Chapter 56: Pressure

After school, the restroom was empty except for a few dull, heavy sounds that had nothing to do with the pipes.

"Do you get it now?"

Miles Sutton could only make a muffled sound through his teeth.

Cyrus had both hands twisted in the front of Miles’s shirt. His voice had gone cold enough that the cramped restroom seemed to shrink around it.

"Do you believe now that it was tutoring?"

"I believe you," Miles forced out.

Cyrus let go.

Miles slid down the tile wall and collapsed beside the other student, who was already curled on the floor with both arms locked over his stomach. The two of them ended up in nearly the same position, pale, winded, and far quieter than when they had dragged Cyrus in.

Cyrus looked down at them and finally let out the breath he had been holding.

Their timing had been convenient, at least. He had not wanted to waste another normal school day hunting for the right chance to warn these two idiots. If they kept treating his peaceful campus life like entertainment, sooner or later he would have to solve the problem himself.

He preferred school to stay boring.

Boring meant safe. Boring meant nobody watched him too closely. Boring meant math, cafeteria food, tutoring, and problems that did not end with locked rooms.

Right now, though, he did not exactly look untouched.

A scrape ran along one side of his face where someone had caught him badly during the scuffle. It was not deep, but a thin line of blood had run down before he managed to wipe most of it away.

He had overestimated himself a little.

If they had brought one more person, he probably would not have gotten away with only a few scrapes.

The two students on the floor did not look like they would be standing any time soon. Cyrus had not held back much. Warnings were useful only when people remembered them later.

Still, he had learned something.

This was his first real fight with humans. Until now, his understanding of human violence came mostly from books, movies, school gossip, and trashy online clips where everyone had terrible survival instincts. Real fighting was uglier. There was less posing, more grabbing, more elbows, and far too many hands in a narrow room.

Cyrus stepped up to the sink and checked himself in the mirror.

The restroom lights were too bright, the kind that flattened a face and made every flaw look louder. Under them, the scrape on his cheek looked more obvious than he liked.

He pushed up one sleeve and examined his arm. A couple of spots on his pale skin had already begun to redden where one of the punches had landed. He pressed his fingers against the sore place and quietly let a trace of cold gather under his touch.

The ache eased a little.

That was useful.

It was not enough to count as healing, but it helped.

He fixed his sleeve, smoothed out his uniform shirt, then leaned closer to the mirror and ran his fingers over the cut on his cheek. When he lowered his hand, the blood was gone. The scrape itself remained.

There was nothing to do about that.

This was what happened when people swung their fists like frightened raccoons. Cyrus was not some trained fighter. The restroom was narrow, the floor was slightly slick, and two people meant four hands trying to grab him at once. Dodging everything had been impossible.

Luckily, he was a rare-blood.

Against two regular high school boys, raw physical advantage still did most of the work. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

Now he had a rule.

If the other side had more than three people, he would run.

Running away was one of the few things Cyrus could admit he was genuinely good at.

After straightening his clothes again, Cyrus glanced back at the two students on the floor.

Miles noticed the look and immediately shifted back a few inches. The other boy followed, dragging himself away with a pained hiss.

That was good enough.

They had learned something too.

Cyrus headed for the door, then stopped with one hand near the handle.

A thought came to him.

He turned around and walked back into the restroom.

That evening, The Full Moon Lounge sat under its usual low light, all amber lamps, polished wood, clean glassware, and conversations soft enough not to disturb the music. The crowd was thin, with only a few customers at the bar and several others tucked into booths along the wall.

"Here you go."

Cyrus set a drink down in front of Helena Baird.

Helena did not touch it.

She had not been around much lately, and her first visit in a while should have been calm. She was usually composed enough that even her silence felt practiced. Tonight, though, she sat at the bar with a faint crease between her brows, staring at Cyrus’s face.

More specifically, she was staring at the small bandage on his cheek.

The bandage did not ruin his looks. If anything, most customers had noticed it only after they had already finished staring at everything else. It was a small pale interruption against a face that still drew attention too easily.

Helena, however, looked as if someone had scratched the surface of something she owned.

Her voice, when she spoke, lacked its usual warmth.

"What happened to your face?"

"I tripped earlier."

Cyrus’s hand paused almost imperceptibly on the glass he was wiping.

Helena’s question carried pressure in a way he did not understand. It was not loud. She had not raised her voice. She had not even moved from her seat.

Somehow, the air around her still tightened.

Cyrus had no intention of telling her the truth. The bandage had been paid for with money he had taken from the two troublemakers as reasonable compensation. He had already beaten them himself, and the extra cash meant he could buy a few more hot sandwiches tonight.

Also, this level of injury barely counted.

He would go home, sleep, and most of it would be gone by morning.

His body came with its own recovery buff. That was one of the few parts of being what he was that he could sincerely appreciate.

Helena did not look convinced.

The crease in her brow did not fade.

Work had kept her busy recently. She had finally found enough free time to come to the lounge and relax, only to see that tiny, offensive flaw on Cyrus’s face.

