Grayson leads me down the street toward a car parked beneath a broken streetlamp, its sleek, predatory lines glinting under the light. Not what I expected—a black Maserati Levante Trofeo, its growl audible even before he unlocks it.
The doors unlock with a soft chirp. He opens the passenger side for me, his gaze sweeping the street like he's already anticipating pursuit.
I slide inside. The leather is smooth, butter-soft, the scent sharp and clean. The console glows faintly, polished chrome and deep wood trim catching the light. Everything about it whispers money, power, precision.
He slips behind the wheel, one hand steady on the leather grip. The engine roars to life, low and smooth, like something alive.
As the city lights blur past the tinted windows, the silence between us hums with more weight than I can carry.
Finally, I find my voice, quiet and raw. "Where are we going?"
He doesn't take his eyes off the road. "Somewhere safe. My coven's place."
The words settle like stone in my chest.
Safe. Maybe. And still, beneath the fear, the ache in me throbs—a traitor pulse that swells the longer I sit pressed close to him, my body refusing to learn what my mind already knows about danger. But nothing about this night feels safe anymore.
The Maserati devours the streets, engine a low growl that vibrates through the leather seat into my bones. Neon blurs past—bars, shuttered storefronts, the glow of traffic lights stretching across wet pavement. He drives like he owns the road, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loose but alert on the gearshift.
I keep glancing at him, the sharp lines of his jaw washed gold in the streetlamps. He doesn't look at me, not once, his eyes fixed forward, pupils dilated against the dark. The silence isn't awkward—it's suffocating, like the car itself holds its breath.
We leave the city center behind, trading neon for industrial sprawl. Warehouses line the road, their windows blacked out, fences bristling with barbed wire. My pulse quickens.
"Grayson…" My voice is small. "Where exactly are we going?"
His grip tightens on the wheel, just barely. "You'll see."
The Levante turns down a narrow side street, almost invisible, swallowed by shadow. At the end of it looms a building that looks abandoned from the outside—brick weathered, windows boarded, graffiti scrawled across its walls. But as the car glides to a stop, the illusion cracks. Subtle lights glow along the eaves. The heavy steel door at the center is pristine, new, reinforced.
He kills the engine, the sudden silence making my ears ring. He gets out without a word and comes around to open my door, offering his hand. My legs are unsteady as I take it.
The steel door swings open before we even reach it. A man stands there, tall, shoulders broad, eyes catching the dim light with an unnatural gleam. He looks me over once, expression unreadable, before stepping aside with a curt nod.
Stepping inside knocks the breath out of me—the ruin outside dissolves into polished stone and vaulted ceilings, a sanctuary that hums like it's alive. The weight of it presses against my chest, as if the house itself already knows what I am and how badly I don't belong here.
The scent hits me next—candlewax, smoke, and something metallic threaded with spice. Voices echo faintly from deeper inside, low and measured, as if carrying secrets down the corridors.
I grip His arm before I realize I've moved, nails digging lightly into his sleeve. He glances down at me, not unkindly.
"It's alright. No one here will hurt you."
The words should soothe. They don't.
He guides me through the main hall, past shadowed alcoves and flickering lanterns. The deeper we go, the heavier the air feels, like the walls themselves are watching. A pair of figures move in the distance—pale faces, sharp eyes glinting with recognition as they bow their heads to Grayson.
I shiver. His coven.
Finally, he leads me into a room set apart from the others—a lounge, if you could call it that. Leather chairs arranged around a low table, shelves stacked with ancient books, and a fire crackling in the stone hearth.
"Sit," he says, voice low, but there's no edge this time. Only a kind of tired gravity.
I lower myself into one of the chairs, my body thrumming with nerves, eyes darting around the room. It feels like the kind of place where promises are made—and broken—in blood.
He remains standing, one hand braced on the back of the chair across from me, his gaze still sharp from the bar.
"Whoever that man was," he says slowly, "he knew you. And he wanted you to know it. Which means your past isn't finished with you."
