Fated Heat

The whiskey burned, but not as much as the weight of his eyes.

I tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the glass in my hand, the sweat dripping down its sides, the thud of bass pulsing through the walls. But it was impossible. His stare clung to me, branding me, hotter than anything I'd ever felt before.

When I finally forced myself to look again, he was gone, or so I thought.

A shadow moved at the edge of my vision. Then he was there,sliding into the stool beside me with a predator's grace, his sheer presence swallowing the air around us.

"Whisky," he told the bartender, his voice low, smooth, threaded with command. It wasn't a request, It was an order. The man answered quickly.

And then those golden eyes were on me again. Up close, they were even more unsettling. Too bright, too sharp, it was like sunlight reflected in molten metal. His gaze pinned me in place, stripping me bare.

"You're bleeding," he said. I blinked in confusion. "What?"

His mouth curved faintly, as if amused by my confusion. "Not here." His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, until the back of his knuckle brushed beneath my eye. "Inside."

I stiffened, every muscle screaming at me to move, to push him away. But I didn't. I Couldn't. His touch was a spark, a fire racing down my skin until I could swore he'd burned me.

I forced a smile, brittle and fake. "I'm fine."

"You're not." His gaze lingered, heavy with certainty.

I turned back to my drink. "And what are you, my therapist?"

"No." His voice dropped, it was intimate, a dark velvet that slid down my spine.

"I'm worse." he completed.

A shiver rippled through me.

This was insane. I didn't know him. And yet my body was betraying me, responding to him in a way I couldn't explain. Heat coiled low in my stomach, my pulse hammering in my throat.

"Look," I said, forcing strength I didn't feel, "I don't know what you think you're doing, but I'm not..."

"Interested?" he cut me off and leaned closer, close enough that his breath ghosted against my cheek.

"Then why are you trembling?" he asked, smacking.

I jerked back, heart stuttering. "I'm not" before I could finish, a rough hand clamped around my arm.

"Hey, sweetheart," a drunk ugly man beside me said, his breath sour with beer.

"You're too pretty to sit here alone. Come have a drink with me."

I recoiled, tugging against his grip. "Let go.

He grinned, squeezing tighter. "Don't be like that, come on"

The growl that cut through the air silenced the entire bar.

It was low, lethal and animalistic. I froze.

The drunk man's hand loosened, his bravado crumbling as the sound rolled over us like thunder. Slowly, I turned my head. It was Damian.

His jaw was tight, eyes glowing molten gold in the dim light, sharp and unnatural. For a heartbeat, I swore I saw something move beneath his skin, something wild, something not human.

The drunk man stumbled back, muttering an apology before fleeing into the crowd.

The bar's noise slowly returned, but my world had narrowed to the man beside me. His fists were clenched, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he was holding something back. Something dangerous.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

His eyes dimmed back to their golden burn, the wildness retreating. He leaned in, voice a whisper that slid straight into my bones.

"You shouldn't be alone tonight." The words weren't a suggestion. They were a claim.

And for reasons I couldn't explain, I didn't want to say no.

I should have walked away.

That was the smart thing, the safe thing. But my body wasn't listening to reason. My pulse throbbed, fast and uneven, my skin still tingling where his voice had brushed against it.

"I didn't ask for company," I said, my words brittle as glass.

"No," Damian murmured, leaning in close enough for his shoulder to graze mine, "but you need it."

Heat shot through me at the contact. I hated that I noticed. I hated that my body reacted to him at all, when only hours ago I'd walked in on the man I loved buried in my best friend.

My laugh came out sharp, bitter. "And what, you're volunteering?, A stranger at a bar with creepy eyes?"

His smirk was slow, deliberate. "Stranger, maybe. But creepy?" He tilted his head, his golden gaze flicking over me like he was memorizing every inch.

"No. You're not afraid of me."

He was wrong. I was terrified. Not of him hurting me, even though he clearly could, but of what he made me feel. This pull, this hunger, as though some invisible thread had wrapped around us the moment our eyes met and refused to let go.

The bartender slid Damian's drink across the counter. He didn't touch it. His attention stayed glued on me.

My throat went dry. "You should stop staring at me like that."

"Why?" he demanded.

Did he just ask "why" I muttered under my breath.

"Because..." I swallowed hard. "Because I don't like it."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Liar."

I looked away, my face burning, furious at how easily he stripped my defenses. I wanted to snap back, to cut him off with sharp words and walk out with my pride intact.

But Instead, I whispered, "You don't know anything about me." as if that even on point.

"I can smell enough." His voice dropped lower, darker. "You're hurt. You're angry. You're drowning in it. And you're trying to drink your way out."

I stiffened. "Go to hell."

For a second, his expression shifted, something dangerous flashing behind his eyes. Then it softened, just slightly.

"Already there," he replied.

The words sank into me like a hook. Before I could untangle myself from them, he stood, tossing cash onto the bar. Then his hand brushed my arm, feather-light but hot as fire.

"Come." he said with finality.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I snapped, jerking back, though the part where he touched me still burned.

"Then at least let me walk you out." His gaze swept the room, lingering on the men who'd already noticed me. "Unless you'd rather risk another hand on you like his." I froze because I know he wasn't wrong.

And against every warning screaming in my head, I slid off the stool. My legs felt shaky, my chest tight, but something primal-pulled me after him.

The night air was cooler, sharp against my flushed skin. The street was quieter than it had been when I ran here, shadows stretching long and deep. Damian walked beside me, silent, but his presence was overwhelming. Each step felt orchestrated, inevitable, like he was leading me somewhere I couldn't turn away from.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to mask the trembling. "So, what's your angle? You save women at bars and collect favors later?"

His head turned, eyes catching the faint light of a passing car. They glowed again, unnatural, molten, almost inhuman.

"I don't save people." His lips curved. "I claim them."