Page 47 of Nocturne

Have I been thinking about him more than usual? Yes.

Did a small part of me hope to encounter him while I drove myself to this part of the dock which stands on the border of Roarfort? Maybe.

Will I ever agree to that under sobriety? Not a chance in hell.

Mr Devlin stands in front of me, his legs stretching tall and clad in dark clothes like his expression. He has put on his emotionless mask again, but the air of danger doesn’t leave him. Even in the simplest posture of having his hand inside his pocket, he oozes control and danger.

When did the air turn thick around here? And why did it get difficult to breathe?

“Wandering again?”

Sweet baby cupcakes!

Two months without hearing it or even feeling his presence, and it still has this effect. It’s not fair that, without touching me or stepping into my personal space, this man can turn my insides to mush and render my brain useless.

His dark hair is swept back neatly, and his piercing grey eyes track my every move like a skilled hunter. There’s a hint ofdisapproval in them—or maybe not. It’s nearly impossible to read his thoughts.

Those stormy grey depths, set beneath strong brows, hold an intensity that feels like it’s trying to unearth my deepest, darkest secrets.

Sometimes, looking at him is almost painful—a stark reminder of how insignificant the rest of us seem in the shadow of his godlike presence. Or perhaps it’s a devilish one. I’m inclined to think the latter as his brows lift ever so slightly, as though he’s waiting for something.

Wait.

Did he ask me a question?

Shoot! What was it?

“Huh?”

What did he ask me? My name?

I thought he knew it.

“Ara?”

A small indention of his eyebrow is the only indication of his microscopic frown. God forbid he show any human emotion like us all. How else will he set himself apart from us mere mortals?

“You’re drunk,” he observes.

“Um…no?”

He gives me a silent stare that has me fidgeting at my place. I jump when his foot breaks my empty bottle, and I look away, trying to hide my cheeks, which are no doubt turning pink. Trustmy body to betray me in front of an attractive stranger/part-time stalker/saviour!

“Yes,” I admit.

“You’re irresponsible,”

Here’s why I avoid drinking:

One, it gives me fleeting courage that my drunk self shamelessly exploits, leaving my sober self to deal with the fallout. Two, I lose control of my mouth and actions, which has come back to bite me more times than I care to admit.

But did I learn? No.

The fear I usually feel for him is muted now. With a boldness I have no right to possess, I march toward him, tilt my head up, and fix him with a glare

“And you, sir, are mean.”

I think I see a fissure of amusement pass in those endless greys. But it is gone before I can be sure. I think I imagined it. I’m drunk as a skunk, and there is simply no way this man can feel anything, let alone something as humane as amusement.

---