The bar is a welcome distraction from the chaos in my head. The steady hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low thrum of the music—it all helps drown out the thoughts I'm not ready to face. I'm in the middle of mixing a drink when the door swings open, and my heart skips a beat.
Grayson steps in, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. He's wearing a black leather jacket, a dark gray shirt underneath, and black jeans with chains hanging from the belt loops. He looks like sin and temptation wrapped up in one, and I can feel the ache that's been pulsing in me for the last hour flare to life.
His eyes find mine instantly, like he could sense me from across the room. He weaves through the crowd, his movements graceful, almost predatory. When he reaches the bar, he leans in, his voice low and meant only for me.
"When do you get off?" The words are innocent, but there's a knowing glint in his eye, like he can see right through me. Like he knows exactly what I did with David, exactly how I tried to lose myself in him.
I glance at my phone, my heart hammering. "Ten minutes."
His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile, and the ache in me spikes, hot and insistent.
"I'm taking you to the coven tonight," he says, his voice soft but firm. "No one was seen at your apartment last night, but I want to be safe."
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him I'm fine, that I don't need his protection, but the words die on my tongue. Because the truth is, I'm not fine. And the thought of going back to my empty apartment, of facing the shadows alone...it's too much.
So I just nod, my heart in my throat. Grayson's smile widens, and for a moment, I'm dazzled by it, by him.
The drive is wordless. The city rushes past in streaks of neon and shadow, but inside the car it feels suspended, airless. My mind claws between two poles—David's laughter in the sunlight, the sweetness still lingering on my lips, and Grayson beside me now, his presence so overpowering it drowns everything else out.
Being close to him blurs everything. David fades at the edges, becomes soft, distant, like a dream I woke up from too soon. Grayson is the gravity in the car, steady hands on the wheel, jaw tight, his profile carved from focus and control. Each stolen glance at him pulls me deeper, unsteadying me in a way David never could—and part of me hates it, even as the ache in me flares, betraying exactly what my body remembers.
By the time the Maserati turns down a narrow side street, swallowed by shadow, my decision-making feels less like my own and more like inevitability. The "abandoned" facade of the coven's building looms ahead, boarded windows and graffiti that don't fool me anymore. Beneath the decay lies the truth: polished stone, vaulted halls, power humming through every detail.
Grayson kills the engine, the sudden silence making my pulse throb louder in my ears. He gets out, circling around to open my door. The simple gesture shouldn't make my knees weak, but it does. I place my hand in his and he helps me out, his grip cool and sure, the tether between us pulling so tight I can hardly breathe.
The steel door swings open before we reach it, a vampire guard's eyes glowing faintly as he steps aside with a respectful nod to Grayson. And just like that, I'm inside again—back within the weight of stone walls and secrets, back inside the heartbeat of a life I swore I wouldn't belong to.
But with Grayson's hand still warm at the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the lion's den, I can't tell if I'm walking toward danger… or toward home.
The steel door closes behind us with a weighty thud, sealing off the city, the normal world, everything. Inside, the atmosphere shifts instantly—stone walls climbing high, lanterns casting a glow that feels softer than fire yet older somehow. The air hums with recognition, thick with power.
As we step into the main hall, movement stirs along the edges. Vampires scattered in shadow—men and women, pale-faced, sharp-eyed—begin to turn. One by one, they bow their heads. Not hurried, not reluctant. Deliberate. Unshaken. Each bow drops like a stone into silence, rippling outward until the entire corridor bends to Grayson's presence.
But it isn't just him.
Their gazes flicker toward me—assessing, curious, sharp as blades—and then their heads dip again, lower than before, as though the tether he's claimed has already moved through me, too. The reception is subtle, yet undeniable. They bow not only to their leader, but to the bond. To us.
It jolts through me, unsettling. My throat tightens as my pulse speeds, but Grayson's hand steadies me at the small of my back, grounding and guiding as if he expected my knees might falter. He leads me past the main hall and down a quieter, more private corridor that leads toward his personal chambers.
Just as the suffocating formality begins to feel unbearable, we pass an intersecting hallway. A familiar figure leans against the far wall, watching us approach. Angel.
Her eyes meet mine over the distance. The respectful posture she held melts away in an instant, replaced by a warm, genuine smile. She lifts her hand, giving a small, almost secret wave meant only for me.
The simple gesture cuts through the tension, a flicker of warmth in the cold, ancient stone. For a second, I remember our conversation in the kitchen, her kindness. A tiny, hesitant smile touches my own lips before I can stop it, and I give a barely-there nod in return. It's a moment of connection that feels both like a lifeline and a final nail in the coffin of my old life.
