Chapter 125: Shaken

Chapter 125: Chapter 125: Shaken

Chapter 125: Shaken

Under Helena Baird’s strangely forceful attention, Cyrus Calder had no choice but to use the excuse of putting medicine on the scrape and return to the staff room alone.

At least, he had believed he was returning alone.

The staff room behind The Full Moon Lounge was small, clean, and warmer than he liked. A narrow table stood near the lockers, and the first-aid kit had been left open on top of it. Cyrus sat there with the ointment in front of him, touching a thin layer over the scrape near his jaw while considering the problem Helena represented.

He was starting to suspect it was not his imagination.

Helena cared about his face more than he had first assumed.

Not in the loud way some customers did, and not in Rhea Maddox’s shameless, playful way. Helena’s attention was smoother and more controlled. She noticed small damage quickly. She remembered what was supposed to look untouched. She treated a shallow scrape like an unacceptable mark on something she had decided should be preserved.

That was dangerous.

It was also, unfortunately, the reason his life had become somewhat easier.

His appearance earned tips. His appearance made people willing to help. His appearance drew risks, but it also bought small protections in a city where rent, medicine, food, and safety all required some kind of payment.

Cyrus had just finished applying the ointment when he sensed another presence beside him.

Helena had entered without making a sound.

She stood close enough that Cyrus immediately looked up.

Her gaze was not on his face this time.

It was on his hand.

She reached out and took the hand with the bandaged finger, her touch calm and firm.

"How did this happen?"

"A paper cut," Cyrus said. "I was turning a page too fast."

Helena nodded once.

She did not ask another question.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, her other hand moved to his sleeve.

Before Cyrus could decide whether stopping her would make the situation worse, Helena lifted the cuff of his work shirt and pushed the fabric back over his forearm.

The marks underneath were easy to see against his pale skin.

Red bruises had bloomed in several places where he had blocked kicks and punches during the fight after school. Most were not serious. They were the kind of surface bruising that would fade after sleep, especially for his body. He had not expected anyone to notice, much less Helena.

Helena looked at the bruises without speaking.

Cyrus followed her gaze.

"I did not think those were visible."

"You usually roll your sleeves back when you work," Helena said.

Her fingers paused near one bruise, not touching yet.

"It looks better that way."

She did not finish the thought.

Cyrus understood enough.

Rolled sleeves showed his wrists and forearms. Customers noticed hands. Rhea noticed hands. Helena noticed everything and pretended the useful parts were professional observation.

Cyrus nodded slowly.

When Helena picked up the ointment again, he finally spoke.

"I can do it myself."

She ignored him.

A little ointment touched the pad of her finger. Then her hand lowered, and she applied it to the first bruise with a care so measured that it became difficult to reject. The touch was light, but it carried pressure. Not physical pressure. Something quieter.

Last time, when Helena had helped with his face, the treatment had been straightforward enough to frame as practical. This was different.

The bruise sat on his arm. He could see her fingers move over his skin. He could feel the ointment spreading, cool at first, then warmed by the slow motion of her touch. Each place she treated made the contact feel more deliberate, and the fact that she kept her expression lowered only made her harder to read.

Cyrus looked at her bent head.

Helena’s lashes cast shadows over her eyes. Her face remained elegant, composed, and serious enough that questioning her would make him look unreasonable. Her fingertips moved over another mark with the same gentle, patient rhythm.

He could not tell what she wanted.

That was the worst kind of person to deal with.

After she finished his right arm, she checked the left. The moment she saw the marks there, her voice came flat and controlled.

"Did you fight someone?"

"Yes. A classmate was being bullied."

Helena went silent again.

The silence lasted long enough for Cyrus to wonder whether that answer had been a mistake.

Then she continued applying the ointment.

"You are very cold."

"My body temperature has always been low."

Another short exchange. Another silence.

Helena finished the left arm and smoothed his sleeve back down with both hands, restoring the fabric as carefully as she had moved it aside. Only after the cuffs sat properly again did she lift her eyes.

Her gaze caught his directly.

"You lost your memory," she said. "If anything happens next time, contact me right away. I will help you."

Cyrus looked at her.

For a moment, the question why almost reached his mouth.

It did not come out.

He could handle people who were obviously dangerous. He could handle people who wanted something, even when that something was him. He could handle threats, lies, pressure, contracts, and forced kindness, because all of those had shapes.

Sincerity was more difficult.

Helena’s eyes did not look playful. They did not look like Rhea’s when she hid a trap behind a smile, or like Daphne’s when concern and control sat too close together. Helena looked as if she had simply decided that his safety mattered and that he should understand this as a fact.

Cyrus did not know how to respond to that.

He could not see through it.

He could not understand it either.

The two of them returned to the bar without saying more.

Rhea had been waiting outside with an expression of wounded patience, as if Helena had stolen a toy and taken too long giving it back. In reality, Helena had only been gone for a few minutes.

Cyrus did not give Rhea time to tease him.

He began preparing Helena’s coffee and asked, "Did the school event give you any inspiration?"

"Yes," Helena said. "It did."

"School event?" Rhea’s interest shifted immediately.

She looked between them, then settled on Cyrus with a new sharpness.

"Wait. You are still a student? A college student?"

"He is a high school senior," Helena said before Cyrus answered. "A kid connected to the family who helps at the lounge."

The explanation sounded prepared.

Rhea’s expression became complicated.

High school.

She had been losing her composure over a high school senior.

The thought should have made her step back.

Instead, after a brief pause, it made something else in her brighten.

He was young. That explained why so many of her hints had passed without landing. He had not been ignoring her skillfully. He might simply not have understood what she was offering.

