"How was your night?" Sasha asks as I round the bar.
"It was really good." I smile to myself, David flickering through my thoughts first—his laugh, his warmth. But the smile falters when Grayson's shadow slips in after him, uninvited.
My mind reels, a chaotic swirl of faces and orders as I slosh beer into waiting glasses. Every clink, every shouted request, every burst of laughter grates against the dizzy hum in my skull. The sticky film on the counter, the syrupy tang of stale ale—it all presses in, relentless, dragging me under.
I move like a machine, muscle memory on autopilot, but behind my eyes, thoughts skid like a runaway train. Grayson lingers in the scent still clinging to me—metallic, sharp, threaded with a sweetness I can't shake. His touch clings like a secret, cool and insistent, even as I paste on a smile for the next customer sliding onto a stool.
"I actually went on a date with David—we went to Salazar's," I murmur, taking the glass from her hand and pouring beer into it.
Sasha shoots me a knowing grin from further down the bar, her eyes sparkling with relentless curiosity. "You look like you didn't sleep a wink."
I laugh it off, though the sound rings hollow even to me. "Just a long night."
The lie sits heavy, because everything about last night was exciting—terrifying, intoxicating, a thrill that still makes my pulse race when I remember it. Grayson. His name hums through me, pulling at that invisible tether I can't ignore. But then there's David—warm, safe, the promise of something simple. A life without shadows and fangs. But then there's David—warm, safe, the promise of something normal. A life without shadows and fangs.
The tug begins low and insistent. He's awake.
I shudder, the glass trembling between my fingers, slick with condensation as though it too senses the storm pressing against my skin. The air feels thick, charged, and I swear the shadows curl closer, eager to swallow me whole. One wrong move, one breath too loud, and the illusion of safety will shatter.
The door swings open just as the sun drops past the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and black. A man slips inside—unassuming at first, dark coat, sharp features half-hidden beneath a low-brimmed hat. He takes a seat at the far end of the bar and orders a whiskey neat without ever meeting my eyes. But as I pour, I feel it: his gaze, heavy and unwavering, locked on me like I'm the only thing in the room. My skin prickles—a chill racing down my spine. Who is he?
His stare drags up a memory I thought I buried six years ago, still sharp as glass. The way his stare hooks into me drags up a memory I swore I'd buried—six years gone, and still sharp as glass.
A different bar, a different man. My ex's laugh booming from behind the counter, all charm and swagger, right up until I saw him drag a trembling kid into the back room. I followed, stupid with love, thinking I'd help.
But the sound I heard wasn't help. It was fists. Pleading. A choked gasp. And his voice—cold, flat, promising the boy that next time he wouldn't walk out if he didn't pay.
When he came back out, his shirt was spattered, his hands raw. He caught me staring, and instead of shame, he smiled.
"Don't look at me like that, Fi. This is how I keep you safe. You don't want every lowlife in the city thinking you're unprotected, do you?"
That was the moment I knew—safety with him meant being owned, claimed, used as his human warning sign. And when the wrong people tried to collect on debts with me as their leverage, I ran. Left the city without a goodbye, cut my number, my name, all of it.
Now, the weight of the stranger's gaze feels too close to that night. Different face, same chill in my spine. Why does he feel... familiar, in a way that sets my nerves on edge?
I shake it off, focusing on the rhythm of the bar—mixing drinks, chatting with regulars, anything to keep my mind from wandering back to Grayson or the way David's texts from this morning made me smile despite everything. He's sweet, planning our next date already, talking about a quiet picnic in the park. Normal. Easy. The kind of life I've craved for years. But as the minutes tick by, that stranger's stare bores into me, making my hands unsteady. Is he one of them? A rogue, like the one from the alley? Or something worse?
Sasha nudges me, breaking the spell. "Earth to Cass. You've got a visitor."
She nods toward the door, her grin widening.
