Page 49 of Nocturne

“Ara,”

A delirious shiver passes down my spine at the way he says my name. It has never felt so right, so…sensual.

“It’s fine after weeks of rest. Dr Llyod suggested to take it easy for another week.”

I don’t turn to look at him. I cannot.

I’m not strong enough to resist what my mind wants to do—what it’s always wanted to do. I’d want to touch him, to trace the scars that hold my attention, to stare into those magnetic eyes that remain an enigma.

They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but how can someone hide the mirror so perfectly? Is he concealing it, or am I wrong? Maybe there’s nothing there—no soul, no emotions, just an endless void that drains everything around it.

No.

I’ve seen anger. Anger on my behalf.

He isn’t the emotionless mask he tries to be. But then again, was that anger for me? Or is he just the kind of man who’s furious when a woman’s honour is threatened? Zagan Devlin might be the Devil, but he seems like an old-school guy. He might not help the elderly, but I doubt he’d ever harm a child or raise his hand to a woman.

I let out a shaky breath, his presence pressing down on me, impossible to ignore.

Why is he still here? Why is he staring at me?

Shaking my head, I turn toward the iron railing of the pier. I’d rather face the ocean, feel the salty wind on my cheeks, than try to unravel his behaviour. At least this way, I might sober up faster and find a reason for my reddening cheeks and nose—other than him.

Given my inebriated state, I probably shouldn’t stand on the raised step. I can still see the sea clearly without standing on it. But knowing something is different from following it.

I throw caution to the wind as I try to climb the step and lose my footing.

“Sweet rivers,”

I hold the railing before I can hit my face and use it to pull myself upright. This time, I manage to climb the step successfully. My grip is solid on the metal as it digs into my lower stomach, and I close my eyes shut and lean slightly forward.

The wind whips against my face, tangling my hair in wild strands, carrying the distant shouts of sailors racing toward the docks. The sharp, earthy scent of petrichor fills the air, and I inhale deeply, desperate to hold on to its intoxicating freshness.Maybe it can drown out the stench of rotting flesh and burning meat that clings to my mind.

The thought hits me like a cold wave, dragging with it the familiar chill of my past. My mood sinks as the wind grows sharper, slicing through me. The petrichor fades, replaced by the sickening stench of decay. The sailors’ distant cries twist into haunting echoes of the women’s screams as they were dragged to their cells.

My hands tremble, my grip on the metal railing unsteady. Fear coils tightly, freezing my legs, locking me in place. My mind pulls me deeper into its torment, flashing images I can’t escape.

Would it be so bad to let go? To fall headfirst into the ocean and let it swallow me whole?

Suddenly, a wave of heat brushes against my back, and I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The chill gripping me evaporates in the wake of his warmth as his presence envelops me. His hands grip the railing on either side of mine, trapping me in his space. The air thickens with the rich, intoxicating scent of oud and leather, filling my senses and pulling me further into his orbit.

Zagan Devlin isn’t just any normal man. He commands attention even in the tiniest of details. With him behind me, his coat grazing my clothes, and his smell enveloping my senses, I can think of nothing but him. Without exerting a lot of effort, the man has driven the onslaught of what might have been the cruellest of images from my past.

“W-What are you doing?”

Why is he so big? And warm?

Why is he evoking these confusing feelings inside me?

“I’m in no mood to play rescue today,”

I can feel the vibration of his chest as he speaks. His breath hits my hair, and I sense that he is bent slightly forward as he leans forward. He isn’t touching me, but the position he is in, trapping me between him and the railing, shouldn’t be this comfortable.

I look down to see my hand beside his. If I move mine just an inch, I would touch his. The stark difference between them has me staring down at them, awestruck.

Where mine are milky white, his are tanned. Where mine are unblemished and soft, his are covered in tattoos and look hard. There are even some small scars peppered on his skin. Where mine are small, his are huge, like bear paws, as his grip tightens around the railing.

I’m afraid that if he grips it any harder, he might bend it. My fingers are short, slightly stubby, and painted in dusty pink, while his fingers are long, thick and with thin veins running around the fingers, embossed under the skin.

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