The Velvet Den

Chapter 4

The pulsing rhythm of music and the murmur of voices filled the air as I moved away from the Leila. I let my eyes wander for a moment, taking in the velvet-draped walls and the soft, red glow of lanterns that bathed the room in an otherworldly light.

I turned toward the bar, needing to grab another round of ale for a table of pixies, when suddenly cold hands clamped down on my shoulders. My breath hitched as I was dragged backward into the shadows of a dimly lit corner. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out the lively sounds of the room.

The next sensation was sharp and invasive—fangs piercing the tender flesh of my neck. A shudder rippled through me, equal parts pain and something primal I couldn’t name. My legs weakened as the pull of my blood sapped my strength, leaving me lightheaded and disoriented. I clawed at the hands restraining me, my struggles growing feebler with each passing second.

Then, a low, guttural growl sliced through the haze, sending a shiver down my spine. The pressure on my neck vanished as the vampire was ripped away with a violent jerk. My knees buckled, and I slumped against the wall, my chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath. Dazed, I blinked up, my vision slowly focusing on the figure standing protectively before me.

It was Bryn.

His angular features were etched in fury, his dark amber eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. His biceps flexed as he held the vampire aloft by the collar, the fabric straining under his grip. His jaw was set, the muscle there twitching as he glared at the bloodsucker with unrelenting intensity.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice a deep, resonant rumble, surprisingly gentle given the storm of anger written across his face.

I nodded weakly, my voice barely a whisper. “Yes. Thank you.”

Without another word, Bryn turned and tossed the vampire outside as though it weighed nothing, the door slamming shut behind him with finality. The sheer power in his movements was mesmerizing, but there was a careful control to him, as if he were holding back. When he turned back to me, his expression softened, the rage melting away into quiet concern.

I straightened, my legs still shaky. “Let me buy you a drink,” I said, offering him a small, grateful smile. My fingers found his, his hand so large that mine felt almost childlike in comparison. His skin was rough, calloused from years of labor or battle, yet his grip was surprisingly gentle.

For the first time, his lips curved into a smile—a small, shy one that made something warm flutter in my chest. Without hesitation, I led him to the bar.

Bryn followed, his towering presence commanding attention even in a crowd of supernatural beings. He seemed slightly out of place among the revelers, his calm, steady demeanor a contrast to the chaotic energy around him. Yet, there was a natural ease in the way he moved, as though the room instinctively adjusted to accommodate him.

Reaching the bar, I turned to him, giving his hand a gentle tug. “Come on,” I said, my voice light but insistent. His hesitation was brief, his eyes flicking down to where my fingers lingered on his, before he allowed himself to be guided.

“Sit down,” I instructed, gesturing toward a sturdy barstool. He eyed it cautiously, as though it might not bear his weight, but eventually lowered himself onto it. The wood creaked faintly, and I couldn’t help but smile. His presence felt grounding, a solid, reassuring anchor in the midst of the lively chaos around us.

The wooden seat creaked in protest as he lowered himself onto it. His sheer size made the action seem almost delicate, as if he were aware of his strength and careful not to overwhelm the space. Over seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and muscles that rippled beneath his emerald-green skin, Bryn was a force of nature. His skin, smooth yet rugged, caught the light in a way that emphasized his powerful build, a faint sheen accentuating every curve and angle.