Chereads / Narrow Escape [The Trilogy] / Chapter 106 - Chapter106

Chapter 106 - Chapter106

Deborah's POV

"Look at their eyes," Barron murmured, grabbing my sleeve and motioning discreetly. "Golden, aren't they?"

I followed his gaze and saw them—tall, broad-shouldered men walking slowly down the street, their golden eyes gleaming even in the muted daylight. Despite their efforts to keep their heads down and avoid attention, they still stood out. Their clothing, thin and mismatched, seemed poorly suited to Macha's crisp chill, only adding to their conspicuousness. They moved with a quiet strength, their muscles taut and their steps purposeful.

"Werewolves," I confirmed silently, though my focus quickly shifted to another group nearby.

These figures blended into the crowd more effectively, their silvery eyes less striking than the golden ones but no less noticeable. They were leaner than the werewolves, their frames wiry and efficient, like marathon runners built for endurance. Their movements exuded a quiet persistence, a tireless energy that suggested they could endure forever.

The two groups maintained a careful distance from each other, as if they knew better than to attract attention by clustering together. It was a calculated strategy, but not one that would hold up under prolonged scrutiny.

"They're hovering outside that restaurant," Barron said, nodding toward a modest building with frosted windows. I spotted the werewolves and silver-eyed individuals lingering near the entrance, their gazes darting toward the food inside. None of them crossed the threshold, though. They seemed hesitant, as if unsure of their welcome—or perhaps unable to pay.

"They don't have currency," I realized aloud. "Or ID cards. Without either, they can't get far in Macha. The longer they linger, the more likely they are to draw attention from the patrols."

"They've probably gone without food for days," Barron said, his voice low, touched with an edge of concern.

"We can't just approach them directly," I reminded him, keeping my tone calm. "Macha's security is tighter than ever. Their presence here is too risky. If we act recklessly, we'll only draw more attention."

Barron frowned, his frustration evident. "So, what? We do nothing? They need help, Deborah. The silver-eyes too. We can't just sit here."

"Do you have a plan?" I asked, meeting his gaze.

His lips curved into a mischievous grin, his eyes glinting with that familiar spark of trouble. "Of course I do. Deb, you should know by now—I don't have many talents, but I do have money."

I couldn't help but laugh softly. "Oh, please. You Thorne boys are always bragging, but the Edwards family isn't exactly struggling either."

He didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he pulled the car over and stepped out, his movements quick and deliberate. "Just watch," he said over his shoulder. "You're going to love this."

The restaurant's interior was warm and lively, the air filled with the rich scents of coffee and freshly baked pastries. A band played a cheerful melody in the corner, their music blending seamlessly with the low murmur of conversation. The soft glow of wooden chandeliers gave the space a cozy charm, and nearly every table was occupied.

Barron, of course, wasted no time making a spectacle of himself.

"Everyone, listen up!" he called out, his voice cutting through the gentle hum of the restaurant. The music faltered, and heads turned in unison, all eyes locking onto him. Even the waitstaff froze mid-motion, their trays suspended in disbelief.

I stared at him, mortified. "What are you doing?" I hissed under my breath.

He ignored me entirely, stepping forward with exaggerated confidence. "I'm thrilled to announce that the lovely lady beside me—" he gestured dramatically in my direction, his grin devilish— "has agreed to be my girlfriend!"

The room erupted into murmurs and scattered applause. Some patrons glanced at me with expressions of curiosity or amusement, while others seemed more focused on the prospect of free entertainment. Barron, ever the showman, wasn't finished.

"To celebrate this joyous occasion," he continued, "I've decided to rent out this entire restaurant for the day!"

My jaw dropped. "Are you out of your mind?" I whispered furiously.

He gave me a sly wink, lowering his voice just enough for only me to hear. "Trust me. This is going to work."

Barron turned back to the crowd, his tone bright and jovial. "Don't worry—I'm not kicking anyone out! In fact, I'll cover everyone's tab. Eat, drink, and celebrate with us!"

His announcement was met with cheers and a few whistles of approval. The band picked up their instruments again, launching into a livelier tune, and the atmosphere quickly shifted from surprise to celebration.

I shot him a glare. "This is insane."

He smirked, his voice low. "It's genius."

Then, with a theatrical flourish, he stepped outside the restaurant and called out to the gathering crowd. "Come on in! Everything's on me today! Let's make it a day to remember!"

The golden-eyed werewolves and their silver-eyed companions hesitated at the edge of the growing throng. Their postures were stiff with suspicion, their gazes wary. I raised a hand in an open gesture, my tone light but firm. "Come on. Don't be shy—it's a celebration."

After a tense pause, they exchanged glances and slowly made their way toward the entrance.

Inside, the werewolves remained cautious, taking seats in the corner and keeping their heads low. Their silver-eyed allies followed suit, their movements deliberate and guarded. I approached one of the werewolves, sliding into the seat across from him.

"I know what you are," I said softly.

His golden eyes narrowed, his body tensing. He didn't speak, but his posture screamed vigilance.

"I'm from Tirfothuinn," I said again, my tone calm but firm, allowing the weight of the words to settle between us. "How are things back there?"

The mention of Tirfothuinn visibly struck a nerve. His posture stiffened slightly, and though his lips remained tightly pressed together, his gaze sharpened. He didn't speak, but the way his eyes searched mine told me he was processing my words, trying to decide if I could be trusted.

I met his gaze steadily, refusing to falter. "I'm Deborah Wellspring," I added, leaning forward slightly. "Matthew Wellspring's sister. I know you've heard of him."

At the mention of Matthew's name, something shifted. His expression didn't soften, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction. His guarded demeanor remained intact, yet the faintest flicker of recognition passed through his eyes. It wasn't trust, not yet, but there was a sense that he was listening now—considering.

He stayed silent, still watching me intently, and I could feel the hesitation in the air. I didn't push further. Instead, I held his gaze, letting my words speak for themselves. Sometimes, silence carried more power than any explanation ever could.

At that, his expression flickered—relief, recognition, and the faintest trace of hope.