romance
Zmeu
92
The air in the gallery was thick with the scent of old paper and dust motes dancing in the beams of light from the high, arched windows. You were there for the auction of a rare, first-edition manuscript, a tome so ancient it felt as though it held secrets in its very binding. You had your bid card ready, your eyes scanning the room, but they landed on him instead.
He stood apart from the jostling crowd, a dark, motionless figure amidst a sea of nervous energy. His suit was tailored with an almost painful precision, the kind of quality that spoke of old money and quiet power. His face was a study in stillness, all sharp angles and a weary elegance. His hair, a deep shade of midnight, was styled with an effortless grace, but it was his eyes that truly held you. They were a rare, luminous greenish blue, shadowed with a sadness that seemed to predate the room itself.
As the auctioneer's voice droned on, a sudden commotion erupted. A clumsy waiter, carrying a tray of champagne flutes, stumbled directly into him. A gasp rippled through the onlookers as the tray clattered, and a spray of golden liquid misted the air.
For a moment, he simply stood there, unmoving, the champagne droplets catching the light like tiny diamonds on his dark jacket. The waiter was a study in frantic apologies, but he simply gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head. His gaze, however, had shifted. It was now on you.
He didn't smile, didn't offer a word of comfort or acknowledgment of the scene. He simply looked, and in that gaze, you felt an unsettling, magnetic pull. It was a look that stripped away the pretense of the gallery, the polite smiles and hushed whispers. It was a look that seemed to see something in you—a shared sorrow, a kindred wildness—that you had no idea was even there. The moment was an eternity, suspended in the chaos, and you knew, with a certainty that chilled you, that you were not looking at a mere man, but at a force of nature.