Perfect things should remain perfect. If even the smallest defect appeared, it became unbearable. That instinct had been carved into her bloodline long before she learned how to pretend otherwise. Anything she recognized as perfect had to be preserved exactly as it was.

The bandage was small enough that most people in the lounge would miss it unless they deliberately checked his face.

To Helena, it was impossible to ignore.

Cyrus, who knew none of this, continued wiping the glass in his hand and felt the pressure from Helena grow worse by degrees.

He was honestly confused.

Helena had always been kind to him. Gentle, even. From the moment she entered tonight, though, something about her had been off.

He had not done anything.

Was this one of those bad moods human women were rumored to get at certain times?

Before Cyrus could come up with a better theory, Malcolm finished mixing a drink for another customer and glanced their way.

"If looking at it bothers you that much," Malcolm said, setting the cocktail down, "go buy some ointment."

"All right, I will go."

Cyrus stared after her.

By the time he processed the exchange, Helena was already out the door.

Less than ten minutes later, she returned with a small pharmacy bag in hand.

She came straight behind the bar.

Cyrus had just picked up another glass when Helena took his wrist.

"Come with me."

"What is happening?"

"Go with her," Malcolm said from nearby. "You will be fine."

Cyrus looked between them, feeling as if a visible question mark might actually appear above his head. Malcolm did not sound worried, though, and Malcolm had never casually handed him over to danger before.

At least, Cyrus was fairly sure he had not.

Cyrus let Helena lead him into the back.

The few customers in the lounge watched the scene with quiet surprise. Several looked mildly disappointed for a simpler reason: the beautiful bartender had vanished from view.

The break room was small and clean, with a round table, a couple of chairs, a mini fridge, and a shelf stacked with employee mugs and spare napkins. It smelled faintly of coffee, citrus, and the laundry detergent someone used on the bar towels.

"You should sit down."

Cyrus sat down.

Helena’s voice was deliberately calm, but a colder edge had slipped into it. The pressure around her had not faded either, which made Cyrus obey before his mind finished arguing.

Why did this feel like he was being trained?

A random memory flashed through his head: a woman on the sidewalk telling her dog to sit before giving it a treat. The comparison offended him on principle.

Then Helena stepped closer, and a clean, expensive scent drifted over him.

He lost the thought.

In the time it took him to blink, she had closed the distance between them. Her attention moved over his cheek with a focus that made the room feel too small.

"Hold still for me," she said. "I am going to put ointment on it."

"I can do it myself, Helena."

She ignored him and reached for the bandage.

The adhesive pulled lightly at his skin when she peeled it away. The scrape underneath was exposed again, red against his pale face, and Helena’s expression tightened further.

Cyrus frowned when the edge of the wound tugged.

"I said I can do it myself."

"Do not move."

Helena squeezed ointment onto her fingertip and leaned in.

To keep him steady, her other hand rose and cupped his jaw.

Cyrus went still.

Her palm was warm. Too warm, because his own body always ran cooler than it should. He could feel every point of contact with unnecessary clarity: the curve of her fingers under his chin, the controlled pressure keeping his face tilted toward the light, the warmth of her breath brushing his skin.

The ointment touched the scrape with a cool sting.

Then her fingertip moved slowly over the wound, careful and precise, spreading the medicine in a thin layer. The motion was gentle enough not to hurt more than necessary, but the intimacy of it was harder to ignore than the pain.

This was one disadvantage of having a low body temperature.

Other people’s warmth stood out too clearly.

Helena’s face hovered close to his, beautiful and focused. She looked less like a woman teasing a boy and more like a researcher repairing a fragile artifact. Her clear eyes held none of the familiar hunger Cyrus knew how to identify, none of the obvious greed, desire, or teasing that made certain women easy to avoid.

That made her harder to read.

Cyrus complained silently to himself and closed his eyes.

He really did not understand Helena Baird.

She treated him well. Too well, sometimes. She helped without asking for obvious payment. She worried without pushing questions too hard. She could be gentle in ways that should have made him feel safe, except safety was never something he trusted when someone else held it out in both hands.

What did she want from him?

The ointment process felt both too long and too short.

When Helena finished, she put a fresh bandage over the scrape and smoothed its edge down with her thumb. Then, without warning, she took his hand and began checking his fingers.

Cyrus watched her inspect them.

His fingers were slender and pale under the break room light. The ring sat alone where it always did, plain and stubborn, giving away nothing to anyone who did not already know enough to fear it.

There were no scrapes across his knuckles. The backs of his hands had no cuts. There were no obvious marks that would tell her what had really happened.

Only after checking both hands did Helena seem willing to breathe normally again.

"There you go," she said. "Next time, please watch where you step."

"Thank you, Helena."

"It is nothing."

Cyrus met her eyes.

For all the pressure she had brought into the room, she was the one who looked away first.

When they returned to the lounge, several female customers who had watched Helena take Cyrus away quietly relaxed.

She had only kept him in the back for about five minutes.

That should not have been long enough for the two of them to do anything.

Everyone should simply keep protecting the poor amnesiac bartender together.