Chapter 28: Chapter 28: Looking for a Third?

Chapter 28: Looking for a Third?

After closing the door with the food container in his hands, Cyrus found himself giving Daphne Whitlock a little more credit than before.

A neighbor who brought food was a rare and valuable kind of neighbor. He had met many people in the human world by now, but not many of them appeared at his door carrying dinner.

Then he remembered the way Daphne had looked at him when fever had forced his body small.

The credit disappeared again.

Cyrus set the container on the little table and opened the lid. Rich heat rolled up at once, carrying the smell of slow-cooked beef, carrots, potatoes, and herbs. The sauce clung thickly to the meat, glossy and dark, the kind of food that looked like it belonged in a kitchen where someone had time, money, and no need to count how many meal gels were left in the cabinet.

He sat down and stared at it.

Daphne had not come over because she cared about him.

Most likely, she was trying to make contact with the "older brother" so she could get closer to the "younger brother." The thought made sense no matter how he turned it. She knew him as a student, but not well. Her classes usually fell close to lunch or later in the day, when he had already slept enough to keep himself awake. He did not do anything unusual in her class. Plenty of students paid attention because Daphne was a good teacher, and because she was attractive enough that ignoring her took effort.

For her to see through his disguise, connect him to the white-haired child, hide that knowledge, and move next door without making any mistake would require too many coincidences.

The simpler answer was worse, but at least it was logical.

Daphne Whitlock wanted the fake little brother.

Cyrus picked up the fork and tried a bite.

The beef came apart almost before he chewed. The potatoes had soaked up the sauce, and the carrots were sweet enough that he nearly forgave them for being vegetables.

His suspicion paused out of respect for the food.

By the time he finished, the container was nearly clean, and Cyrus sat there in a daze with the fork still in his hand.

Daphne was a problem.

Daphne’s cooking was also a problem.

A person could know there was bait on a hook and still think about the bait. That was why he disliked beautiful women, kind neighbors, good cooks, and every situation where the dangerous option smelled better than the safe one.

He looked toward the wall separating his apartment from hers.

Using his child form to scam food from her had been a terrible idea. It involved risk, exposure, and the possibility that Daphne’s interest was exactly as bad as he suspected.

Still, if she was going to feed the older brother first, he did not need to scam anything yet.

That conclusion was dangerous enough that he closed the empty container, washed it, and set it by the door to return later.

Sunday came hot.

The Full Moon Lounge opened in the afternoon, and the early hours were as slow as usual. Warm light spread across the polished counter, the music stayed low, and only a few tables were filled. Most customers came in for one drink, a cool room, and a little calm before the evening crowd arrived.

Cyrus used the empty stretches to read.

The acting book lay open beside him behind the bar. He had chosen it because his fake amnesia story could always use better technique. The next time someone pressed too hard, he wanted his expression, timing, and uncertainty to feel natural enough to pass inspection.

If he was lucky, one day he might even fool Isolde.

The thought lasted about three seconds before he turned a page and remembered who Isolde was.

The evening crowd thickened after sunset, and the book had to be tucked away.

Most of the customers were familiar now. They knew Malcolm, knew where they liked to sit, and knew that ordering from Cyrus usually meant their drink arrived colder than expected. In the summer heat, that was enough to make him popular even without smiling.

Cyrus kept his face calm, his voice level, and his movements precise.

The women who flirted lightly could be handled with a nod. The ones who tried to drag out conversation could be handled with a polite sentence and a return to work. Most people lost courage when they received no fuel.

Helena was not in tonight. Detective Rhea Maddox was absent too.

Without those two, the counter felt easier to manage.

Rhea was different from the usual customers. Other women looked at him, wanted him to notice, and retreated when he refused to play along. Rhea treated refusal like part of the game. She had methods, patience, and a career that apparently came with confidence and terrible boundaries.

People who chose to protect human society were probably not normal to begin with.

Cyrus’s attention drifted toward a woman at one of the side tables.

She had become a regular recently. Whenever their eyes met, she looked away first, her ears red and her hands tightening around her glass. That, at least, felt normal. A person could be attracted, embarrassed, and still remain within the range of ordinary human behavior.

The doorbell chimed later in the night.

A woman with cropped hair stepped inside.

The first thing she did was scan the room.

Her attention moved over the customers with casual speed, but Cyrus caught the pattern. She looked at the women first. Not politely, either. Her attention lingered long enough to measure faces, posture, loneliness, and alcohol.

Then she found him behind the bar.

Her eyes brightened.

Cyrus met her stare without lowering his own.

The look she gave him carried the same familiar hunger he had seen from too many people, but something about it did not sit the same way. It was not only flirtation. It was not only curiosity. The interest felt sharper, like she had noticed a scent she wanted to follow.

The woman smiled.

