The next morning, Maëlys tried to shake off the unsettling encounter, but Eliott's intense gaze lingered in her mind like a phantom touch. She found herself subconsciously scanning the streets, an unbidden urge to see him again warring with her desperate need for solitude. It was ridiculous. He was just a tattoo artist, a random stranger who happened to possess eyes that could strip away her carefully constructed facade.
She decided to buy groceries, hoping a mundane task would clear her head. The small town's only supermarket was bustling, filled with the murmur of local chatter. Maëlys navigated the aisles, a basket slung over her arm, keeping her gaze down, avoiding eye contact. She grabbed a carton of milk, and as she straightened up, a tall, solid figure blocked her path.
Her breath hitched.
Eliott.
He was leaning against a display of fresh produce, an apple in his hand, a casual smirk playing on his lips. His dark tank top stretched taut across his broad chest, showcasing the intricate artwork on his arms. He looked even more formidable outside the confines of his studio, a force of nature misplaced in a grocery store.
"Lost, little bird?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her.
Maëlys's heart hammered against her ribs. "I'm not lost," she retorted, her voice sharper than she intended. "And I'm not a bird."
His smirk widened, a glint of amusement in his stormy eyes. "No? You looked quite eager to fly away yesterday." He pushed off the display, taking a step closer. The scent of him – something smoky and masculine – enveloped her, a potent reminder of the electric tension between them.
She took a step back, her hand tightening around the milk carton. "I was busy."
"Too busy for a chat?" He raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over her, lingering on her lips. "That's a shame. I don't often get visitors who look like they've seen a ghost just by looking at me."
A flicker of annoyance pierced through her discomfort. He was enjoying this, enjoying her obvious unease. "Perhaps you're just very… memorable."
"Only perhaps?" He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "I thought I made more of an impression." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You bolted pretty fast, for someone just 'looking'."
Maëlys felt a blush creep up her neck. He was seeing through her, chipping away at her composure with casual ease. It infuriated her, yet a part of her was fascinated by his blatant disregard for her barriers. He wasn't like anyone she'd met, or rather, anyone she could remember meeting.
"I need to go," she said, trying to push past him.
Eliott didn't move, effectively trapping her. His eyes, dark and knowing, held hers. "Running again?" he challenged softly, his voice laced with an unsettling familiarity. "You seem to do that a lot."
Her breath hitched. How could he know? He couldn't. It was a guess, a cruel coincidence. Yet, the way he said it, with that knowing look, sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the supermarket's air conditioning. A silent war raged between them, a battle of wills. And for the first time since her arrival, Maëlys felt a strange, dangerous excitement stir within her, a tiny flicker of life in her empty shell.