Ivatore's POV đź‘ş
She was still talking.
The woman in the passenger seat had been laughing at her own jokes since she climbed into my car-uninvited, of course-but I kept my eyes on the road, letting her believe she was in control. People like her liked that. They mistook silence for weakness.
In my world, silence was a weapon.
I could have thrown her out blocks ago. I didn't. Not because I wanted her here. Because for now, she was useful.
So I tolerated the perfume that smelled like it was trying too hard. I tolerated her nails tapping the console as if it belonged to her. I even tolerated the way she leaned in, fake lashes brushing too close to my face when she tried to get my attention.
But I didn't look at her. Not once.
By the time we pulled up at the clothing store, she was still clinging to my arm like I was some accessory she'd bought. I let her. It was easier than dealing with the scene she'd cause if I pushed her off.
Inside, everything smelled of luxury and polished floors-too clean, too nouveau-riche. A place I'd usually avoid, but her "accidental" choice worked in my favor. People talked in places like this.
I scanned the room out of habit. Staff. Cameras. Exit points.
And then my gaze stopped.
Not because I wanted it to. Because it just... did.
She was standing near the mirror. A girl who didn't fit this place either, but for entirely different reasons. She wasn't trying to be noticed. She wasn't trying to belong. And that made her stand out more than anyone else in the room.
She looked up, and for half a second, our eyes locked. She froze like she'd felt it too-whatever it was.
I looked away first. Always better to control the pace.
Still, when I caught her reflection later, she was watching me. Not the woman clinging to my arm. Not the store. Me.
Interesting.
I didn't usually acknowledge stares. They were inevitable. People either feared me, wanted something from me, or thought they could handle me. They never could.
But hers wasn't the usual kind. It wasn't fear. Wasn't interest either. It was sharper. Like she was sizing me up.
Bold.
I let my eyes drag past her in the mirror, giving nothing away. Let her wonder if she imagined it. Let her fidget under her own curiosity.
The girl on my arm kept laughing-high-pitched, deliberate. She leaned in closer, her hand climbing my chest like she thought it belonged there. I didn't move, didn't even look at her. My hands stayed loose at my sides. I'd learned a long time ago: indifference cuts deeper than rejection.
Then I heard it-soft but clear enough:
"Yeah. Totally my color. Makes me look like... drywall."
My mouth almost betrayed me. Almost. It twitched, the start of a smirk I didn't allow.
So she had a mouth. A sarcastic one.
She tossed the dress aside, grabbed another, and shifted-intentionally, maybe, but not enough to break the tension she was trying to escape.
I let my gaze follow, slow, deliberate. I knew she'd feel it. And she did. Her shoulders stiffened.
She tried to ignore me, busying herself with racks of clothes, muttering under her breath like she was trying to convince herself she wasn't aware of me.
Then she spun, holding up the loudest, most obnoxious pink dress in the entire store. Looked straight into the mirror.
"Perfect. Nothing screams elegance like blinding people on purpose."
That time, I didn't stop it. A small, controlled curve touched my mouth.
Not because she amused me. Not really.
Because she didn't look away.
And people who didn't look away?
They were always the most dangerous.
She didn't look away.
Most people drop their eyes when they feel mine on them. Instinct. Survival.
Not her. She held her ground, even while pretending not to.
The pink dress stayed in her hands, but her gaze stayed sharp. Testing. Daring.
The woman still clinging to my arm giggled louder, probably thinking she could pull my attention back. I didn't give her so much as a glance. Instead, I slipped my hands into my pockets again-calm, detached-while my eyes tracked the girl by the mirror.
She wasn't dressed like the others here. No glittering heels. No heavy makeup. Just a hoodie, skirt, and those untamed curls that looked like she didn't care enough to control them.
But she cared about something. I just didn't know what yet.
She moved to the counter, giving instructions to the staff like she owned the place. Confident, but not the practiced kind that came from years of pretending. This was natural. Sharp-edged.
Interesting.
Her purchases were packed quickly-people always moved fast for those who looked like they didn't tolerate delays. She didn't glance back at me once. Not until she reached the door.
That's when she hesitated-barely, but enough for me to catch it. A pause, a shift of weight, like some part of her knew I was still watching.
I didn't move. Didn't blink. Just let the silence between us stretch across the room.
She pushed the door open, and light spilled around her figure as she walked out. Gone.
The fake-lash woman said something then-something shrill and meaningless-but I wasn't listening.
I was still watching the door she'd just left through.
The door clicked shut, and the noise of the store returned-too bright, too shallow.
But she lingered in my head longer than she had in the room.
I didn't chase. I never did. If someone was meant to cross my path, they would again. That's how the world worked when you knew how to bend it.
Still, the sharpness in her stare-unafraid, unwilling to drop first-that was rare.
And rare things had a way of becoming problems. Or weapons.
"Baby, do you like this one?" the woman on my arm asked, holding up some glittering scrap of fabric. She leaned in close again, trying to pull me back into her orbit.
I finally looked at her, just once. One look was enough to make her hand falter. She stepped back, laughed nervously, and started babbling to cover the silence.
I didn't hear a word. My focus was already elsewhere.
Through the store window, I watched the girl-hoodie, curls, and unbothered defiance-step into a waiting car. Not luxury. Not cheap either. Protected.
Noted.