Cyrus did not. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

Instead of approaching him, she went to Malcolm, ordered a drink, and carried it to a table where a woman was drinking alone. The customer looked lonely, a little tired, and just tipsy enough to welcome company from someone pretty.

The short-haired woman slipped into the seat across from her with practiced ease.

Their conversation started lightly. A compliment here, a laugh there, a question timed well enough that the lonely customer leaned closer without realizing she had done it. The woman with cropped hair touched her own glass, then touched the other woman’s wrist, then let the contact linger.

Cyrus watched while polishing a shaker.

Nothing about it looked forced. No powder went into the drink. No suspicious swap happened. The customer chose to stay, chose to smile, chose to lean in.

Cyrus still did not like it.

The two women talked until their voices lowered. Then the short-haired woman leaned forward and kissed her.

The customer went red at once. A few nearby patrons noticed and turned away with the awkward politeness of people pretending not to watch. The Full Moon Lounge had seen enough drunken confessions and bad decisions that a kiss did not count as an emergency.

The kiss ended.

The customer’s face stayed flushed for a while, then gradually lost color.

Her body softened against the short-haired woman.

Cyrus’s fingers slowed around the shaker.

That was not normal.

The short-haired woman did not panic. She adjusted the customer’s position with one arm, let her head rest against her shoulder, and took out her phone with the other hand. Her expression looked bored, almost satisfied, like the important part of the evening had already been handled.

Cyrus kept watching.

Whatever this was between women had its own odd rhythm. Human desire was messy enough already, and rare-blood desire was worse. He had read enough and suffered enough to know that consent, hunger, feeding, and touch could blur into dangerous shapes when someone wanted them to.

The woman with cropped hair glanced toward him again.

Her attention returned again and again over the next stretch of time, never obvious enough to be rude, never hidden enough to be harmless.

By the time Cyrus’s shift neared its end, the lounge had mostly emptied.

Malcolm counted the till behind the counter. A few customers lingered over last drinks. The short-haired woman remained where she was, still holding the sleeping customer against her.

Cleaning up after customers was part of the job.

Handling people who could not leave under their own power was also part of the job, though Cyrus preferred it when that part happened to someone else.

He stepped out from behind the bar and approached their table.

"Do you need help?"

The short-haired woman looked up at him through her lashes. Her face was flushed from alcohol, or from a very convincing imitation of it. Her mouth curved with deliberate invitation.

"I do need help," she said. "Could you help me get her to a hotel?"

Her tone made the word hotel do more work than necessary.

Cyrus glanced at the unconscious customer, then at the woman holding her.

"The hotel down the block is close enough."

"She’s heavier than she looks," the woman said, drawing out the words. "I don’t think I can carry her alone."

Her tongue touched her lower lip, slow and theatrical.

Cyrus understood the suggestion.

She wanted him to help take a half-conscious woman to a hotel room. She wanted him to imagine going with them. She probably expected the idea to distract him.

The two of them were both attractive, but they had chosen the wrong target.

"I’ll ask the owner," Cyrus said.

The woman’s smile did not fade. "You’re very cautious."

"That helps at work."

He returned to the counter and told Malcolm the situation.

Malcolm looked toward the woman, then toward the sleeping customer. His expression did not change much, but he made no move to help.

After a moment, he said, "You can handle this one."

Cyrus looked at him.

Malcolm had helped with drunk customers before. He had called cars, guided people outside, and stepped in whenever a situation became unpleasant. Letting Cyrus handle it alone was unusual.

"All right," Cyrus said.

The woman at the table watched him the whole time. Her eyes followed his hands, his throat, the line of his shoulders under the black shirt. She looked amused now, as if his caution had made the game better rather than worse.

Before Cyrus could return to her, the customer stirred.

She opened her eyes with a faint frown, touched her own face, and seemed confused by where she was. The short-haired woman murmured something too low for Cyrus to hear. The customer nodded weakly, took out her phone, and ordered a car.

By the time the car arrived, she could walk by herself.

She did not walk well, but she walked enough to leave.

The short-haired woman stayed behind.

Outside the lounge, she crouched near the curb, one elbow resting on her knee, her short hair falling forward. She looked drunk now, or tired, or willing to be mistaken for both. The street was quieter than usual. Heat clung to the pavement, and the lights from the lounge spilled over her shoulders.

Cyrus stepped outside.

"Your ride left," he said.

She did not answer at first.

Then her hair began to change.

The dark strands shifted under the streetlight, color bleeding through like dye dropped into water. Pink threaded through the cropped layers, vivid and unnatural. When she turned her head, her eyes had changed too, carrying a lush, dangerous tint that caught the light and held it.

Cyrus’s body understood the threat before his thoughts finished forming.

The woman smiled at him.

Her gaze locked onto his.

The pull caught behind his eyes and dragged every thought toward her.