A Love to Kill

Chapter Five: Hidden in Plain Sight

The bar's dim lighting felt heavy, casting shadows that softened the edges of every booth and gave the space an almost secretive allure. Elijah leaned against the door, eyes locked on mine, one brow lifted in a half-smirk that was hard to read—a look that was equal parts invitation and challenge.

"Coming in, or are you just going to stare at me?" His voice was low, rough around the edges, with that lazy British drawl that somehow made everything sound like a dare.

I didn't answer, just stepped inside, feeling his gaze track me as I brushed past him. The room had a thick, intoxicating atmosphere, rich with the smell of smoke and leather, the muted clinking of glasses blending into the hum of laughter around us. It was a place that felt designed for secrets, and he walked through it like he owned it, guiding me toward a booth in the corner.

We settled in, the low light bouncing off his sharp features as he slouched back, fingers drumming on the table. A waiter materialised, and he ordered two whiskeys without asking, as if he already knew my answer.

"So," he said, handing me my glass, his eyes never leaving mine. "How often do you wander into places like this with strangers?"

I gave a slight shrug, playing along. "Not a habit, if that's what you're asking."

He chuckled, tipping back his glass and downing half of it in one swallow, his smirk growing a little sharper. "Good to know." The way he looked at me then, the challenge in his gaze, made my pulse jump. I took a careful sip of my drink, feeling the warmth spread through my chest as I matched his stare.

A slow grin spread across his face, his fingers lazily spinning the empty glass before signaling for another round. "Don't hold back on my account, then," he said, his tone teasing. "I'm not exactly the shy type."

He was leaning into his reputation now, drinking more quickly, his gaze growing bolder with each round. His posture was relaxed, a kind of careless confidence that left me both intrigued and slightly wary. I watched him finish his second drink as the waiter set down another.

"And you? You're not afraid to walk into a bar with someone you don't know?" I asked, curious.

His smirk grew, eyes glinting as he leaned closer. "Who says I don't know you?"

The answer took me off guard, and his grin widened, clearly pleased with my reaction. He reached across the table and casually swiped the half-full glass from my hand, finishing it off in one swallow before settling back, his eyes never leaving mine. His face was just inches from mine, and I could smell the whiskey on his breath, see the slight flush that hinted he was a little drunker than he let on.

"Here's a tip, Blue," he murmured, voice low, almost taunting. "People are a lot easier to read when you've already decided you don't care what they think."

The waiter dropped another glass in front of him, and he didn't hesitate, taking a long sip, his gaze sharp as he watched my reaction. But I wasn't about to let him think he was the only one in control.

"Who says I'm that easy to read?" I replied, a hint of defiance creeping into my tone.

For a moment, he just looked at me, his smirk twisting into something darker, something that made me realize he wasn't quite as careless as he acted. There was a thrill in his eyes now, an almost hungry look as he leaned back, running a hand through his dark hair, his fingers lingering as though even that act was deliberate.

But then he shifted, letting out a low chuckle as he slid out of the booth, his movements loose, almost too relaxed. "Stay here," he said, smirk firmly in place. "Don't go running off just yet."

Without waiting for a response, he drifted toward the bar, stopping by the counter, his silhouette stark against the low light. He grabbed a newspaper from a nearby stack, rolling it up casually as he strolled back to the booth. Dropping it onto the table between us, he gestured for me to take it, that cocky grin back on his face.

"Why don't you give that a read, darling?"

I frowned, confused, but took the paper, glancing at the headline, my eyes widening as I realized what I was looking at. He watched me, his expression amused, dark eyes glinting with something almost predatory as he settled back with his drink.

"Go on," he urged, voice lazy and a little too smug. "Read it. Out loud."

Clearing my throat, I started to read, the words leaving my mouth feeling strange and surreal. "Elijah Storm, British rockstar known for his erratic behavior, was nearly arrested last night after causing a scene at an elite restaurant on the Upper East Side..."

I glanced up at him, but he just gave me a little nod, urging me to keep going. "...Eyewitnesses report that Storm was intoxicated, smashing plates and glasses before security escorted him out of the building."

I trailed off, the realization settling in with a mix of disbelief and something I couldn't quite name. I'd heard the stories, seen the headlines Lola had read to me, but they'd felt distant, some tabloid fantasy. But now, sitting across from him, watching the amusement in his gaze, it felt real and strangely thrilling.

Elijah rolled his eyes, slouching back, and let out a low laugh. "Thing is," he muttered, tapping the newspaper, "no one actually reads these anymore. My worst enemy? Social media." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "God bless the trolls."

He downed half the drink in one go, his face unreadable, but there was an edge of bitterness in his tone that made me look closer. He'd gone through half his drink before looking back at me, a flicker of something darker passing over his face as he studied me.

"So, now you know," he said, voice low, almost a taunt. "Disappointed?"

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, I couldn't answer, caught between the thrill of discovering his identity and the sense that I was standing on the edge of something dangerous. But I held his gaze, refusing to back down. "No," I replied, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. "Just surprised."

Elijah's grin widened, and he shook his head, a faint laugh escaping him. "Good answer, Blue," he murmured, his gaze softening, just a touch, like he hadn't expected me to stay. But then his look sharpened, his smirk shifting back into place as he drained his glass and gestured to the waiter for another.

He downed half his next drink as soon as it hit the table, his movements a little looser, a little less controlled, and something in his gaze grew bolder, more reckless. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. "You sure you know what you're doing here?"

The question wasn't a challenge this time. It felt almost genuine, a glimmer of something raw and unguarded. I felt a pulse of unease beneath the thrill, the sense that he was playing a game with stakes I didn't yet understand. But I wasn't about to turn back now.

"Are you?" I shot back, hoping he wouldn't see the flicker of nerves in my eyes.

For a moment, he just looked at me, the dark amusement slipping as his gaze grew sharp and intent. He didn't answer, just let out a low chuckle, his hand brushing mine as he slid out of the booth.

"Come on," he said, his tone lazy but his eyes intense, flashing with something I couldn't name. "You're in my world now."

I followed him outside, the rush of cold air biting through the heat of the bar, grounding me as he led me around the corner, his steps slow, like he was savoring the moment. He stopped suddenly, turning to face me, his gaze half-hidden under the brim of his hat but fixed on me with an intensity that felt almost predatory.

"Still here, then?" he murmured, his voice soft, a little mocking. "Interesting."

I was about to respond when his expression shifted, his fingers tightening slightly around my wrist, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. "But, just a piece of advice," he added, his voice dropping. "You're not getting any fairytales with me."

Before I could answer, he turned and walked off into the night, leaving me standing alone, his words lingering in the air, a challenge I hadn't realized I'd been waiting for.

My pulse pounded as I turned to leave, the night air sobering, grounding, when I spotted a crumpled piece of paper on the ground. Bending down, I picked it up, the words smeared but clear enough to read.

Stay away from him. This is your only warning.

I stared at the message, a chill slipping down my spine, a dark thrill mingling with a sense of foreboding I couldn't shake. And as I looked back at the empty street, I realized I'd already crossed a line. And there was no going back.