Blood on the Highway

Chapter One

Meet the Anti-Heroes

The bar smelled like cheap whiskey and bad decisions. It was the kind of place where the jukebox played songs older than I was, and the smoke clung to the air like a ghost that didn't know how to let go. I'd found myself in the corner booth, hidden away beneath flickering neon signs that cast pale blue and red light over the cracked leather seats. The condensation from my untouched glass of whiskey had pooled onto the table, the ice long melted. I was just another shadow in the dim light, another figure blending into the background of the broken-down town I found myself in.

I liked it that way—fading, blending in.

That was when I saw him.

At first, Dorian Thorne was just another face in the haze, just another body moving through the grimy, half-lit room. His dark curls framed a face that seemed all sharp angles and untamed edges, his black leather jacket gleaming under the dim glow of the bar's dying light bulbs. His presence seemed to crackle, like static before a storm, something electric and dangerous. The first thing I thought was that he didn't belong here—he was too sharp, too wild for a place like this. A wolf among scavengers.

His eyes found mine.

It was only for a moment, but in that instant, I forgot how to breathe. It wasn't like those typical glances you exchange with strangers in a bar, those fleeting, meaningless looks. No, this was something else. His gaze hooked onto mine like he knew something about me that I didn't.

I should have looked away. I should have broken the connection, turned my face back into the shadows. But I didn't.

I held his gaze, and in that moment, I felt something shift. It was like the air itself changed around me, like the dim light darkened just a little more. I knew, even then, that this wasn't just a chance encounter. This was something more.

He moved toward me, slow and deliberate, cutting through the smoke and chatter like he was a force of nature. My heart picked up its pace, a slow drumbeat in my chest, but I stayed where I was. Watching him come closer felt like watching a storm gather on the horizon—you knew it was coming, you knew it was dangerous, but you couldn't look away.

He stopped in front of my table, his tall frame casting a shadow over me, and for a second, the world seemed to still. The jukebox hummed softly in the background, but everything else faded into white noise. He leaned in slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a half-smile, one that held just enough darkness to make me uneasy.

"Mind if I sit?" His voice was low, rough, like gravel shifting underfoot.

I shrugged, trying to act indifferent. "It's a free country."

That made him smile, a quick, crooked grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He slid into the seat across from me like he belonged there, like he belonged everywhere. Up close, I could see the details that made him both beautiful and dangerous—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble across his chin, the way his eyes held a gleam that was equal parts fascination and menace.

He didn't speak right away. Instead, he just stared at me, and I stared back, caught in whatever it was that held us both in that moment. He had the kind of face you didn't forget, no matter how much you tried. A face that felt both familiar and unknown, like a forgotten dream.

"What's your name?" he asked after what felt like a lifetime, though it had probably only been seconds.

I hesitated. "Lenore," I said, the name slipping from my lips like a confession.

His smile widened slightly, like the name amused him. "Lenore. Like the poem?"

"Like the dead girl," I replied, my tone sharper than I meant it to be. I wasn't sure why I felt defensive, but something about the way he looked at me—like I was something to be figured out—made me uneasy.