My stomach knots, my pulse uneven.
The fire crackles, shadows stretching long and sharp across the stone walls. I sit perched on the edge of the leather chair, hands clasped tight in my lap, but no matter how I try to steady them, they tremble.
He notices. Of course he does.
He crosses to a cabinet in the corner, sleek wood polished to a soft shine. When he pulls open the door, rows of glass decanters glow faintly in the light. He pours something amber into a crystal tumbler, the sharp scent threading through the air like fire waiting for a match. When he sets it in front of me, his voice is quiet, steady.
"Drink."
My throat is dry. I grab the glass without hesitation and toss it back in one swallow. The whiskey burns like fire, scorching all the way down, heat blooming in my chest.
"Slow down," he warns, his voice low, but I'm already setting the empty glass back down, my hand trembling so badly it clinks against the table.
"Another," I rasp, my voice shaking as much as my hands.
His eyes narrow. "That's not how this works."
"I need it," I snap, harsher than I mean. My whole body trembles—legs, hands, even the pulse fluttering in my throat. Fear buzzes through me, relentless, raw.
"Please, Grayson. Just—just one more."
For a long moment, he says nothing. He just watches me, arms folded, gaze sharp enough to cut through the light.
"You're shaking because you're scared," he says finally, quiet, measured. "Not because you need another drink."
I squeeze my fists tight, trying to stop the trembling. It only makes it worse.
His gaze softens, but only a fraction. "If you drown it, you'll never face it. And you need to face it."
The words sting because I know he's right. But all I can think about is that stranger's voice wrapping around my name, like a chain yanked tight after six years of running.
He holds my stare for what feels like an eternity, the fire crackling between us. His jaw flexes, the muscle ticking like he's fighting himself. Finally, with a low curse under his breath, he pushes off the chair and stalks back to the cabinet.
The clink of glass echoes as he pours. He returns, setting another tumbler in front of me. His hand lingers on the rim for a heartbeat, like he might change his mind, then he lets go.
"Fine," he says, voice low and edged. "But this is the last one."
I grab it before he can rethink, lifting it fast, desperate. The whiskey burns hotter this time, scraping down my throat like fire, but I don't stop until the glass is empty.
The warmth hits quicker than I expect. My pulse pounds in my ears, not with panic this time but with heat, heavy and slow. When I set the glass down, my hand still trembles—but not from fear. More like the room has shifted slightly beneath me, the edges of things softer, less sharp.
He settles into the chair across from me, arms folded, watching. The silence stretches, heavy as stone.
I lean back, the leather cool against my skin, and close my eyes for a moment. The fire's crackle feels louder now, each pop echoing deep in my chest. When I blink them open again, my vision blurs at the edges, like the room itself is swaying just slightly.
The fear hasn't vanished, but it's wrapped in cotton now, dulled by the warmth spreading through my veins. My thoughts slur together, stumbling over themselves before they even form.
God, I feel stupid. Weak. But at least I don't feel like I'm going to crawl out of my own skin.
And beneath that—beneath everything else—I notice something different. The bond's pull, the ache that always coils low when he's near, has quieted. It's still there, like a shadow waiting to pounce, but muffled, muted. The alcohol smothers it, lets me breathe without that constant thrum of wanting.
My body sinks deeper into the chair, legs heavy, lips parting on a shaky laugh that doesn't quite make sense.
"Better," I mumble, surprised to hear how thick my voice sounds. "A little."
He tilts his head, studying me with eyes that catch the light, sharp even now.
"You're drunk," he says evenly.
"I'm fine," I counter, though the words feel clumsy on my tongue. My fingers toy with the empty glass like maybe, if I hold it long enough, it'll refill itself.
He leans forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. "That's not fine, Cassidy."
But I ignore the warning in his tone, focusing instead on how the room hums around me, how the tension in my chest has finally, mercifully loosened. For the first time tonight, I'm not trembling. For the first time in days, I'm not aching.
