Page 7 of Bend

Straight at me.

Fuck.

She presses her lips together, then forces a small smile, like she’s deciding whether this is ridiculous or interesting.

Isla says something else, gesturing lightly toward us again, and the girl glances back at her before looking at me one more time. There’s a split second where it feels like a silent question.

I hold her gaze steady.

No smirk, or cocky bullshit.

Just watching.

The bartender slides the beers over. Isla grabs them and nudges the girl lightly with her elbow, still talking, still grinning like playing match maker is the goddamn highlight of her night.

Then they start walking toward us.

I straighten without meaning to, and set my empty beer down slowly on the table.

Omen exhales through his nose with a laugh. “You’re fucked, bro,” he mutters.

“Fuck you,”

When they reach us, Isla sets the beers down with a satisfied little smile.

“Boys,” she says, gesturing dramatically, “this is Echo.”

Up close, she’s even more distracting.

“That’s Draygon,” Isla explains, nodding to me, “and this is Omen, he’s mine.” she adds, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Echo’s lips twitch. “Hey, nice to meet you guys.”

“You too,” Omen adds.

“Babe,” Isla chimes, pressing a kiss to his cheek playfully, “come dance with me. You haven’t danced with me all night and we have to leave soon.”

Omen doesn’t argue. He never really does when it comes to her. He finishes his beer, stands, and lets her pull him toward the center of the small dance floor where the music’s the loudest as he throws me a look over his shoulder letting me know just how fucking amused he is by his girls little plan to set me up.

Echo stays seated across from me, one leg crossed over the other. Her wedge heel swinging lazily as her pretty eyes study the room briefly before flicking back to me.

“You’ve got a lot of ink,” she says, like she’s been meaning to comment on it.

I glance down at my forearm where my sleeve’s pushed up just enough to show the edge of the tiger.

“Yeah,” I smirk. It's something I’m used to hearing. My tattoos are always an easy conversation starter, they tend to draw a lot of attention, especially with women.

She leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table, yes narrowing as she studies the ink more closely. “A tiger,”

Before I can answer, her fingers brush over my skin. The contact is light, and casual, but my body doesn’t treat it that way.

The simple touch sends a sharp awareness straight through me, heat tightening low in my stomach. I don’t fucking move but I feel it.

The tattoo runs from my wrist up my forearm. A tiger mid-stride, black ink bold, woven through with Korean calligraphy that curves along the muscle. The tiger’s jaw is slightly open.

Her fingers trace the outline slowly, following the spine of the tiger, then the curve of the script. She doesn’t look up right away, just studies it like she’s reading it through touch.

“Hmm,” she murmurs. “Fitting.”