Hunched over the bar as he fixed the tall, stout bartender with an unblinking, baleful stare, the combined scent of perspiration and nervousness permeating the air, Adarian rapped the metal knuckles of his left hand against the thick, wooden countertop - once, twice, three times … until the man finally relented and averting his gaze to the counter, fetched a bottle of the club’s most popular seller, Wild Stinger, and reluctantly placed it down beside his hand—before abruptly retreating to the far end of the bar, the rigid line of his back and the tightening of his jaw the only, true telltale signs of agitation he struggled so hard not to show, obviously determined to play the role of big man on campus until the bitter end …
… save for a scent that could not be manipulated or hidden.
Scent beat make-believe every damn time.
“Hey,” Adarian called out, a raspiness to his tone that led one to believe he didn’t talk much. “I’m runnin’ on empty.” Four, little words—innocent enough not to raise any alarm bells. But when coupled with a deep, gravelly, voice and dark, flint-hard eyes, they were enough to send chills down anyone’s spine. As if on cue, the bar quieted, all activity suspended as several pairs of eyes fell on him, as though to gauge the extent of the threat he presented; lines of tension formed between Adarian’s brows as he reached for the bottle, his fingers tightening around the glass as he kept a trained eye on the bikers in the mirror behind the bar.
“No sweat, man. It’s free of charge,” the bartender hastened to say, trying to disperse the tension with an amenable comment. And something in the dark expression in the hybrid’s eyes must have proved too … bellicose, for mere seconds passed before they resumed their conversations, no longer paying the stranger any mind.
Acknowledging the bartender’s generosity with a curt nod, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a large swig, hoping the alcohol would dull the pain in his head; a throbbing ache that would only erupt when the three different breeds currently inhabiting his body vied for dominance. Rarely were they quiet, domineering in nature and determined to be heard over the cries of their neighbors. It had taken him months to adapt to his circumstances, his head an accumulated mass of darkness and confusion that would ofttimes drive him to question his own sanity.
When his instincts, a dangerous combination of therianthrope, warg, and dragon, warned of approaching danger. Not from the bikers or club members scattered throughout the bar—but from an outside source, the familiar scent of spice and gun powder wringing a wordless growl from him.
She’d tailed him for days—maybe even weeks—tracking him to remote areas around the state, and just when he thought he’d lost her, the damn female had the nerve to throw in an appearance. Again. But this … This was the closest she’d ever come to tagging and bagging her quarry, the closest he’d let her come. Because he was over this cat-and-mouse game, tired of smelling her every-goddamn-where he turned up, a scent that provoked the beast and triggered its hunting instinct despite the fact that it had three very different, competing forces feeding its hunger.
Conscious of her presence, watching out of the corners of his eyes as the locals turned their attention to her, no doubt identifying her as the lesser of two evils, Adarian maintained a silent vigil, patiently awaiting her arrival with an outwardly calm demeanor—when, inwardly, he was feeling anything but calm. “No,” he grunted, slanting her a sideways glare the moment she claimed the bar stool next to his, in no mood to humor her tonight. If she wanted the big fish, she’d have to get a little wet first. “Game’s been over. Now it’s time for you to scram.” And then, finally swiveling on his stool to face her completely, he saw her face for the first time in weeks—and stared, aghast … motionless.
“No,” he rasped, eyes tracing every line of that beautiful face—a face that had haunted his dreams for months. “No!” He clutched at his head, struggling to think past the torturous pain in his head—to rationalize a dead woman’s appearance—but nothing seemed to work, and soon … soon, he would be too far gone to care.
Everyone in the bar was wary of him, it was clear in their body language, the wide girth between him and their scattered groups of drinkers and pool players, all of them with their bodies slightly slanted his way, none of them quite willing to turn their back on him.
He was one man, and he had a whole goddamn biker gang scared of him.
And she was sliding into the seat next to his, despite the thickly growled no that sent more of a chill down her spine than she’d care to admit. Swallowing, tactful, Dilyn kept her resolve by staring straight across the bar she sprawled an arm over, fingers uncharacteristically fidgeting with the cardboard coaster that was more for advertising purposes than to keep the bar clean.
It was a tell.
It irritated her to no end how much safer she felt from the rest of the bar’s occupants within the immediately zone of his circle of intimidation. It was a stupid thing to feel, considering he was the biggest threat of them all and by the tone of his voice, he was finally fed up with her following him
Well fuck.
“You think i’m doing this for shits and giggles?” Dilyn snorted, but she never had a chance to continue, to explain she had no choice— his scream caught her off guard and instinct had her jump to the defensive, hand going immediately for that special gun Thead had outfitted her with. Muscles tensed, spine ramrod straight, Dilyn stared him down, suspicious as fuck and trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Fingers slowly curled around the handle, ready to wield it.
Was this some kind of play to catch her off guard?
No.
Instinct told her it wasn’t.
Rather than draw her weapon, Dilyn slowly raised an empty hand and against all better judgement reached out, fingers hovering over his arm more than making contact. “Hey— ” The fuck was she doing? “Everything okay?”
It wasn’t.
He wasn’t.
He was an unstable hybrid— how many times had she read that in the dossier?
Dilyn swallowed, barely breathing as her mechanical eye whirred and buzzed, scanning his face for micro-expressions that might give away his intent, searching his own eyes for any sign of his next move. There was a shift to his irises, a focus in the pupils that burnt wildly and intense. He was losing it. She leaped to her feet, hand shooting to her gun and this time drawing it, aiming it directly at the heart of the man she’s supposed to bring in alive.
Shit just got real.
Behind her, Dilyn could hear chairs scrape against the ground as all the other occupants got up, the crunch of leather and click of metal indication enough they were pulling out their own weapons. Question was, were they aiming at her, or the hybrid?
“Don’t make me shoot.” She growled, low, guttural, traced with a hint of fear.