Bonedust

he was looking for. His hands slipped into his pockets, feeling the cool band of silver deep in his pocket, and his fingers closed over it. He could do this. This wasn’t rocket science, this was just…who was he kidding? This was Urban’s scene, not his.
    He pushed past a couple making out and headed for the bar. He hauled himself up on a stool and got change in coins for the zael Urban had given him. He ordered a glass of ice water, which earned him a few snickers. He shot the man beside him a look, then rested his elbows on the counter, watching everyone and everything out of the corner of his eye. His fingers fiddled with the loop of bandage that had come loose from around his wrist.
    Then he saw her. She was smaller than he expected for being a werewolf—somehow, he’d expected tall and flowing, when she was petite, almost delicate. She sat in a booth in the corner, alone, her dusty hair spiked back with gel. Her shoulders were hunched like hackles raised, her hands crossed in front of her and even from his viewpoint at the bar, Gabriel could see the fresh, pink scars lining her arms.
    His heart skipped in his chest. Goddess, he couldn’t do this. This wasn’t him! He took a deep breath and ordered two glasses of hard liquor over ice. With them balanced in his right hand, he wove his way through the dancers to her table, standing next to her for a moment. “Hello there.” His voice came out softer than he was expecting, surprisingly calm.
    She glanced up at him and he was stuck by the wildfires raging in those golden eyes. She was scared and angry and unsettled and anxious. “Hi.” Her voice was low, husky. She eyed him with all the caution of a wild animal as he slid into the seat opposite her. He offered her a glass, dipping his finger in his to swirl the ice around. “I’m not interested.”
    “That’s alright. I guess I just saw you and had to come over.” His mind reeled. She stiffened, frowning at him and he did the first thing he could think of—he touched her scars with the tips of his fingers. “These… Where did you get them, if I may be bold?” Unlike his, carefully hewn into his flesh in intricate patterns, hers were feral, unplanned. He wondered if she’d done them to herself.
    She frowned, pulling her arm away, but taking the glass of liquor with it. She drank it quickly, pressed her eyes shut and then opened them again, as if the murmur of the alcohol made it easier to bear. “Fucking werewolf,” she said, angling her face towards his. “Sliced me up. Teeth and claws.”
    She pulled back, scraping her chair on the floor and lifted up her shirt a little. Her stomach was a mass of scar tissue and Gabriel winced. “Hard to believe I wanted this. I thought it would be different.” She made a noise in her throat, then began to back away.
    “Wait. Please,” Gabriel said, reaching for her again. His hand clasped around her wrist, gentle, light. She paused and he offered a sad smile. He slowly unwrapped the bandage from around that arm, revealing the details of his own scars. Her eyes widened, a breath released as she stared. He looked down at his arm, a canvas for a vampire’s artistic tastes, and shook his head. “Fucking vampire. Thinks he owns me.”
    “Does he?” Her eyes met his, braver now.
    “Not anymore. Never again. I’d rather die.”
    “Me too.”
    “Want another drink?” He sipped at his, winced at the burn, and then downed it. Goddess, he didn’t drink—what was he doing? But he could feel the metal warm against his leg, daring him. He needed her to trust him. Just for a moment, just to let her guard down. Suddenly, he was filled with guilt at what he was planning on doing. For a heartbeat, he considered telling her to run, far away. But he bit back his emotions and smiled at her. She nodded, so he went back to the bar and ordered two more.
    When he came back, she was waiting for him. She took the glasses from his hands, then slowly unwrapped his other arm. Pulling them to her, her fingertips were feather light as they traced each and every damn scar. “What’s your name?” she murmured, eyes trained on his face.
    He swallowed. “Gabriel. You?”
    “It doesn’t matter…” she murmured, then leaned forwards. Using his arms as leverage, she tugged him towards her. Their lips met briefly, gently. Hers were needy, his were uncertain. He pulled away, startled. He’d never kissed a woman before—only Jeremie, only ever Jeremie…
    She leaned