Page 10 of Immortal Sun

I do a small twirl. All the bedding is pristine white, matching the curtains in complete defiance of the dark wooden features everywhere else.

What started as a chill only grew as I unpacked and got ready for the evening.

Literally no matter how many clothes I have on or how close I stand to the fireplace, it’s impossible, it’s like the sun fell out of the sky or something. I even laid down in the bed before training and tried throwing blankets over myself. It’s not like I have windows open or anything.

My teeth chatter as I change into a fresh set of clothes, a pair of faux loose leather pants and a black low cut t-shirt. I don’t know why I pick it, especially since I’m freezing my ass off. I grab a pair of cute Converse and call it a night. My hair’s already a mess so I pull it into a tight bun, then I add some lip gloss.

I don’t bring my phone since that would be rude, and who would I call anyway? Jake, again? The reminder makes my stomach sink. Everyone seems to think he’s fine and just on a random adventure but all I have is missed calls, a weird voicemail about finding something, and nothing since then. He should have waited for me at the very least before starting his solo adventure.

When I find him I might actually kill him.

I adjust my bracelet on my wrist and momentarily touch the half sun amulet, wishing something electrical would happen, or that it would speak to me. I don’t believe in magic or fate, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to believe; it just means my belief is dead now that everything’s been taken from me. My hands brush the silver. Nothing happens. The only time it ever has was when Jake and I put the sun pieces together. A sliver of orange light emitted from it then, but it freaked us out so bad we stopped immediately and when we told our mom, we got grounded for nearly breaking the bracelets.

I sigh and walk out of the bedroom and click the door shut, then walk by Jake’s room. When Cyrus let me in, I noticed all of his things were still there down to his textbooks and some of his clothes. It smelled like him. And the smell brings back my renewed hope. He’ll be back. I just need to enjoy my time here while I can. I just need to wait for his return.

I also need to focus first on getting through tonight without faceplanting into the food from exhaustion. Maybe more answers will come. I walk down the hallway and then down the stairs to the first floor.

By the time I make it into the loud bar, I’m officially five minutes late. I look around and frown. The dull roar of the room isn’t too crazy, but what catche my attention is the nice table with a black linen table cloth surrounded by men in suits. It was out of place.

I almost trip on the bottom step when several seats are pushed out all at once. There’s a man with ash-colored hair and dark eyes staring at me from the head of the table opposite Cyrus, and there’s another sullen-looking guy who seems to be about my age—the one guy who refuses to stand—with bright red hair, crystal-blue eyes, and what might be a permanent scowl.

Another man with dark hair is penetrating me with his eyes like he can’t decide if he wants to shake my hand or cut it off, his hair is pulled back into a low ponytail.

Every single guy is built, and I don’t mean in an “oh, you do CrossFit” sort of way, but in a big hands, broad shoulders, “I could kill you” sort of way.

There must be something in the wine they’re drinking because they’re all stunning, even the angry one who remains sitting. Seriously, I half expect him to put his feet on the table and yawn.

“Our new trainee and hopefully manager.” Cyrus holds up a crystal wine glass. “Cleo.”

“How very interesting.” Sullen guy brushes pieces of his ash hair away from his face. His eyes are a vibrant, angry green, his mouth is turned down like he’s pissed at the world, but his fingers are strangely feminine and long as he grabs his wine and starts to chug. Drops of red wine slide down his chin. He wipes it away with his sleeve and pours more, he reminds me of Daemon fromHouse of Dragons. The other two give me polite half smiles that seem more like sneers. Remembering my need to make a good first impression, I smile genuinely in return.

Cyrus gets up and walks toward me. The way he moves is almost reserved, like he’s holding back from sprinting, every muscle in his neck bulges as he approaches. His massive hands pull the white wingback chair away from the table. I awkwardly sit as he pushes me forward. Is this part of the training?

His hand lingers near my shoulder, gripping the chair. Waves of heat pulse from him, the warmth is inviting after being so cold upstairs. I lean back just enough that I can feel my shoulder graze his fingers.

I touch my bracelet for good luck and take a deep breath.

He exhales, just barely, then grasps one of my shoulders I turn to him as he speaks.

His lips form an amused smile. “We’re so very glad you could make it.”

“Well,” I really want to reach for the glass of wine right in front of me, but I’m training. “You did say training starts at seven.”

“And continues for way longer than that.” One of the guys says into his glass.

Cyrus stiffly walks back to his seat, and the rest of the guests sit, each of them finding their wine glasses more interesting than me—not that I care.

“So,” the pretty sullen guy leans forward, smile predatory. “How long does training take you? How familiar are you with mixing drinks? Wines?”

That’s a weird question considering I just got here but I run with it anyway, he’s probably just trying to be insulting? His expression is one of challenge.

I place the black napkin on my lap. “I’m not sure. I hope I can at least prove myself tonight when I start training with Cyrus.”

The guy with dark hair pipes up. “It’s rare for him to join the training, you could pick any one of us you know.”

“No, thank you.” I say quickly. “I mean I at least kind of know Cyrus and I know I’ll be in good hands.” I hope I didn’t just insult them all.

“Bet I could make you so jealous you’ll explode.” He says to Cyrus lowly, so softly I almost missed it. Turning to me, he twists his wine glass with his fingertips with slow exaggerated movements. “He knows how good I am with my hands around all sorts of things in the bar.”

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