Objective (Bloodlines #2)(80)

Seduction is easy and a means to an end. I still have needs but I know I won't be able to give my heart out again, so I sit at bars whenever the need strikes and I submit to one night stands. Being soft and womanly doesn't come naturally to me anymore. Relationships don’t come naturally to me anymore. Too much damage has been done. Too many betrayals have scarred me. I want to find my happily ever after and everyone has bruises, I know. But I don't, I have gaping festering wounds that never heal. It’s easier to take what I want when I need it and toss the rest of the bullshit and hardship aside. I like the feeling of taking only what I need and not caring about the rest. It’s easy and convenient. I like feeling powerful still and sometimes, training physically just doesn’t cut it. I crave more. I crave the feeling of knowing, of conquering another person. Of controlling someone, even for just a brief period of time. It’s warped, I know, yet I think it’s a product of living with rage, of craving vengeance for so long.

I sit at the stool at the bar and scan the room. There is really no one of interest here this evening, but it’s still early. I order myself a second bourbon and slip out of my hoodie, hanging it on the hook near my knees. The warm liquid burns on its descent down my throat but I like the feeling of it.

“This seat taken?” a deep gravelly voice rumbles. I turn my head just slightly so I can make out the face of the delicious voice. His sandy blond hair is shaggy, in a good way. His blue eyes are bright but wary, and he towers above me. His cut muscles are evident in his plain tight black tee shirt. He’s a head turner for sure. He is one of the most Adonis-like men I have ever seen. He has this laid back badass vibe. Like he would be surfing one moment but riding off on a Harley the next. Vaguely my mind wonders if I know him. There is something familiar about his face. My gaze flits to his left hand hanging limply at his side.

No ring.

“Nope,” I answer and turn back to my drink. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he slides onto the stool next to me and flags down the bartender to order. His arms are sleeved with tattoos. Intricate tattoos that make me wonder about him and what he’s into. He stares into his beer mug and looks forlorn and tired. Against my better judgment, and my better judgment is always spot on, I engage.

“Play a game with me,” I prompt, turning to him. I don’t bother slapping a smile on my face. He looks like he could care less about pretenses. He looks up from his drink and slowly drags his eyes up and down my body. I know he likes what he sees. They all do. I preen at the salacious eye f*ck.

“Fine. I’ll bite.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Normally, I could care less, but something about him triggers something deep in my core. I want his eyes to shine with real warmth. The need to cause a real smile stirs in my belly. Who is this man?

“Truth or Lie?” I ask. He stares quizzically at me as if he is unsure he wants to do this. I don’t blame him. He should steer clear of me.

“I don’t know?” he returns, perplexed. Laughter bubbles up from deep within me. His confusion is adorable. Truly adorable.

Innocent.

Refreshing.

I throw my head back and laugh. A deep guttural laugh. One that hasn’t happened in a long time. At twenty-five I never thought my life would be as it is. I would sell my soul to see Cane’s face again, but as he always said ‘adapt or die’, no three words have ever been truer.

The End