Page 35 of Savage Thirst

It would've been easy to take the money. Just like it would've been easy to accept Asher's help. But I couldn't do it. My own damn pride gets in the way every time.

Darlene once told me I make life harder than it needs to be. She was probably right.

I can't stay. I can't take the help. Not when I ran out on my family, even before the whole nymph thing. Not when I ran from Darius.

Not now when I'm running again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sage

After a few blocks of aimless wandering and pretending I knew where the hell I was going, I find myself standing in front of a bar.

It looks like one of those old-timey places that opens early for the trucker crowd and closes late for the lonely locals. The sign saysCole's, the wood a little weathered, but the door's open. That's enough for me.

Inside, it smells like aged oak, fresh brew, stale ale, and memories. The interior hasn't changed since the seventies, maybe earlier—plaid stools, wood-paneled walls, a jukebox humming a quiet tune. There are only two patrons nursing mugs and morning silences.

Behind the bar stands a man who could've stepped straight out of a blues record—dark skin, salt-and-pepper beard, broad shoulders under a faded flannel. He greets me with the kind of warmth you don't get in big cities.

"Welcome, welcome," he says, smiling like he means it. "What can I get you this fine morning?"

"Coffee would be amazing, if you've got some," I reply, returning the smile.

"Oh, do we?" He grins, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening with charm. "We've got the best damn coffee in the whole county. Better than all that overpriced slush from the fancy shops downstate."

"That's a bold claim," I say, sliding onto a barstool. "But I'm ready to be proven wrong."

He hums a tune as he works the machine—efficient, like it's muscle memory—and in moments hands me a steaming mug. One sip and I'm convinced.

"Okay," I exhale, savoring it. "That's not just hype."

He leans in with a mock-conspiratorial whisper. "Best-kept secret in Briar Hollow."

I mime zipping my lips. "My lips are sealed."

He chuckles, deep and genuine. "Well, maybe not too sealed. We could use a few more folks around here. No pressure, though. You enjoy your coffee, dear lady."

Just then, the front door swings open, letting in a gust of wind and the sound of boots on hardwood.

The barman glances up, and his expression shifts—still warm, but tinged with something else.

"Jace," he says, tone halfway between affection and exasperation. "To what do we owe the honor of your companythisearly?"

I glance over my shoulder.

The newcomer is younger, mid-twenties maybe, dark skin, sharp jawline, and dressed like someone trying very hard not to look like he's from a small town. Expensive wool coat, white button-down, tailored pants that belong in a boardroom, not a backroad bar. He peels the coat off like he's on a runway and folds it neatly.

"For your information, Uncle," he says, placing his coat deliberately on one of the barstools, "I've been up since five. Gotmy run in. Did some hustle. And don't act like you need help before ten. You just like complaining."

"Hustle," the barman mutters with a shake of his head. "Kids these days."

The energy between them is familial and teasing. I clock the dynamic immediately—uncle and nephew, opposites in many ways but cut from the same honest cloth.

Jace turns to me, and I feel it the moment his eyes land. There's a beat, a shift, like someone just adjusted the spotlight. His spine straightens. His expression reconfigures into something cooler, more polished.

I've seen that shift before—guys who suddenly want to be noticed. But this isn't just him. It's me. Or rather, myallure. That subtle pull I've never fully learned to switch off. Most of the time I keep it muted, but even that's enough to draw eyes, make people lean in just a little too close.

Jace doesn't lean yet. But he notices.