The memory hits me like a punch to the gut.
Luna, climbing the stairs of this tavern. This exact tavern. Following a woman in red.
A prostitute who promised information about the sword.
And then—the knife.
The blood. Luna dying while the woman laughed.
This is her.
This is the same woman.
And she's looking at me like I'm her next meal.
I tear my eyes away, forcing myself to look down at the table.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.
Don't panic. She doesn't know that you know. From her perspective, you're just another mark.
Another stupid traveler to lure upstairs and kill.
Just don't engage. Don't make eye contact. Eat your food when it comes and get out. That's the plan.
I count to ten slowly, trying to calm my breathing.
One. Two. Three.
My hands are still shaking.
Four. Five. Six.
I can feel sweat on the back of my neck despite the warmth of the room.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Okay. I'm calm. I'm fine.
I look up.
She's moved.
She's no longer at the table across the room. She's now sitting at a table maybe three away from mine. Still on the other side of the room, but closer.
Much closer.
I didn't hear her move. Didn't see her get up. She just... appeared there.
She's still watching me. Still smiling.
And now she's doing something with her hand—running her fingers slowly down the side of her neck, tracing the line of her throat, down to her collarbone, then lower, brushing along the edge of her dress where it meets the curve of her breast.
The movement is deliberate.
Sensual.
She knows exactly what she's doing.
She tilts her head slightly, and the motion makes her hair fall to one side, exposing more of her neck and shoulder.
The firelight plays across her pale skin, making it seem to glow.
I look away immediately, my face burning.
This is bad. This is really fucking bad.
I keep my eyes locked on the table, on my hands, on anything but her.
Where's my food? The bartender said she'd bring it out. How long does it take to bring out a bowl of stew?
I count to twenty this time, forcing myself to breathe slowly.
Don't look up. Don't look at her. Just wait for the food.
Twenty seconds pass.
I tell myself not to look.
I look anyway.
She's right next to me.
Sitting in the chair beside mine, so close I can feel the heat of her body.
"Hello there," she purrs, her voice like silk and smoke.
I jerk back so violently I almost knock my chair over.
"Jesus!" The word comes out before I can stop it.
She laughs—a low, throaty sound that makes something in my gut twist uncomfortably.
"Jumpy, aren't you?" she says, leaning toward me. "I didn't mean to startle you."
She's close. Too close. I can smell her now—perfume, something floral and sweet but with an underlying musk that's distinctly... carnal. It fills my nose, makes my head feel light.
"I'm fine," I manage to say, pressing myself back against the wall. "I just—personal space, you know?"
"Personal space," she repeats, as if the concept amuses her. "How strange."
She shifts in her chair, angling her body toward me.
The movement is graceful, deliberate. Her dress shifts with her, the fabric pulling tighter across her chest, the slit riding higher on her thigh.
I can see everything.
The swell of her breasts, barely contained by the low-cut dress.
The curve of her waist. The smooth expanse of her thigh, exposed all the way to her hip.
And she knows I'm looking. She wants me to look.
"You looked lonely," she says, resting one arm on the back of my chair.
Her other hand moves to the table, her fingers drumming lightly on the wood. "Sitting here all by yourself. I thought you might want some company."
"I'm okay," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Really. I'm just waiting for my food."
"Food," she says, her lips curving into a wider smile. "Is that all you're hungry for?"
Her hand moves from the back of my chair to my shoulder.
I freeze.
Her touch is light, barely there, but I can feel the warmth of her skin through my hoodie. Her fingers trace down my arm slowly, deliberately, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
"You're tense," she observes, her voice dropping lower. "So tense. You need to relax."
"I'm relaxed," I lie.
"Are you?" Her other hand leaves the table and moves to my thigh.
My brain short-circuits.
Her hand is on my thigh. Her palm is pressing against my jeans, fingers curling slightly, gripping.
And she's looking at me with those dark, knowing eyes, that red-lipped smile.
"I could help you relax," she whispers, leaning in closer. Her breath is warm against my ear. "I know exactly what you need. What you want."