Grayson's thumb strokes once over the fabric of my shirt at my back. He saw it. He doesn't say a word, but I can feel the quiet satisfaction rolling off him as he guides me the final few feet to a set of heavy, dark wood doors.
He pushes one open, the scent of him—rain on iron, old books, and something uniquely him—spilling out into the hall. He gestures for me to enter, his eyes holding mine, dark and possessive. Stepping over the threshold feels like a surrender.
The doors swing shut behind us with a muted thud that echoes through the room. The sound feels final, like a latch thrown on whatever freedom I thought I still had.
Grayson doesn't move away at first. He lingers just behind me, his hand still at the small of my back, radiating coolness and control.
My eyes sweep the room automatically: the polished stone floors, the high arch of the ceiling, the flicker of light casting gold across velvet and iron. Everything in here is him. Not just his presence, but his essence, pressed into the walls.
And then there's me, standing in the center like I've been pulled here, not walked. Like some tether between us guided my steps.
I grip the strap of my bag tighter.
"You don't have to bring me here every time," I murmur, half plea, half challenge.
He moves then, circling in front of me, his hazel eyes catching the light.
"And I told you, Cassidy…" His voice is low, soft but unyielding. "You're not safe out there."
The fight in me rises—sharp, reckless, almost a reflex. My pulse flares against the inside of my skin, a drumbeat of protest. I want to tell him I'm not his responsibility. I want to tell him I'm not his anything.
But the words get tangled in the air between us. Because standing here, with the echoes of those bows still fresh in my mind, I can feel it—the bond he keeps talking about, the ache that refuses to die. It's in the walls, in my veins, in the way my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
And yet, beneath the pull, the defiance is still there.
I draw a shaky breath, forcing my chin up. "You think this bond gives you the right to make my choices for me. It doesn't."
For a heartbeat, something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Or respect. Then it's gone, replaced by that same cool control, but his eyes stay on mine, steady, searching.
He steps closer, but slower this time. No looming, no cornering.
"Maybe not," he says quietly. "But it does mean I won't let you walk into danger while I stand by and watch."
The room hums between us, heavy with everything unsaid—my defiance, his restraint, the bond threading like an invisible wire through every word. The ache pulses low and steady, relentless as a heartbeat. It gnaws at me, sharp and merciless, a torment that never fully recedes—but at the same time, it soothes in its familiarity, a dark comfort I've almost grown to rely on. It quiets the silence inside me even as it carves me raw. Living with it is like learning to breathe smoke; it hurts, it consumes, but without it, I'm not sure I'd know how to breathe at all.
Before I can decide if I want to push him further or just collapse into the weight of his words, a sharp knock rattles the heavy doors.
Grayson's jaw tightens.
"Enter," he calls, voice clipped.
The door creaks open and a tall male vampire steps inside, shoulders squared but head slightly bowed in deference. His eyes flick to me briefly—curious, assessing—before settling on Grayson. He murmurs something low, too quiet for me to catch, the syllables carrying that same precise edge I've heard from the coven before.
Grayson's gaze narrows, then without another word he turns and strides across the room. He pulls open a drawer in his desk, retrieves a thick stack of papers bound neatly together, and sets them firmly into the vampire's waiting hands. Whatever this is, it seems practiced, efficient—like he was already prepared.
The vampire nods once, sharp and respectful. "Sir."
Grayson returns the nod, dismissing him with the barest flick of his hand. The man vanishes as quietly as he appeared, the heavy door shutting behind him and leaving only the crackle of the fire between us.
Grayson doesn't linger at the desk. He turns back to me at once, as though I'd been his focus the whole time, his eyes fixed and unyielding.
And that's when it hits—harder, sharper. The ache I've been trying to smother all night pulses heavy and hot, crashing into me like a wave. It coils low in my belly, tightening until it feels impossible to stand still beneath the weight of it.
He doesn't need to say a word; the bond thrums in the space between us, alive, demanding.
"Where were we?" he asks softly, but the gravity in his voice makes my pulse stutter. It's not casual. Not a question at all.
The ache flares again, traitorous, my body betraying me as his attention pins me in place.
Grayson's gaze bores into me, a silent order. Heat pools low in my belly, my skin prickling with awareness. He steps closer, his presence a tangible weight.
"So this is just sex?" His voice is low, almost dangerous. "I can make this about just sex then, if that's how you feel."