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Dim lights, pool tables, mindless threats and laughter passed over whiskey and cheap ale. Nothing louder than Kaz allowed.
Like the saints, he could whisper in one ear and cause calamity. Although, unlike them, he stalked the edge of the tables, keeping an eye on Jesper’s awful habit and on any sleight of hand, or coin that doesn’t glint.
Those gloves. They’d seen light and dark, night and day, sometimes bloody and always on. I’ve found myself wondering what delicate hands are under them, or if they’re rough and wandering.
His eyes never meet mine for more than a glance, with every other employee he refuses to break eye contact. Even so, I’ve memorised the deep brown of his irises and the flecks of black that are swallowed whole by his pupils.
His arms aren’t built for heavy lifting, the lining of his jacket never coming into contact with them, but his cane is always attached to him. Like an extra arm. A deadly one at that. I’ll never forget the day I got him to reveal its fabricator-made history. He never touches drink so I knew it was intentional, maybe even calculated.
Kaz Brekker doesn’t need a reason. That was the phrase that reverberated throughout the walls of the Crow Club and seeps through every other brick that builds the Barrel.
I know I should stay away. I’ve tried. I really have. But my wandering eyes have had enough of his sharks eyes and smooth movements and jawline so sharp it could make me bleed.
Pigeons float out of the club, with most being shoved through the polished door. The silence when the clinking of glasses had ceased was a relief, or a fire lighting inside of me.
The only thing I knew I could do was waltz over to the bar. ‘Boss.’ With a respectful nod of my head. And he broke. His eyes met mine and they stayed. ‘I’m not blind. I’ve seen your roving eyes all night. Most nights.’ He spoke in his factual tone, undercut with a certain sass. Was this him flirting?
Either way, I’m not about to let this moment slip through my fingers. ‘Well, you’re too mesmerising to let out of my sight.’ Turns out, that was all the permission he needed.
‘Follow me.’ Was uttered from those beautiful lips and we walked through a crimson hallway I’d never been allowed near before and up a spiral staircase. ‘Kaz…’ I whispered and his tense frame snapped, he spun and trapped me between himself and the obnoxious wallpaper.
Looking down on me, I must’ve been the depiction of a begging deer. All I did was stare and wait. ‘Do you want to join me in my room?’
After that, it was lips on lips and gasps of pleasure, hands raking through hair and soft gestures at each others necks. And when he slid off those gloves. My saints. His hands weren’t burned or broken, or stained red like the rumours would insist. But perfectly normal, and perfectly slender.
Before I knew it, we’d eased each other into a state of pure elation, skin on skin and hands everywhere. After an evening of intensity, a night of no sleep and a morning of rays of sunshine and soft smiles; I can confirm, that Kaz Brekker’s hands are truly a gift from the saints.