Page 17 of Obliterated
Crazy,the girls whisper to me when they pick up trays of drinks for his table.Unhinged. Unstoppable. Unbreakable.
He craves blood. Lives and breathes violence. Could snap at any moment, just for the thrill of it.
But he’s untouchable because he’s Immune, because he bleeds willingly for the handful of scientists here who still pretend they’re normal, submitting to tests every other day. Because he takes sentences like everyone else, but instead of fearing the Pit, he hungers for it. A gladiator in his own right.
So yeah. The patrons avoid the booth when he’s there. Shit, most don’t even sit there when he isn’t. The space belongs to him now, claimed by blood and fear.
But this time, Max isn’t in his booth.
And my stomach knots hard because of it.
He’s right there at the bar.Mybar. Lounging on a stool like he owns the place. No Tass. No smiling dreadlock guy. Just him.
My heart stutters—no, it outright skips a fucking beat.
But fuck me, I’m no coward. I’m not the shivering mess he found on that boat. I survived this far, I can survivehim.
I keep walking, head high, spine straight, like I’m not burning under the weight of him. Like I don’t notice how big he is when I pass close, how the air seems to shift around him. How he smells like Ashwood smoke and something else. Something earthy, feral, dangerous. Like the outside clings to him, no matter how deep inside the walls he goes.
I force a smile at Ben, the guy I’m relieving from the day shift. We go through the motions—tabs, stock, the usual rundown. All the while his hands twitch like he can’t wait to be free of Max’s orbit. Like expected, he mutters a quick “good luck” as soon as he can, slipping out and leaving me with… him. Since the rest of the bar is almost deserted this early in the evening.
I’ve never had him this close before. Not since he put his callused hand on my throat, tilting my head back like I weighed nothing, like he owned the air I breathed.
When I finally drag my eyes up to meet his, they’re dark. So immensely dark. But from this close, I catch the tiny silver flecks for the first time, like the night sky itself is staring back at me.
Yes, he’s staring. Unmoving. Unblinking. Only that damn trail of smoke curling from his lips, like it always does.
“Hi.” The word slips out before I can stop it as I start polishing a glass that’s already clean.
One dark eyebrow arches. “Hi?”
Oh shit. Lame.Real smooth, Kieran.
He doesn’t let me recover. “I see you got my present. The shirt looks good on you.”
I fuckingfumble. The glass in my hand skids, slips, then crashes to the floor. Shards scatter across the tiles, catching the light like tiny stars.
Heat burns up my neck as I crouch, grabbing at the bigger shards, careful to not step onto it with my flip-flops. I feel his eyes on me this whole time, like he planned this, like he’s enjoying it.
I slam the pieces into the wastebasket before I get up to glare up at him. Hard. “You were in my room?”
My glare sharpens when he slides a coin my way with one long, scarred finger, casual as anything, ignoring my question. “For the glass.”
My eyes narrow. I shove the silver token right the fuck back across the wood. “I got it. Thank you. And you can keep the shirt.”
“What are you going to do, strip right here?”
To cover the heat creeping up my neck, I grab one of the bread baskets below the counter, push it his way with olive oil and sea salt, the way he always eats it. His eyes flicker wide for half asecond before he mumbles a thanks. Since he already has a drink in front of him, I leave it at that.
“Why?” I finally ask, trying my damn best to calm my racing heart.
“Why what?”
I blink. “The clothes.”
“Consider it my debt paid.” He drags another hit from the cigarette dangling from his tatted fingers, and I want to ask what he means by hisdebt,but all I can do is gawk at thatmouth.
Sometimes I don’t even know if people stare at him because he’s Max—the Pit legend, The Immune freak everyone whispers about… or because he’s… well, godsdamn gorgeous.
