Page 7 of Silken Chains
I guess I’ll drop her a message then. Typing is… harder than expected. My fingers hover for a moment, and then I begin, each word a weight off my chest:
“Hey, Ser… Store’s gone. Burned toast style. Could use… idk, that thing where we eat too much ice cream, cry over trashy romcoms, and fart without judgment. Please.”
After I hit “send,” unease hits me.
It’s not just the fire anymore.
There’s a small crowd forming. It’s almost 5.30 a.m. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a figure stands apart from the crowd. A tall, imposing figure stands in the distance. The fog and smoke curl around him, shrouding him in an aura of menace. His head turns, seemingly scanning the onlookers, and my stomach plummets. For a split second, our gazes lock. That look. It’s cold, calculating—like a predator spotting a wounded prey.
His eyes narrow, giving away nothing, yet everything.
And just as quickly as the chill from his gaze seeps into me, he turns and fades into the dark alley.
Just like that, he’s gone.
Chapter 3
Laura
YAAAWN…
I drag my hands over my weary eyes as a massive yawn takes over.
Sunlight bleeds through the haze, revealing the blackened ruins of what was once Thompson Tales of Fifth Ave. Exhaustion tugs at my eyes, and every muscle in my body aches with a weariness that’s more than just physical.
God, I look like a dumpster fire—fitting, given the circumstances.
I squint against the blinding glare, taking in the twisted metal, the scorched wood, and the smell. That pungent, burned smell. “That was my future,” I mutter, as if saying it out loud makes any difference.
A firefighter, still finishing up, glances my way, then quickly looks away.
Pity?
Yeah, no need. I’ve got a full stock of that in my inventory.
I reach for my coffee, cold and bitter, much like my life at this moment.
Suddenly, the cup slips, splashing its contents over my shirt.
“Great, just great!” I snap, the liquid’s cold sting a perfect metaphor for my luck. I toss the empty cup aside, rubbing at the stain as if I could erase this mishap along with my string of bad luck.
“Of course,” I grimace. Damnit, this sums up the day. “Why not add coffee stains to the mix?”
Deciding a closer look at the smoldering aftermath of my “future” is necessary, I head toward the entrance. Spotting a firefighter conferring with his team, I take a deep breath and interrupt. “Can I go in?” My voice cracks, nausea rising in my throat.
He turns to me, eyes sizing up the clear desperation on my face. After what feels like an eternity, he says, “You the owner?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
Pushing through the haze and fatigue, I wait for his response. This guy, looking all rugged intensity, seems like he’s straight out of an action movie poster—hardened by fire, eyes a shade too penetrating.
He gives me the once-over, eyes lingering a tad too long on the unfortunate coffee stain splashed across my shirt’s audacious print: “Seduce me with paragraphs, tease me with prose.” Oh, and let’s not forget the fashion debacle down south—mismatched flip-flops.
Stellar.
His gruff response breaks through my internal cringe-fest.
“You can head in with me,” he rumbles, “but hands off. Still figuring out this mess.”
