Page 48 of Nocturne

I look down to see the glass shards under his feet.

“These might hurt someone,”

I bend to pick them up. But a grip on my upper arm stops me from doing so. Despite my drunk state, I notice the way my skin sizzles at his contact.

I glance up at him, questioning but silent. His touch robs me of words, leaving me momentarily speechless.

My eyes catch the way his large hand easily circles my arm, making it seem smaller than it is. My own hand can’t even wrap around it fully, a constant reminder of its thickness. I’ve felt self-conscious about my body before—about how I look bigger and less soft compared to my friends. But with him, I feel impossibly small.

It’s a feeling I’ve never experienced before, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

“No.”

He flicks the pieces away with his foot, not allowing me to pick them.

I suppose that settles it, then.

I take my hand from his grip when my lungs scream for air. I step back and clear my throat, looking down at my shoes.

Why do I feel conscious about my simple jeans and hoodie all of a sudden?

“W-What brings you by?”

When I look up, it is to see a muscle in his jaw tick. He doesn’t answer, not that I expected him to. The man has an aversion towards talking. I wonder why.

“I came here because it’s so peaceful than the pier in the city. It is always filled with tourists and pickpockets.”

Nothing from him.

“I was once robbed. Darn thieves took my new pair of Louboutins,”

A pout tugs at my lips as I think back to the day I bought my first pair of those iconic red-soled heels. I’ve always gravitated toward boots and kitten heels, but sometimes, a girl just wants to feel sexy. And nothing does that quite like strutting in five-inch stilettos paired with a jaw-dropping dress.

Still nothing from him.

“Rude,” I mutter under my breath and turn around.

If he isn’t going to be decent enough to converse, I’m not going to acknowledge his presence. I’m bummed with everything as it is.

Even as his attention prickles my neck, I turn and don’t look back. I’m also easily offended and sensitive like this. I wouldn’t want to cry just because he won’t talk.

Oh wow. Drunk Ara is a real handful. Maybe I’m better off alone when I’m drunk. I rather not make a fool out of myself in front of the man I fancy.

My eyes widen. What was that? Did I just think that I fancy Zagan Devlin?

No. No!

I shake my head, denying even the lone thought. Nope. There is no way I can fancy him. The man scares the bejeesus out of me. I’m a nervous wreck whenever he is around.

You also cannot look away.

I squeeze my eyes shut at the treacherous voice inside my head. I need to kill it before it kills my sanity.

“How’s your leg?”

Is there any universe where everything inside me doesn’t sing at his voice? What is it about the baritone that brings out such visceral reactions from me? Is it his deep tenor? Or is it the way his words end in a slight, barely noticeable growl? As if he is trying his best not to let his beastly sideshow?

When I open my eyes, I see the raging sea in front of me. The North Sea that I both love and fear. His voice reminds me of this. His eyes remind me of the booming clouds above the tumultuous waves. A voice so deep, dark and dangerous as these waters.

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