Page 2 of Dead to Rights
Probably the most noticeable difference, however, was the way he carried himself. Where Keegan bounced through his days like an excitable puppy, Noah strode with purpose and hard-won experience.
He smelled like moonlight—cool, bright, and a little wild.
As a human, Finn had never noticed the variety in the way people smelled. General things like perfumes and body odor, sure, but he hadn’t been able to separate one person from another based on scent.
While he still couldn’t track someone like a bloodhound, after his supernatural upgrade, he could definitely detect the subtle differences. Everyone had a sort of signature, something about their fragrance unique to them.
None of them made his gums ache or his mouth water, though.
And that made Noah Marsh dangerous.
More to the point, it madehimdangerous, especially to Noah. Every encounter, no matter how casual or brief, pushed him right to the edge of his self-control, and yet everything about Noah demanded his notice.
Worse, he couldn’t seem to stay away.
If he had any damn sense, he’d keep his distance…for both their sakes. Yet something about Noah called to him, a siren’s song he couldn’t ignore, and every interaction left him craving more.
That excuse only took him so far, though, and if he cared about the guy at all, he’d leave him the hell alone.
His gaze lingered for a moment longer, taking in the sleek outline and gentle curves. He inhaled, bracing when the crisp, familiar scent stung his nose. Even muted from a distance, it was still far too potent.
Gritting his teeth, he turned away, leaving the river and his duties at the pier behind him as he retraced his steps to the main road.
He moved with purpose, searching for a distraction, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on Noah. Every time he forced himself to walk away, the world always seemed a little more subdued—colors a shade too dim and sounds a note too distant.
Everything made duller by the ache of restraint.
Shoving away those self-pitying thoughts, he tried to focus instead on the humming life of the village. The blacksmith’s hammer clanged against his anvil in the distance. A steady thrum of conversation vibrated inside the bakery. Shouts and laughter exploded from the tavern.
All familiar, all safe, yet none of it enough to keep his mind from drifting back to the one person he had no business thinking about.
He’d made it halfway up the road when a sudden chill prickled along his spine, that unerring sense reserved for the uncanny. For a moment, he paused, glancing over his shoulder toward the riverbank. He half expected to see Noah emerge from between the buildings, but after several seconds, nothing happened.
Shaking his head, he pressed onward, jaw set, determined to outrun both his own nature and the magnetic pull that kept drawing him back to the water’s edge.
Eventually, he found himself at a ramshackle hut set a little apart from the other businesses in the village. For at least as long as he’d been there, the diner had been a gathering place, acentral hub where people came together to share a cup of coffee and maybe a bit of gossip.
The door leaned crookedly in its frame, the weathered boards held together by hope and sheer will. Pushing his way inside, he winced, the shriek of the rusted hinges clawing at his ears like nails on a chalkboard.
The drone of conversation pressed in on him from all sides. The crackle of the fire made his skin itch. His right eye twitched with every steady drip of water from somewhere behind the battered counter.
Scents blended. The acrid stench of smoke mingled with the aroma of brewed coffee, making his stomach churn.
Weaving his way through the crowd, he sagged into a battered booth near the back window with a heavy sigh.
“Everything okay?” the other occupant of the table asked. “You look a little pale.”
Forcing himself to sit upright, Finn folded his hands together atop the table and dipped his head. “Just a little overwhelmed.”
“Ah, I see.” Prince Orrin Nightstar shook back the sleeve of his snowy white robe and motioned to one of the chipped mugs in the center of the table. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
He accepted out of habit and politeness, though the thought of actually drinking it made him queasy. While he waited for the elf to fill his cup, he let his gaze drift across the room, searching for comfort in the familiar surroundings.
This time, though, it offered none, and beneath the veneer of normalcy, he still felt the tension that stretched between the river and the village like a taut wire.
“Thanks,” he said when Orrin pushed the mug toward him, but he didn’t reach for it.
“Something on your mind?” the prince asked.
