Page 11 of Rescued By the Beast
"Guys, we're in a tavern, not an arena. If you continue, I'll banish you all from here." Char, the bar owner, appears at my side with his arms crossed a . His skin is already scarlet, but I swear it looks redder than usual, containing his frustration.
"He's right, let's sit down and order something. We came here to celebrate, not to fight." The man who smells like a bear says to Mark, who grunts in response.
His posture gradually relaxes, and his beastly features begin to soften, transforming back into his human form. It's like watching a storm dissipate, only to reveal something equally powerful and devastating in its place.
He is breathtaking, both in his monstrous and human forms — a wild beauty that seems to defy all logic.
My eyes drift away from his, but I can't ignore the weight of his attention. It's almost palpable, a pressure that makes my skin burn as if it were under intense heat.
I should thank him for intervening, but frustration consumes me.
I was handling the situation on my own. Now, with all this confusion, it's quite likely that the wolves won't be generous with their tips. Damn, all my effort, all the insults I swallowed all night... all for nothing.
Mark and his gang move away to a table in the back. When I turn back to the wolves, I control my breathing to stop my hands from shaking and try not to exude the smell of fear.
"And you, would you like to order anything else?"
"Nah, I'm done," the alpha growls, cracking his neck in a gesture of frustration. "Let's go." His voice is authoritative, and his pack immediately obeys without hesitation.
They quickly pay what they owe, and the tension dissipates as soon as they walk out the door. I take a deep breath, relieved, but soon my heart races again as I walk towards that table in the back.
The energy emanating from him is palpable.
Beast.
The nickname is no accident: with his serious expression and no-nonsense posture, he exudes the energy of someone who does not like to be bothered.
He is quiet, always seeming lost in dark thoughts, but today I feel his gaze fixed on me.
Again.
I don't dare look into his brown eyes.
Because whenever I look at them... something inside me falls apart.
It's as if the ground beneath my feet gives way, as if every secret, every barrier I've built over the years, is torn down.
I feel myself being pulled towards him, like an invisible thread tied to my chest, forcing my barriers down, leaving me exposed — as if something in me recognised him without my understanding.
And that scares me more than any imminent danger.
Instead, my gaze slips to his features, his marked jawline, his firm lips, the way his golden hair falls untidily across his forehead, which seems permanently furrowed.
He must notice my attention there and runs his hand through his hair. There is something mesmerising about that simple gesture. I admire the bulging veins in his huge hand, in his big arm...
For heaven's sake, what am I doing?
I try to look away, but it's impossible.
He demands attention, imposing, his presence a force I cannot ignore.
Thatno onecan ignore.
"Does this always happen?" His voice, firm and low, startles me.
Is he... talking to me?
"Huh?"
