As he reached for the door, instinct kicked in—his fingers brushing the air in a subtle sweep to check for wards. Seraphine had drilled this habit into him ages ago, half-exasperated, half-amused. It had saved his life at least twice. He almost smirked, but smothered it before stepping inside.
Liam was late. Not egregiously late—only about seven minutes—but enough that the hostess at Vin's Restaurant gave him a knowing, subtly judgmental glance as she led him inside. The warm glow of low-hanging lights bathed the restaurant in a golden hue, highlighting dark wooden beams and exposed brick walls. The air carried a rich, inviting blend of charred steak, truffle oil, and the faint sweetness of slow-cooked tomatoes. Conversations hummed around him, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.
He tugged at his collar, his fingers twitching with static nerves, then rolled his shoulders, hoping the tension would crack and fall away. The golden restaurant light caught the purpling under his eyes, and when he blinked, it was a second too long—like his body was begging for sleep even as his mind gnawed on unfinished thoughts.
His black button-down was unbuttoned just enough to suggest careless confidence, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was slightly mussed, and the shadow of exhaustion clung to his sharp features. "Stylishly unkempt," Seraphine would have said, if she were here to mock him.
Isla was already seated, her posture poised, eyes steady as they met his. She was... beautiful. Objectively so. Isla looked like she belonged in a world of glass and velvet—every detail precise, curated.
Seraphine would've made a crack about museum pieces being pretty, and possibly easier to talk to. The thought struck him uninvited, and he tamped it down with a mental grimace. Still, it lingered—like static under the skin.
Her blonde hair shimmered under the pendant light, not a strand out of place. Emerald eyes found him with the precision of a camera lens—bright, sharp, evaluative. She was undeniably stunning. And somehow, that only made Liam feel more out of step.
Emerald-green eyes that flicked to his the moment he approached. She was dressed for the evening, a deep burgundy dress hugging her form, her posture poised, her expression composed. There was warmth there, but it was the measured kind—a cautious, deliberate sort of charm.
"You're lucky I like a little unpredictability," she said, lips curving into an amused smirk. There was genuine interest in the way she leaned forward slightly. She wanted to be interested. That was the problem.
Liam slid into the seat across from her. "That makes one of us." His smile came too quickly, brittle at its edges.
He'd done this before—smiled through a dinner he had no intention of finishing. It was muscle memory by now, this particular brand of self-sabotage wrapped in polite detachment.
The wine's rich aroma carried a faint, metallic edge—just enough to remind him of blood cooling on pavement, of the hunt, waiting beyond this table. He lifted a hand to flag down the server, using the motion as an excuse to glance away, grateful for the break in eye contact. He ordered an Old Fashioned, before turning his attention back to Isla. She already had a glass of wine—Pinot Noir, judging by the deep crimson against the white tablecloth.
Seraphine would've called it "decanted regret" or something equally dramatic, just to get under his skin. He almost smiled—almost.
"So," she started, tilting her head. "You mentioned you do contract work?"
The right answer here was something polished, something nonchalant. Instead, Liam found himself rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, it's... freelance. Specialized Consulting.
She arched a brow. "Specialized how?"
"I deal with… unusual problems."
"That's intentionally vague."
"Yeah. Let's just say that HR wouldn't know where to file."
Damn it. He wasn't supposed to be evasive. He was supposed to be smooth, but his mind kept slipping—drifting to claw marks on concrete, whispers of reports from the right people. There was something out there, stalking shadows, and here he was, pretending candlelight could distract him from the itch beneath his skin.
A humanoid figure, clawed and fanged, had been reported in the city's northern district. The kind of thing that didn't belong in a place like this, in a world built on the illusion that monsters didn't exist. He should be looking into it. Instead, he was here, in a candlelit restaurant, talking to a woman he should find more interesting.
His phone buzzed: Guild Notice. Hunter Alert. New Sighting. The restaurant's low hum of voices blurred for a moment, shifting into something else—a distant, guttural growl only he seemed to hear. For a breathless second, he considered it—just standing up, muttering some excuse, chasing the lead before it vanished into smoke and silence. Instead, he stayed seated. Let the message sit unread. Let the moment pass. Like he always did.
