Crown Of Blood And Lies

Chapter 18: Not What He Seems

{Avina}

"My, my," a voice said to my right, thick and smooth. "Aren't you a captivating sight?"

I tore my gaze away from the corner booth and glanced at the man who'd slid onto the stool beside me—dark raven hair, messy and long. Blue eyes. An alpha. Predatory grace in the way he leaned toward me.

But my body was still screaming confusing signals about the man across the room. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t process which threat was real.

Is this him? The guy Beth and Sam warned me about?

"Perhaps we could…relocate?" The raven-haired man's voice dropped low, suggestive. His fingers touched my bare shoulder—cold, possessive.

The unwanted touch caused my lungs to seize. The bar flickered around me, replaced by trees and shadows and the smell of earth and blood.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

“I-I’m not really interested.” I managed to choke out, my voice strangled and choked. The raven-haired man leaned closer. His breath was hot against my neck, reeking of alcohol.

“Ah, an elusive one,” he purred. His fingers traced down my arm—slow, deliberate, claiming. “I have a fondness for your sort, you know. So beautiful…and from the scent of you…untainted.”

Move. Fight. Do something.

But I couldn’t call out. Couldn’t scream. My throat was locked. My body betraying me the same way it had in the forest.

Across the room, the blue-eyed man sat perfectly still, his gaze locked on us. The smile was gone. His jaw was tight. Tension radiated from him—something I couldn’t read.

The raven-haired man’s voice rumbled again. “Maybe that hesitation of yours…whispers of a deeper secret, doesn’t it?”

His fingers began traveling up my thigh—

No. NO.

My breath came in short, sharp gasps. My vision tunneled. The bar spun. Reality fractured into fragments—past and present, trauma and threat blurring together until I couldn’t tell which was which.

His fingers climbed higher, real and present and wrong. “…you’ve never felt a man fill you up before, have you?”

Heat flooded my face—rage and humiliation and pure panic. His accurate guess landed like a physical blow, stealing what little air remained in my lungs.

Fight. You have to fight. Move. DO SOMETHING.

The raven-haired predator’s fingers dug into my thigh, possessive, claiming.

And finally, finally, something clicked.

I shoved off my stool so fast it smacked against the bar. “Don’t touch me!” The yell ripped from the deepest part of me.

His dark eyes, which had held a spark of wicked amusement, now blazed with a cold, unadulterated fury. Before I could react, his grip tightened like a vise on my upper arm.

“How dare you talk to me like that, you insufferable b***h!” he snapped, his voice echoing in the bar.

His other hand clamped down on my free arm, his rage a tangible force radiating from him, suffocating me with its sheer intensity. The air crackled with unspoken menace as I glared upwards, a primal surge of fury coursing through me, every fiber screaming for retribution.

Then the blue-eyed man moved.

Not walked. Not stepped forward. Moved—a blur of motion so fast I didn’t see him cross the room. One second he was across the bar.

The next, his hand locked around the raven-haired man’s shirt collar and ripped him off me.

The pressure on my arms vanished. I stumbled backward, my hip slamming into the bar edge hard enough to bruise.

The raven-haired man dangled in the air, feet kicking uselessly, choking as the blue-eyed man held him by the throat now with one hand. No effort. No strain. Just cold, controlled violence.

What the hell—?

The blue-eyed man’s face had changed. The lazy amusement was gone. His jaw was locked tight, tendons standing out in his neck. His eyes—those beautiful eyes—burned with something feral. Protective. Possessive.

For a split second, he looked at me. Just a glance. But the intensity in it made my breath catch—like he was checking if I was hurt, like it mattered to him in a way that went beyond logic.

Then he turned back to the predator dangling from his grip, and his expression went cold again. Controlled. But I’d seen it. That flash of something raw beneath whatever mask he was wearing.

“Do we have a problem here?” His voice was low, quiet—but it cut through the bar’s silence like a blade. Dangerous. Certain. “I’d suggest you keep your hands off the lady.”

“What’s your problem, man?!” the raven-haired man choked out, clawing at the hand around his throat. “This has nothing to do with y—”

The blue-eyed man’s grip shifted. His fingers tightened around the man’s windpipe, and the choking sound that came out was wet and desperate.

“That woman,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “already made it clear she’s not interested.” He tilted his head, and something in the movement was predatory. Calculated. “Now you’ve got two choices.”

The bar had gone silent. Every eye locked on them.

“Walk out of here breathing,” the blue-eyed man continued, his tone almost conversational. “Or I crush your windpipe before you hit the floor.” He paused, letting the threat settle. “Your call.”

The raven-haired man’s face was turning purple. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the iron grip.

Then I saw it—a flash of dark ink on the blue-eyed man’s forearm as his sleeve shifted. A coiled snake, scales rendered in sharp detail, fangs bared.

A snake tattoo.

My stomach dropped.

He has the same tattoo. He’s one of them. He’s—

But he’d just saved me. Protected me. The violence radiating off him wasn’t directed at me—it was directed at the man who’d tried to assault me.

Why does he have the tattoo? Why does he look like a rogue? Aren't they allies?

The blue-eyed man released his grip. The raven-haired man collapsed to the floor, gasping, clutching his throat. He scrambled backward on his hands, then flipped himself, staggered to his feet and bolted for the door.

The blue-eyed man watched him go.