Page 30 of Sinful
It's her.
Blonde hair, curls gone wild from helmet compression, falling past her shoulders in a way that should look messy but doesn't.
Should look soft, but doesn't.
She's built lean and hard, the kind of body that comes from riding and fighting and surviving.
Not delicate.
Not performing femininity for anyone's benefit.
Just existing in her skin like a weapon that knows exactly what it's capable of.
Her face is striking—strong features, high cheekbones, a mouth that looks like it doesn't smile often.
But it's her eyes that catch me.
Dark brown, almost black in this light.
And dead.
Not dead like empty, but dead like mine.
Like she's seen things, done things, lost things that changed her fundamentally.
She scans the room automatically, threat assessment.
Exits, weapons, potential problems.
The way I do.
The way soldiers do.
The way people who've survived violence do.
Our eyes meet across the space.
Just for a second. Maybe two.
But in that second, something clicks.
Recognition.
Not of her specifically—I've never seen her before in my life.
But of what she is.
Someone running. Someone dangerous. Someone who'd be a bad idea to get involved with.
The kind of bad idea that looks too good to resist.
She doesn't look away first.
Doesn't drop her eyes or smile or do any of the things women usually do when a man stares.
Just stares back, flat and assessing, like she's deciding if I'm a threat.
Then someone calls her name from across the bar.
