advance.
"Nova, do you want this sleazeball touching you?" His eyes never leave the other man, but his question is for me—offering me control in a situation where it had been slipping away.
"No, I don't," I say, and my voice finds strength from his support.
