Await The Moon

Moonsly's words-"How much I have awaited this night"-were a low, intimate command that left Clara breathless. The intensity in his amber eyes was a physical weight, pressing against her chest and making her forget everything but the primal wild mint scent surrounding him. Her beautiful blue eyes searched his face, seeing a conflict there: desperate longing battling a fierce, controlled restraint. "Awaited... this night?" Clara whispered, a tremor running through her. "What are you talking about?" A faint, sharp tremor did run through Moonsly, a fleeting grimace of pain or perhaps desire. He finally broke the consuming eye contact, stepping back as if pulled by an invisible, restrictive chain. The dense air in the shop instantly thinned. He clutched the book, 'Whispers of the Lycan', his knuckles white, his movements regaining a dangerous, fluid grace. "Some things are not meant to be spoken aloud, Clara," he murmured, his voice now colder, retreating. "Only felt." He reached the door, the charcoal jacket making him a silhouette against the faint streetlights. Clara, acting on instinct-a desperate need to hold him there-rushed forward. "Wait! You haven't paid for the book!" Moonsly paused, his large hand resting on the old, scarred wood of the doorframe. He turned slowly, a hint of a dark, enigmatic smile touching his lips. He looked at her hand, where their skin had briefly touched. "I believe," he said, his eyes now shimmering with a mysterious emotion, "I already have." He was gone in the next heartbeat, dissolving into the moonless Oakhaven night. Clara rushed to the door, peering into the silence. She closed her eyes, clutching her own hand, still feeling the phantom heat where his touch had lingered-a tingling, possessive warmth. Who was this man? And why did her radiant light feel so desperately drawn to his powerful, beautiful darkness?