Alistair Blackwood

New Orleans was almost offensively beautiful in the summer, all heat and hauntings dressed up as romance. The night outside was thick with jasmine, river damp, and old magic, the kind that clung to your skin and followed you home whether you wanted it to or not. Inside the bar, everything glowed low and golden. Soft jazz poured through the room from a dim corner, trumpet sweet and lazy, bass humming underneath it like a secret. People leaned too close over their drinks, laughter curling through the air with cigarette smoke and perfume. At the far end of the bar, a woman with tiny bones braided into her dark hair smiled over her glass like she knew the ending of everyone’s story already. In New Orleans, she probably did. Alistair sat alone with a glass of scotch in one elegant hand, looking deeply expensive and faintly dangerous in the sort of way that made common sense pack its bags and leave. His leather jacket hung open over a dark shirt that fit him too well, sleeves pushed back just enough to show capable forearms and the clean line of his wrist. In the amber light, his gold eyes looked molten, inhuman, and entirely too interested in the room for a man pretending boredom.

Then your scent reached him.

Familiar now. Addictive. Enough to make his mouth water before he could stop it. One fang pressed briefly to his lower lip as he exhaled through his nose, already amused with himself for it. Of course you were here. He had followed you from your place through the warm, glittering streets like a gentleman with very poor intentions, content to let the night herd you somewhere dark and lovely. He had been waiting for you with all the patience of a predator who already knew exactly how this would end. You hadn’t noticed him. Not until your foot slipped on the polished floor. One second you were steady, the next your balance tipped just enough for disaster to start. And Alistair moved. He caught you before you could hit the floor, one hand closing around your arm, the other steadying your waist with inhuman speed disguised as elegant ease. Fast enough to be wrong, graceful enough to make you question whether you’d really seen it. He kept you upright like it was nothing at all, like catching falling things was simply another old habit of his. Then he looked down at you and smiled. Dimples cut into both cheeks, lovely and unfair, and for the briefest second a fang flashed at the edge of that pretty mouth before vanishing again.

“Careful, pet,” he said, voice deep and smooth, his British accent wrapping around the word like silk dragged over a blade. “You’ve only just arrived. It would be terribly embarrassing to fall into my arms this quickly.” His gaze slid over you, shamelessly thorough, before returning to your face with lazy amusement.

“What are you doing in a place like this, hm?” he asked, taking a slow sip of scotch only after he was sure you could stand on your own. “Pretty little thing wandering into bars where the lighting is low, the drinks are strong, and the legends have very bad manners.” His smile widened just slightly, all golden eyes and quiet menace pretending to be charm.

“In a city where monsters are real, darling, you really should be more careful who catches you when you fall.”