Page 16 of Lana Pecherczyk
Five
Growing up surrounded by brothers, Blake was no stranger to violence.
Once, her brother Mick tormented their other brother John for twenty minutes by flicking rubber bands at his face. John endured it silently until he exploded, breaking Mick’s ribs with a single, calculated jab. The ensuing brawl left its mark on family history. Multiple Hartleys required stitches, and several pieces of furniture needed repair.
But when the Guardian brutally subdued the horned man, Blake realized that what she had mistaken for violence was merely a love tap in comparison. More terrifying was her immediate, visceral attraction to the newcomer, an instinctive lowering of her guard. He’d winked at her, and her stomach fluttered into her throat. None of this was normal, least of all the black claws sprouting from the Guardian’s fingertips.
Definitely not normal.
Alarm blared, and she bolted, her bare feet slapping against sun-warmed cobblestones. A quick glance over her shoulder sent her pulse racing. His quarrel forgotten, the leather-clad, tattooed Guardian stalked a few meters behind. She locked eyeswith his intense, ocean-blue gaze, startled, then whipped her gaze forward and picked up her pace. Dots swam in her vision.
Oh god. Oh god.What the hell was happening? Was he really going to kill her because of her sequined dress?
The crowd pressed in. Bodies jostled her, elbows and shoulders colliding. Voices layered over each other—hawkers shouting prices, customers bartering in clipped tones, and the occasional child’s screech slicing through the din. A goat bleated nearby, and Blake flinched, nearly stepping into something sticky pooled between cobblestones.
Heat crawled up her back as she dodged a wicker basket. He remained behind her. She didn’t need to look; his presence loomed like a firestorm, impossible to ignore. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she forced her aching legs onward.Blend in. Just blend in.
A table stacked with vibrant cushions, decor, and folded, jewel-encrusted scarves caught her eye. A scarf could hide her identity. She darted toward it, weaving through merchants and customers. Once at the homewares stall, she slowed and tried to appear like a regular shopper, but trembled as she reached for a cushion.
The woman behind the table barely glanced her way, preoccupied with rearranging products before unpacking a box farther down. Blake’s attention snagged on a cracked vase catching the light. Her fingers hesitated before closing around it. The texture felt rough beneath a layer of grime, but the delicate fracture lines instantly told a story she recognized.
“She’s got the razzle underneath all this muck,” she murmured, rubbing her thumb over its surface.
She’d been obsessed with Kintsugi during her early days of upcycling. The Japanese pottery art captivated her with how the gold seams turned broken pieces into something beautiful. Sherotated the vase, tracing fractures with her fingertips: no gold veins yet, but potential for a striking pattern.
Another shopper bumped into her from behind, nearly dislodging the vase from her grip. Her fingers clenched reflexively as she glanced back. A streak of leather and shadow moved at the edge of her vision. Her stomach knotted.
“Just focus,” she told herself. “Maybe he didn’t see you.”
As she faced the front, a shadow fell across the vase and remained. Her breath caught as the vendor’s eyes widened at something behind Blake.
Slowly, she turned, and, yep, there he stood. Cracks and wear patterns in his leather suggested years of reaching for the same weapons.
The Guardian casually rested his hand on the table beside her, so close she felt his body heat through her skin. She stared at that hand, caught by the breadth of its span. Artistic tattoos laced in intricate patterns over his skin, art broken and sliced by a network of fissures—scar tissue so fine it was almost indistinguishable.
“Interesting choice.” His voice, deep and velvety, brushed against her ear. “Why that vase?”
He plucked it from her hands and edged closer, hotter, filling her vision with leather and daggers as he leaned his hip against the table, broad chest virtually in her face.
“I … just thought it was pretty.”
“This cracked thing?” He tilted the vase, inspecting it with the same precision she’d used moments before. Startlingly blue eyes flicked to her. “Funny. I thought you’d be more interested in shinier things.”
The words hit like a challenge. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just an observation, little rainbow mouse.”
“Rainbow mouse?” The absurdity of the nickname sent heat flashing to her cheeks. “Is that supposed to be clever?”
“Clever? No. Accurate? Absolutely.” He leaned in, smirking. “All sparkly and scurrying about. It fits.”
“I amnotscurrying.”
“No?” His head tilted, his gaze heavy as it traveled over her. “Could’ve fooled me with your little dance earlier.”
Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.
“I liked the vase because of the flaws,” she announced. “They’re what makes it sparkle.” Realizing she had raised her voice, she took it from him and inspected it again, hoping the familiar rush of a new project would anchor her spiraling emotions. And it did. Without fail, every time she set her mind to bringing the razzle out, she went all giddy. Her finger traced a splintered fissure. “It’s in the cracks,” she whispered, “where beauty hides.”