My heart stutters as David walks in, looking effortlessly put-together in a casual button-down and jeans, his smile lighting up the dim space. He spots me immediately, weaving through the crowd with that easy confidence.
"Hey," he says, leaning over the bar to press a quick kiss to my cheek. "Thought I'd surprise you. Miss me already?"
I force a laugh, glancing back at the stranger—who's still watching, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, definitely. What'll it be? On the house."
He orders a beer, settling onto a stool nearby, chatting about his day like it's the most natural thing in the world. And it should be. This is what I want—a guy who shows up just because, who makes me feel grounded. But my mind keeps drifting to that shadowed corner, to the man whose eyes haven't left me once.
David talks about a funny story from work, his hand brushing mine, warm and reassuring. I nod, smile, lean in but the ache sparks anyway, liquid heat curling low in my stomach, drumming between my legs with that same relentless hunger Grayson always stirs just by being awake. It's intrusive, unwanted, and it makes David's steady warmth feel almost too fragile in my hands.
As the night drags on, the stranger doesn't move, his whiskey untouched. My pulse races every time our eyes meet accidentally, a silent warning thrumming through me.
David notices my distraction eventually, tilting his head with a concerned frown. "You okay? You seem... elsewhere."
"I'm fine," I lie, stealing another glance at the corner. "Just busy."
But I'm not fine. I'm balancing on a knife's edge, seeing both men in secret, chasing normalcy with David while the bond with Grayson presses against me like a weight I can't shrug off. Grayson knows—I've felt it in his touches, that quiet acceptance laced with a possessiveness I never asked for. He doesn't mind, not yet. But as the stranger's stare intensifies, I wonder how long this fragile, fractured life can last before it all comes crashing down.
"Alright I better get going," David said, pushing himself away from the bar. "I have a big meeting in the morning."
He brushes a light kiss across my lips. I can't help but smile as he pulls away.
Sasha makes an exaggerated "oooh!" from behind the bar, nearly sloshing rum over the glass.
"Well damn, get a room already," she teases, grinning wide.
"I'll text you," David says with a final smile before turning to leave.
The door swings shut behind him—only to creak open again. A new customer steps inside, and my heart sinks.
Grayson.
He fills the doorway like he owns it, the fitted black t-shirt clinging to his chest, black jeans edged with chains that catch the light. The air bends around him, charged, magnetic—drawing every eye in the room.
And mine, against my will.
Heat curls low in my stomach before I can stop it, that same pull sparking to life the second our eyes meet. I grit my teeth and look away, furious with myself. I don't want this. I don't want him.
But the bond doesn't care what I want.
"What can I get you?" Sasha chimes as Grayson strides toward the bar.
"I want her," he says flatly, pointing straight at me.
Heat floods my cheeks as I glare at him. Of course he'd say it like that.
"Uh, she's not—" Sasha begins, frowning.
"That's not what he meant," I cut in quickly, forcing my voice steady. I meet his eyes, refusing to flinch.
"What can I actually get you, Grayson?"
Sasha saunters away, leaving me with just Grayson and his unrelating gaze.
Grayson doesn't sit right away. He lingers by the bar, too close, hazel eyes flicking toward the door David had just walked out of. His lips curl faintly, not quite a smile.
"Your boyfriend," he says quietly, voice edged with something that makes my stomach knot. "I smelled him the second I walked in."
My throat tightens.
"He's not my boyfriend," I snap, sharper than I intend.
Grayson leans in just enough that only I can hear, his voice low and certain. "Doesn't matter what you call him. He's been close to you. I can still smell him on your skin."
Heat rushes to my cheeks, anger and embarrassment tangling in my chest. "That's none of your business."
"Maybe not," Grayson admits, maddeningly calm. "But the bond doesn't lie. Every time he touches you, I'll know."
I grip the bar, forcing my voice steady. "Then you'd better get used to it."
For the first time, his expression falters—just enough for me to see the flicker of something darker behind his restraint.