That was not discouraging.

That meant preparation mattered.

If she won over a man like this while he was still untouched by too many other people, she could guide him slowly. Teach him what kind of person to trust. Shape his standards before the rest of the world got its hands on him.

Something she raised herself would be safer to keep.

Just thinking about it was enough to make sleep feel optional.

No wonder her earlier flirting had not worked.

He was still a child in certain ways.

Then she would have to be patient and take good care of him.

The flower of the nation, Rhea thought with shameless satisfaction, ought to be protected properly.

Cyrus did not notice the direction of Rhea’s imagination.

Helena held her coffee in both hands and spoke as if giving a quiet warning.

"In a few days, I may need to trouble you again for something related to that inspiration."

"That is fine."

Cyrus nodded.

Rhea was curious, but she did not ask much more. The subject clearly belonged to some private exchange between them, and asking directly would only let Helena control the answer.

The lounge became busier later in the evening.

Cold weather kept casual customers away, but regulars continued to arrive. Among them was the woman who often chose Cyrus’s section. She had not missed a night in some time.

As usual, she ordered the drink she liked and took a seat where she could watch the bar without seeming too obvious. She sat alone, fingers around the glass, observing Cyrus speak in brief turns with Helena and Rhea.

Both women were different, and both were striking.

Helena was refined and cool, the kind of woman who made care feel expensive. Rhea was vivid, dangerous, and confident enough to make attention feel like a hand placed on the back of the neck.

The regular customer knew she could not compare.

That knowledge did not make her look away.

When Cyrus glanced toward her between tasks, he gave her a calm, polite acknowledgment. It was not intimate. It was not warm enough to invite anything. It was still enough that she lowered her eyes to her drink and held the glass a little tighter.

By closing time, Cyrus had returned to his forgettable appearance.

His hair fell lower. His work clothes had been changed out for his school clothes and jacket. The scrape on his face was less obvious without the lounge lighting, and the bandage on his finger hid the cut beneath it.

He left The Full Moon Lounge with an extra bag in hand.

There was food inside.

A night shift with something in his stomach was better than a night shift without it, even if the food came with too many people noticing whether he ate.

The streets of Grayhaven were damp and quiet as he walked home. The harbor air had sharpened with the season, carrying salt and cold through the narrow roads. His steps slowed naturally, loose with fatigue. He yawned once, then adjusted the bag against his side.

Today had contained too much.

School trouble. Faye’s situation. The fight. Helena’s concern. Rhea learning he was still in high school. Work. Injuries. Food. All of it seemed like ordinary life when broken into pieces, yet together it felt like a day that had taken up more space than it deserved.

Still, all of this was preparation for the future.

The future meant Isolde.

Cyrus sighed quietly.

With the glamourkin ring as a possible safeguard, he had trouble imagining exactly how he could be caught and dragged back.

But safeguards were the kind of thing no one should complain about having too many of.

When he reached his apartment building, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and arrived outside his door.

Before he could unlock it, Daphne Whitlock stepped out from the neighboring apartment.

She held a trash bag.

Cyrus looked at it, then at her.

The timing was too precise to be coincidence.

Daphne had probably calculated when he would return. She might even have been watching her security feed, waiting for the right moment to open the door with a harmless excuse.

He had no proof.

It was only a small suspicion.

Daphne looked pleasantly surprised to see him, as if the hallway had arranged this meeting on her behalf. Then she set down the trash bag, returned inside, and came back holding a prepared lunch container.

"For you."

Her eyes held the eager softness of someone waiting to be accepted.

Cyrus took the container.

Instead of going into his apartment immediately, he stood there and looked down at it for a while.

Daphne became confused.

Did he think she had done something to the food?

She would not drug his food. Not yet, at least. That was not the kind of method she wanted to use so early.

Then the thought paused.

Actually, food was a method.

A rather direct one.

Before Daphne could say anything, Cyrus spoke in a troubled voice.

"If I really lose my memory later, what will you do?"

Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

The answer flashed through Daphne before she could stop it.

For a brief instant, happiness almost reached her face.

Then she saw that Cyrus did not look as if he was joking.

Daphne hesitated.

"I would keep taking care of you," she said carefully. "I would make sure you were safe."

"Can I really trust you?"

This time, Daphne could not answer immediately.

The things she had done over the past few days, and perhaps even before that, rose between them with uncomfortable clarity. Coming from her, the word trust did not have much weight right now.

That was a mistake.

She had lost credibility before she needed it.

"Why would you suddenly lose your memory?" Daphne asked.

Cyrus used the answer he had prepared.

"Rare-blood traits are not all good things."

Daphne’s eyes changed.

Regret passed through them, faint but visible.

Cyrus looked at her one last time, then turned and entered his apartment without another word.

The security chain slid into place.

That moment of hesitation in Daphne’s eyes was what he had wanted.

Being a little abnormal did not matter. What mattered was whether she was truly bad. If there was still a place inside her that could be shaken, then she could still be useful.

Cyrus set the food down, took out his diary, and began writing while eating.

Faye’s situation offered him no benefit. Interfering with those girls would not help him stay unnoticed. The fight had already caused trouble, and the aftermath might still produce more. Even so, some things could not be watched silently once seen clearly.

Faye had been dragged into it partly because of him.

That was reason enough.

After recording the day’s events, Cyrus turned back to the beginning and began checking his current memories against the earlier entries.

He had only read the first part when his eyes changed.

Surprise sharpened through his exhaustion.

He had not even gone to sleep yet.

So why had an entire year of memory disappeared?