Deyran watched him.
The man’s voice curled through the space like smoke—smooth, amused, too practiced to be innocent. He lounged across from him, elbow braced against the table, chin resting on his palm as if the entire evening bored him into seduction. Every word was honeyed with flirtation, laced with something more dangerous. It wasn’t subtle.
Deyran didn’t blink.
His expression remained unreadable, composed. But beneath the surface—beneath the tailored white shirt, the clean lines and cooler shadows of his collarbone—something coiled. Not tension. Focus.
He was assessing.
Every smirk. Every deliberate pause. Every velvet-layered tease about reckless behavior. Deyran saw it for what it was—a challenge. Wrapped in silk. Served with a smile. A game he’d played before. One he never lost.
He lifted his glass, movements exact. His hand was steady, his grip casual. There was elegance in restraint, in quiet power, and he knew exactly how much of both to show. He took a sip—slow, unhurried—his eyes never leaving the man across from him.
The glass touched the table with a soft clink.
He shifted, just slightly. Just enough for the tip of his shoe to brush the other man’s under the table. Not a misstep. A move.
Still, he said nothing.
Deyran leaned back in his chair, every inch of him composed, even as his mind mapped out the angles—the words offered, the ones withheld, the heat beneath the calm.
He burned, this man. Quietly. Beautifully.
Deyran let the silence stretch, just long enough to make it clear who held it.
Then, finally, his voice—low, smooth, almost cold in its clarity.
Deyran reached out, fingers grazing the rim of Alaric’s glass, guiding it gently from his hand and setting it down on the table.
He leaned forward a fraction—enough to feel the tension shift across the table. His gaze narrowed, gaze fixed.
He let the sentence hang, unfinished.
Some things were more potent in silence.
Then he sat back again, composed once more. The toe of his shoe remained where it was—resting, casual, a presence.
Unavoidable.
The man’s voice curled through the space like smoke—smooth, amused, too practiced to be innocent. He lounged across from him, elbow braced against the table, chin resting on his palm as if the entire evening bored him into seduction. Every word was honeyed with flirtation, laced with something more dangerous. It wasn’t subtle.
Deyran didn’t blink.
His expression remained unreadable, composed. But beneath the surface—beneath the tailored white shirt, the clean lines and cooler shadows of his collarbone—something coiled. Not tension. Focus.
He was assessing.
Every smirk. Every deliberate pause. Every velvet-layered tease about reckless behavior. Deyran saw it for what it was—a challenge. Wrapped in silk. Served with a smile. A game he’d played before. One he never lost.
He lifted his glass, movements exact. His hand was steady, his grip casual. There was elegance in restraint, in quiet power, and he knew exactly how much of both to show. He took a sip—slow, unhurried—his eyes never leaving the man across from him.
The glass touched the table with a soft clink.
He shifted, just slightly. Just enough for the tip of his shoe to brush the other man’s under the table. Not a misstep. A move.
Still, he said nothing.
Deyran leaned back in his chair, every inch of him composed, even as his mind mapped out the angles—the words offered, the ones withheld, the heat beneath the calm.
He burned, this man. Quietly. Beautifully.
Deyran let the silence stretch, just long enough to make it clear who held it.
Then, finally, his voice—low, smooth, almost cold in its clarity.
A good bad idea,he said, his tone more observation than flirtation.
Is the one you know will change you..
Deyran reached out, fingers grazing the rim of Alaric’s glass, guiding it gently from his hand and setting it down on the table.
He leaned forward a fraction—enough to feel the tension shift across the table. His gaze narrowed, gaze fixed.
Keep teasing. I’ll find the edges. And when I do...
He let the sentence hang, unfinished.
Some things were more potent in silence.
Then he sat back again, composed once more. The toe of his shoe remained where it was—resting, casual, a presence.
Unavoidable.
05-25-2025, 01:59 PM