My gaze drifts past Grayson, back to the stranger at the far end of the bar—the one who's been watching me all night. His eyes never quite leave me, steady and unnerving, like he's waiting for something.
I lean closer to Grayson, keeping my voice low. "Is he a rogue? He's been here since the sun went down."
Grayson follows my line of sight, his expression unreadable. Then he shakes his head, voice a quiet rumble meant only for me.
"No. He's human."
The word should soothe me. It doesn't. My chest tightens instead, nerves sparking sharp under my skin.
Human. Which means he could be anyone.
My hands fidget against the rag I'm holding, knuckles whitening as I force my breath steady.
"What if he's from my past?" I murmur, more to myself than to him. The thought coils cold in my stomach, dread crawling up the back of my neck.
Grayson doesn't look away from the man at the end of the bar. His voice is low, pitched only for me.
"Do you need to get out of here?"
The question cuts through me, quiet but heavy, like a hand pressed against the back of my neck. My throat tightens. The idea of leaving with him makes my pulse stutter—but staying, under that stranger's stare, feels like waiting for a blade to drop.
My nerves snap taut. Who is he? Every possibility crawls cold through my chest—an old debt collector, someone my ex sent, or worse. The kind of man who doesn't forget.
I force myself to glance at Sasha. She's busy stacking pint glasses at the other end of the counter, humming under her breath, oblivious to the storm coiling in my chest.
I swallow hard, my voice thin. "Sash?"
She looks up, arching a brow at me. "Yeah?"
"Think I can head out a little early? Place is almost dead, and…" I trail off, my hand tightening on the rag until it squeaks against the bar top.
Her gaze flicks over the nearly empty room—three lingering regulars, the stranger nursing his untouched whiskey, and Grayson looming like he belongs in the shadows. She hesitates, but only for a second before grinning.
"Sure. I can handle the stragglers. You've been pulling doubles all week anyway."
Relief floods my chest, sharp and guilty. "Thanks."
Sasha waves me off, already turning back to her glasses. "Go on. I'll close up."
I tug at the hem of my shirt, nerves clawing at me. The stranger hasn't moved, hasn't blinked, and every second his stare digs deeper into my skin. My body hums with the urge to run.
Grayson leans in close enough that his breath ghosts against my temple. "I'll walk you o."
His words are a promise—or maybe a threat. Either way, my legs feel like they might give out if I don't move soon.
The rag slips from my fingers as I reach for my bag under the counter. That's when he moves.
The stranger rises at last, slow and deliberate, leaving his whiskey untouched. His hat tips forward, shadowing his face as he makes his way down the length of the bar. Each step feels heavier than it should, like his boots drag the air itself with them.
My breath hitches. He doesn't stop for Sasha, doesn't even glance at the door. He stops right in front of me.
"Fiona," he says softly.
The sound of my name—my real name, not Cassidy, not Cass—slams into me like ice water. My vision tunnels, heart hammering in my throat.
"How—" My voice cracks.
Grayson is already there, moving like a shadow uncaged. He wedges himself between us, broad shoulders eclipsing the man.
"Back. Off." The growl in his voice is primal, enough to raise goosebumps along my arms.
But the stranger only smiles faintly, like he knows something we don't. His gaze slides past Grayson, pinning me one last time.
"Six years isn't long enough to disappear, little ghost."
My stomach drops. Before Grayson can strike, the man turns. One blink—he's moving toward the door. Another—and he's gone, swallowed by the night outside.
The silence he leaves behind is suffocating. My whole body trembles, nails biting half-moons into my palms.
Grayson turns to me, hazel eyes sharp, unsettled in a way I haven't seen before. His hand finds my elbow, firm but steady.
"We're not staying here. Pack your things—you're coming with me."
I should argue, should tell him no, should cling to normalcy like a lifeline. But after that man's voice, that look, I can't. My body betrays me with a weak nod.