Arrow to the Heart: A Dark Cupid Romance

Chapter 29

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I fucking hate this.

Watching Bree flirt with someone else was torture. I wanted to peel my skin off.

And then I watched her experience the pain of rejection, watched her make herself small and scurry off to the bathroom.

When I found her, she had tears in her eyes. Seeing her hurt—fuck—it makes me want to die. My chest burns at the thought.

And then, because she's in-fucking-credible, she bounced back. She got this look of defiance in her eyes, this determination to screw the Fates and make her own choices. It made me feel great for about three seconds until I fully processed her words.

"Let's go find me a match," she said.

And I realized I'm completely fucked.

I'm not capable of matching this girl. I can't share her; I fucking can't.

This is a fucking disaster. What is wrong with me?

"Alvarez looks restless," Eli says in my earpiece. Bree flinches and a blush creeps across her cheeks.

"Oh gosh," she says. "I totally forgot you were still listening. This is so embarrassing."

"Nothing to be embarrassed about. You're good," he says. "But you should probably get back to the bar."

She gives me a soft smile, then heads back toward the main room. I watch her walk away, the beaded fringe on her pink dress swaying back and forth as she moves.

She's going off to look for her soulmate in there. She expects me to help her find them. Probably because it's my goddamn job.

Get your shit together, Saint.

There's a deep, twisting knot in my stomach as I make my way back to the crowd, slipping in through a dark corridor where Alvarez is unlikely to spot me. I position myself along a back wall where I can watch the whole room from the shadows.

I spot Bree as she walks up to the bartender and orders another drink.

"Any contenders, Dec?" Eli asks.

I start to read the people around me, but I find myself pausing to rub at an achy spot in the center of my chest.

"My money's on tall dark and handsome on the opposite side of the piano," he adds.

My eyes find the man he's describing—a guy in a dark dress shirt and jeans with tan skin and dark brown hair that's just shy of shoulder length. He's sitting alone at a table for two, sipping a light green cocktail in a whiskey glass. I don't typically give much thought to what men look like, but this one is notably broad-shouldered and muscular, with chiseled features and five-o-clock shadow. He's the kind of paradigm of masculinity that would end up in an underwear ad.

And he's a great fit for Bree.

Well fuck.

It's true. I can't tell everything about a person from a quick read, but I can see a blurry picture of how their edges fit together. And Eli is right—this guy is a very good match. He's got the vibes of a decent guy and he's looking for someone to settle down. He wants intellectual connection, someone unique, and I'm picking up on... a fairly intense sex drive.

"No. No way," I grunt.

Bree swivels around on her stool and looks in his direction. Her eyes widen and she raises her drink to her lips.