The Hunter and the prey

Elena knew better than to entertain dangerous men. She had spent years running from one. But as she held Damian Blackwell's gaze across the bar, something in her body betrayed her—her pulse quickened, her breath hitched.

He moved toward her with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

"Mind if I join you?" His voice was smooth, low, laced with the kind of danger that sent shivers down her spine.

She smirked, tilting her glass toward him. "That depends. Are you looking for conversation, or just a way to kill time?"

He slid onto the stool beside her, ordering a whiskey without breaking eye contact. "I don't waste time, Elena."

Her fingers tightened around the glass. He knew her name. That wasn't a coincidence.

"Do I know you?" she asked, masking the unease creeping up her spine.

He smirked. "Not yet."

Something was off. She had spent years perfecting the art of reading people, spotting threats before they got too close. Damian didn't set off alarms—he was the alarm.

And yet, she couldn't look away.

The bartender set his drink down, and he took a slow sip, watching her over the rim of his glass. "You've been watching the door since I got here. Expecting someone?"

Elena forced a casual shrug. "Old habits."

Damian studied her, the corner of his lips lifting like he saw straight through her defenses. "Funny. I have old habits too."

She leaned in slightly, just enough to test the heat between them. "And what kind of habits are those?"

He held her gaze for a long moment before answering.

"Hunting."

A slow chill worked its way down her spine, but she refused to flinch. Instead, she smiled, lifting her glass in a mock toast. "Good luck with that."

Damian clinked his glass against hers, his smirk widening. "I don't need luck, Elena. I always catch what I'm after."

And just like that, she knew—this wasn't a coincidence.

Damian Blackwell wasn't just another stranger at the bar.

He had come for her.