Just drifting.
My legs feel like they might give out, but I push myself up from the chair, each movement a deliberate act of will. My hand drifts toward the cabinet before I even think about it. The empty glass feels heavy, mocking, and I need that warmth again—the only thing holding me together right now.
"Cassidy." his voice is sharp, warning. He's already rising as I pour, amber liquid catching light in the tumbler.
"That's enough."
"Don't," I snap, my words clumsy, blurred by the whiskey already in me. "Don't tell me what I can handle."
His jaw tightens, but when I lift the glass to my lips, he doesn't take it from me. He only watches, gaze burning, as I drain it fast, the fire searing down my throat.
I cough, the heat blooming wider, heavier, flooding every inch of me until my head feels cotton-thick, limbs too light and too heavy at once.
"You shouldn't be able to drink like that," he mutters, more to himself than to me. He leans back, studying me with that unreadable expression.
"Our alcohol—it's stronger. Needs to be, for us to feel anything at all. One glass of this would drop most humans on the floor."
I laugh, a messy, breathless sound. "Guess I'm not most humans then."
But the laugh crumbles fast, replaced by a lump rising in my throat. My vision blurs—not just from the drink, but from the tears burning hot behind my eyes.
"That man," I whisper, staring into the empty glass. "The one at the bar. He… he's from my past. I don't know him. But he said my name. My old name. Fiona."
He doesn't move, doesn't interrupt. He just watches, listening, the light catching in his eyes like molten gold.
I swallow hard, my words tumbling out, ragged and uneven. "My last real relationship—it was six years ago. I thought it was love. Thought it was safe, steady. And it was, at first."
I laugh again, bitter this time. "But then it wasn't. It became… controlling. He started cutting me off from my friends, my family. Said it was for us, for our future. I believed him."
The room tilts. My fingers dig into the leather armrest just to ground myself, but it's not enough. I stumble forward—only to be caught by strong, steady hands.
"I didn't know at first, but he was living a double life."
His arms wrap around me, a solid, immovable anchor in the spinning room. He pulls me onto his lap, cradling me against the coolness of his chest, his presence pushing back the chaos.
"The lies piled up—late nights, trips he wouldn't explain, stacks of cash, bruised knuckles, blood on his shirts. I kept telling myself it wasn't what it looked like." My chest tightens, the memory pressing hard against my ribs.
"I found out the truth when I followed him into the back of his bar. He'd dragged this kid in there, trembling. And he…" My voice cracks. "He beat him. Over money. And I stayed. I stayed, even then, because part of me was afraid. And part of me—God help me—loved the danger."
The words taste like ash, but more keep spilling. My throat feels scraped raw, every word dragged out of me like it doesn't want to leave.
"The final straw…" My hands knot in my lap, shaking, slick with sweat. My vision blurs, not just from the whiskey but from tears I can't blink away.
"It was a man who disrespected me. Just—just a stranger mouthing off, nothing serious."
I choke on a breath, stomach twisting as the memory slams into me, vivid and brutal. The sound—the wet crack of it—the way the man's body hit the floor. The smell of copper in the air.
"But my ex…" The words stumble out, broken. "He killed him. Right in front of me."
My chest caves, like the air has been punched from my lungs.
"I can still see it," I whisper, my voice ragged. "The way he looked at me afterward, like it was proof of love. Like murder was some kind of gift."
The glass slips from my hand, thunking softly onto the rug. I press my palms to my face, but it doesn't stop the sob that tears through me, raw and ugly.
"That's when I ran," I force out, the words shuddering. "No goodbye. No explanations. Changed my name, buried my old life. Became Cassidy. But someone out there remembers. Someone knows Fi. And if they know her… they know him."
The room tilts, and I sway against him, but his hold tightens, keeping me steady on his lap. He's close enough that I can feel the weight of his presence, his silence wrapping around me like a vice. His grip anchors me, but his stillness—his razor-sharp focus—is louder than anything I've said.
