Sheila’s POV
The waiter’s voice fades into a distant hum as he pours the wine.
Brendan doesn’t look away from me once, not when the glasses clink, not when the candle flickers between us like a heartbeat. His gaze holds me in place, steady and unreadable, charged with something I can’t name. It’s like he’s watching every breath I take, studying the pulse in my throat, memorising it.
When the waiter finally leaves, the silence folds around us again. Only the low hum of soft jazz threads through the room, too smooth, too calm for the tension burning under the surface.
“You chose this place,” I say after a moment, just to break the quiet. “Somewhere public. That’s new for you.”
Brendan’s mouth curves slightly. “You think I only hunt in the dark?”
“Feels like it,” I reply, swirling the w
