The moment he muttered, "Right," I pushed myself up, eager to put distance between us. But before I could take a step, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist.
The contact was like fire, sending a jolt through my entire body.
I yanked my hand back as if burned, my pulse spiking as I glanced around, heart hammering against my ribs. The café seemed to close in around me, the curious eyes of the other patrons adding to my anxiety.
With a low, sharp hiss, I snapped, "Do you want to get me killed so bad?"
That finally seemed to shake him.
His grip slackened, his hands dropping to his lap as something flickered across his face—recognition, maybe even guilt.
For a moment, he just stared at me, like he was realizing—too late—just how dangerous this was.
Then, after a tense silence, he exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. "Shit." His gaze drifted to the side, his jaw tight. "I'm sorry."
I didn't respond.
I just stood there, pulse still racing, wondering what the hell had gotten into him today. First, he barged into my workplace, demanding to see me like I owed him something. Then he dumped his frustrations on me, like we were still friends—like we had been best friends all our lives.
And now, now, he was drawing attention to me in a way that could get me killed.
Malcolm hesitated before looking back up, his voice quieter this time. "Can we—can we talk after work?"
I studied him, searching his face, trying to decipher him the way I knew he was trying to decipher me. But Malcolm Hayes was not an easy man to read. His eyes held a depth of emotions that he rarely let anyone see.
And my chest was still tight with anxiety.
A part of me wanted to say yes. To do whatever he wanted, to actually have a talk with him and to get answers to the questions I had tried to bury over the years. The questions that haunted me in the quiet moments, the ones I never dared to voice.
But I knew better than to be reckless. To hope.
So I swallowed down the thought, glancing away. "I have to get back to work," I said, my voice steady but distant.
Then, before he could say anything else, I turned on my heel and walked away, my steps quick and purposeful.
I had barely made it behind the counter before I heard his voice again.
"Asher, wait up."
Panic coiled in my gut, sharp and unforgiving, like a serpent ready to strike.
I picked up my pace, slipping behind the bar like it was a shield, my hands moving on instinct as I grabbed an empty tray. Anything to look busy.
I needed to look busy.
I could feel the eyes on me—patrons sneaking glances from behind their cups, whispers hovering just out of reach. No one stared outright, of course. Not when it involved him.
No one wanted to risk being caught staring at Malcolm Hayes.
But the curiosity was there, burning through the air like a slow-spreading fire, the tension palpable.
I gritted my teeth, my fingers tightening around the tray. The cool metal felt reassuring against my skin, a small comfort in the midst of my growing anxiety.
Attention was dangerous. It wasn't something I wanted. It wasn't something anyone wanted in Eldermire.
And yet, Malcolm didn't seem to care. He followed me, his presence a weight against my back, every step a reminder that I wasn't escaping this conversation, no matter how badly I wanted to.
Then, as if he had all the time in the world, he leaned against the marble counter, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "Asher."
My pulse lurched, heat licking at my throat, my heart pounding in my ears.
He shouldn't be here. Not this close.
I forced my expression to stay neutral, even as I felt the burn of people still sneaking glances at us. "Talking is what we were doing earlier," I said stiffly, gripping the tray tighter. "Now, you need to go back to your seat and let me work."
"This is important."
"And so is keeping my job."
His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't move, his eyes never leaving mine.
"You used to trust me, Asher."
The words hit harder than I expected, piercing through my defenses.
My fingers clenched around the tray, the cold bite of metal grounding me, keeping me from—what? From reacting? From saying something I shouldn't?
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay still. Used to. Yeah. I used to. And then he made sure I never would again.
"My lord." The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but I said them anyway, bowing my head just enough to be convincing. Slipping back into the role that had kept me alive all these years.
Deference. Distance. Obedience.
The mask I wore like armor. The one thing standing between me and a world that would chew me up and spit me out if I ever forgot my place.
But even as I said it, something inside me twisted, a bitter resentment simmering beneath the surface.
I hated calling him that.
Malcolm's jaw tightened, his voice dropping low. "Please don't do that."
A pause.
"I can deal with you calling me Mr. Hayes, but don't pretend you don't know me."
A shiver crept up my spine, a cold prickle of fear.
This is getting out of hand.
I could feel the weight of eyes on us—patrons pretending they weren't watching, their stolen glances cutting through me like blades. No one dared to stare outright, but I wasn't naive enough to think they weren't listening.
And Malcolm—he wasn't being careful. He was standing too close, his voice just loud enough to draw attention. He was a magnet for trouble, and right now, I was too close to the pull.
I glanced around again, panic creeping up my throat like a suffocating vine. The last thing I wanted was for the wrong person to notice.
I forced myself to step back, keeping my voice even. "Please, you should return to your table, my lord."
Malcolm exhaled sharply, like the title physically hurt him. "You used to call me Malcolm."
My fingers curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
That was before.
Before we understood what a friendship like ours meant in a place like Eldermire. Before I realized that standing too close, meeting his eyes for too long, speaking too freely—these were all sins written in blood and history.
Before you betrayed me in the worst possible way.
I swallowed hard, forcing down the memories, forcing down the lump in my throat. "I don't know what you want from me, my lord," I said, keeping my voice neutral, empty. "But please, stop making things difficult for me."
Malcolm's gaze searched mine, irritation flickering beneath the surface. For a moment, I thought he might argue, but then he sighed and reached into his coat.
He pulled out a folded slip of parchment.
My pulse kicked up, a jolt of adrenaline surging through me.
He held it out, waiting.
I didn't take it.
I could feel my heartbeat hammering against my ribs, the warning bells screaming in my head. I didn't need to open that paper to know it was trouble.
"Take it," Malcolm said, quieter this time. "Please."
I swallowed hard.
Then, against every ounce of reason, against every survival instinct I had spent years sharpening, I reached out.
Our fingers brushed.
Barely a second. But the heat of his touch shot through me like fire, sharp and startling, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
I yanked my hand back, stuffing the parchment into my apron without a glance. Before Malcolm could say another word, I turned on my heel and strode to the back of the café.