The fire crackles, filling the silence I've left behind. My chest heaves, breaths uneven, and I can't bring myself to look up. My palms are damp against my face, the taste of whiskey sharp on my tongue, tears hot and sticky on my skin.
Then—quietly—he speaks.
"You didn't deserve that."
His voice isn't the usual hard edge, all command and certainty. It's softer, low, like he's measuring every word before letting it go.
My hands drop, just enough to glimpse him through blurred lashes. He hasn't moved away—his arms are still wrapped around me, grounding me as I sit on his lap. His hazel eyes, usually so sharp, carry something gentler now, something that makes my chest ache in a new way.
"You loved him," he says, not accusing, not mocking—just stating it, simple as breathing. "And he twisted that love into chains. That wasn't your fault."
The words cut deep, too close to the hollow place inside me I've tried to keep buried. My throat tightens, another sob threatening.
"But I stayed. I—"
"You survived," he interrupts, firm but quiet. "That's what matters."
The room tilts again, though I don't know if it's the alcohol or the weight of his gaze. His thumb shifts slightly, brushing the fabric of my sleeve—an almost imperceptible gesture, but it steadies me more than the whiskey ever could.
He tips his own glass, the amber liquid catching light as he takes a slow, measured sip. The crystal looks almost delicate in his hand, though nothing about him ever is. He drinks like a man tasting, not needing—like he's in control of every drop, every breath.
He leans closer, not crowding, not demanding—just enough so his presence fills the space between us. "Whatever your past was, it doesn't own you anymore. Not while I'm here."
The words settle heavy in the pit of my stomach, bruising with truth, and for a moment, I almost believe him. The fire crackles and the silence shudders between us, and underneath my fear, something else stirs—an ache that feels like it might rip me open if I don't let it out.
As I stare into his eyes, the ache that had been dulled by the whiskey starts to throb again, a slow, insistent beat that pulses through my veins. It's different this time—deeper, darker, twining with the possessive heat radiating from his body.
The silence stretches, the fire snapping softly in the hearth. I'm dizzy with it, with him, with the need throbbing low in my core. His arms tighten around me, and I feel the echo of his claim in every fiber of my being. The possessiveness should scare me, should make me want to run—but instead, it sends a lick of heat up my spine, a warmth that spreads through my belly and pools low.
For a rare, fragile moment, I feel almost steady beneath his gaze. Then it's gone, sharpness sliding back in, the warmth cooling into steel like a door slamming shut. His hand slips from my waist, curling into a fist against his knee.
"Whoever that man was," he says, voice low but unyielding, "he wanted you to remember. He wanted you afraid. That means he isn't finished."
A shiver rolls down my spine, the whiskey's warmth no match for the cold edge of his words.
He leans back slightly, but his presence doesn't ease. It fills the room, a storm building behind his calm.
"If he's tied to your ex, then he's dangerous. And if he's dangerous, he's mine to deal with."
My stomach flips. "Grayson—"
"You've carried this alone long enough," he cuts in, his gaze locking with mine, steady and relentless. "No more running. Not from him. Not from your past."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My pulse hammers too hard, my head swimming with whiskey and fear and something else—something hot and sharp that coils low at his certainty.
My breath catches. His gaze drops to my mouth, and the air between us crackles with tension. The ache is a live wire now, humming, pulsing, tugging me closer to him with every shuddering breath.
His hand slides up my back, tangling in my hair, and he pulls me closer, his lips a breath from mine.
"Cassidy," he murmurs, my name a question, a warning, an invitation all in one.
He stands, his hand sliding into mine, tugging me gently to my feet.
"Come on," he says, voice rough with promise and protectiveness. "You're staying with me tonight. In my room. Where I know you'll be safe."
I nod, letting him lead me out of the lounge and deeper into the heart of the coven's place, the ache in me pulsing with every step, whispering that safety might just be another word for surrender.