"Liam?" Isla's voice brought him back.
He blinked, realizing she was watching him, waiting for an answer.
"Consulting," he said finally. "I deal with... unusual problems."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "That's intentionally vague."
He exhaled a laugh. "Yeah. Sorry."
Silence stretched between them. She wasn't put off, not yet, but he could see her measuring him, recalibrating expectations. She was the kind of person who gave people a fair chance, who waited before making judgments. He, on the other hand, was rapidly screwing this up.
Their server arrived with the appetizer—a plate of burrata, creamy and delicate, drizzled with olive oil and scattered with fresh basil. Ripe cherry tomatoes had been roasted until they blistered, their juices pooling onto the plate, mingling with aged balsamic. Crostini rested beside them, golden-brown, crisp.
He hadn't noticed when it arrived.
He also hadn't noticed that Isla had already started eating. There was an elegant ease to the way she broke a piece of crostini, spreading the burrata over it, the flicker of enjoyment when she took a bite.
"You sure you don't want some?" she asked, gesturing toward the plate.
Liam blinked, finally registering the food in front of him.
"Oh," he muttered. "Yeah. No. I mean—go ahead."
Isla tilted her head slightly, and her jaw tensed a fraction as she set her wineglass down with more care than necessary, her smile faltering just long enough for the chill beneath it to surface. He was screwing this up.
"What about you?" he asked, redirecting. "What do you do?"
It wasn't an elegant save, but Isla let it go, launching into a story about her work—something involving corporate marketing, high-end clients, the occasional celebrity endorsement. Liam listened—or, at least, tried to. But his eyes flicked toward the window, toward the city beyond, where something dark and dangerous might be moving under the cover of night.
He was doing it again. Unraveling the thread before the sweater was even knit. The word—sabotage—coiled in his chest like wire tightening around his ribs. He clenched his fingers against the edge of the table, grounding himself in discomfort, trying not to flinch at the truth.
Isla was talking, but his mind was already elsewhere, fingers curling against the table's edge. He didn't belong here, in this setting, making small talk over overpriced cocktails. He belonged out there, following leads, handling threats. At least, that was the excuse he kept telling himself.
The candlelight wavered in a draftless room, mimicking the eerie lurch of something moving just beyond human sight. Isla exhaled softly, glancing at her watch before smoothing a hand over the stem of her wine glass. A flicker of something—calculation, maybe doubt—crossed her face, gone as quickly as it came.
"You keep looking at everything except me," she said, her voice still warm but edged now with something else. "Should I be worried?"
Liam looked at her. The warmth in her expression had dimmed slightly, replaced by something more guarded.
"No, just—" He gestured vaguely. "Long day."
She studied him, and he knew the exact moment her patience started to fray. "Look, I get it," she said. "I get that your job's demanding," her voice low but steady. "But I'm here—really here—trying to see who you are. I feel like I'm just... filler between moments that matter more."
Liam opened his mouth, then closed it.
She leaned back, letting out a sharp exhale. "If you didn't want to do this, you could've just said so."
I did want to. Didn't I? Guilt prickled at the back of his mind, but it was dulled by the overwhelming sense of inevitability. Like he had always known this wouldn't work. That he had set it up to fail from the start.
She shook her head, something like disappointment flickering across her face. "You're clearly not over whatever's holding you back. And I don't have time to waste on someone who's not here."
She stood, grabbing her clutch, and for the first time, something twisted in his chest - not quite regret, more like the hollow echo of a punch that didn't land but still left him winded. Seraphine's voice echoed in his head already, half-mocking, half-knowing.
"You seem like someone worth knowing, Liam. But not if I have to drag you out of your own head." A breath, a flicker of hesitation. "Good luck, Liam." Then she walked away, heels tapping softly on the tile like a closing argument.
He should feel relieved—he had made his choice, hadn't he? But as the door clicked shut behind her, he caught himself staring at the space she'd left, waiting for something to shift that never would. "You're somewhere else entirely," she'd said. He was. No matter how many times he told himself he didn't care, he couldn't stop hearing her voice—like a line he'd crossed, but never quite admitted to himself.
He didn't even try to stop Isla. Seraphine was going to have a field day with this.