Grayson hadn't stopped moving all morning, but the knot in his chest refused to loosen.
It had followed him from the night before — tight, coiled, and lodged just under his ribs. Not the adrenaline buzz of the fight, not exactly. This was something different. Something that had started upstairs in Elysium's office, with Kane's hand twisted in his tie and a thumb pressing into the hollow of his throat.
He didn't mean to click the video. Didn't mean to watch it. Two men. One kneeling. One standing over him, voice low. Commanding. Calm. There was nothing romantic about it — it was power, handed over and taken in equal measure. Grayson had felt the heat rush up his spine. Unwanted. Immediate. He shut the laptop before the scene finished.
He told himself it was the job. The stress. It didn't mean anything. Just tension. That was all. A physiological response to being jacked up on adrenaline and violence and command. It would pass. But by morning, the feeling hadn't left. And neither had the knot.
*******************
The day dragged. Errands came and went — laundry, groceries, a lie told to Holly about some made-up shift. She tried to get him to stop long enough to eat, but he brushed her off with a muttered excuse. She gave him that look — the one that said she knew he was lying, and that she'd wait for the truth to come out on its own.
He didn't stop moving until the sky began to grey again, and even then, the pressure under his ribs hadn't let up. If anything, it had sharpened — the restless edge in his body twisting into something closer to anticipation.
Kane had told him to come to him tonight.
Not asked. Told.
And Grayson didn't doubt for a second that showing up late wasn't an option. He could still hear the way Kane had said it — low, calm, final. The kind of voice that didn't need to raise itself to hold weight. That same voice had been in his head all day, threading through every quiet moment like smoke under a door. It filled the space behind his eyes, pulled at his pulse like a leash.
Grayson had told himself all day that it was just another shift. Just another night in a city where most people didn't care what you did as long as you kept out of their way. But walking through Elysium's back entrance that evening, the hum of the club before opening hit him different. The air smelled faintly of cleaner and perfume — that strange mix of sanitised decadence — and under it was the low throb of bass from the sound system warming up. The walls seemed to breathe in time with it.
Jax was waiting for him, clipboard in hand. No hello, no small talk. "Upstairs," he said.
Grayson frowned. "Am I on service well tonight?"
"You are," Jax replied, already turning away. "But Kane wants a word first."
There was no point asking why.
He made his way up the side stairs, past the tinted glass windows and into the quiet hall that led to Kane's office. The door was half-open. Inside, Kane sat behind a desk, his pale eyes tracked Grayson as he stepped in, then flicked to the empty chair in front of the desk.
"Sit," Kane said.
Grayson did, the leather cool under him.
"You came," Kane said.
"You told me to come."
"I did," Kane murmured, his gaze deliberate. "And here you are. Dripping with obedience."
Before he could respond, the door opened behind him. He half-turned as Connor stepped in and behind him, a man in plain clothes but with the bearing of someone who carried a badge.
Detective. Briarwick PD.
Connor closed the door with a soft click and took up position by the wall. The detective's gaze flicked from Kane to Grayson, curiosity in the arch of one brow.
"This a bad time?" the cop asked, though his tone said he didn't care if it was.
Kane gestured lazily to the empty space at the end of the desk. "Take a seat."
The detective stepped forward, all casual posture and quiet calculation. "We've had an incident."
"I hear that happens in your line of work," Kane said, voice low and even.
The cop's jaw twitched. "East Quarter. Four nights ago. Man dead in the street." His gaze flicked briefly to Grayson before coming back to Kane. "Thing is, before we could secure the scene… the body was gone."
Kane poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter at his elbow. The ice clinked softly in the glass. "Sounds like sloppy police work."
"Or someone cleaning up fast," the detective said.
Kane's pale eyes didn't waver. "If you came here to accuse me, you'll have to do better than that."
Grayson shifted in his chair, the leather creaking under him. His ribs gave a faint ache, like the memory wanted to surface through muscle and bone. Kane didn't look at him, but Grayson felt the weight of his awareness.
The detective's voice dropped a notch. "We had a tip. Said they saw a man fitting the description of one of your new hires leaving the area. Said he looked… agitated."
Grayson's stomach tightened. He kept his eyes forward.
Kane swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "You're reaching."
"Maybe. Maybe not." The cop leaned on the desk, just enough to make it a challenge. "But the streets talk, Kane. And when they say a man vanished in the rain without leaving a trace, I think about the people who could make that happen."
"Do you," Kane murmured, taking a slow drink.
The detective straightened. "I think about whether you've gotten careless."
Kane's glass hit the desk with a soft, deliberate sound. He stood, not quickly, but with the kind of controlled movement that made the room feel smaller. "Careless isn't in my vocabulary."
The silence stretched. Grayson's pulse thudded in his ears.
Kane's gaze cut to him then, brief but sharp, before settling back on the detective. "You said the body's gone. Which means you have nothing. No case. No suspect."
"Not yet."
"That's all you'll ever have," Kane said.
The detective's mouth curved, but not a smile. "We'll see."
For a moment, no one moved. Then Kane reached down, slid open the top drawer of his desk, and pulled out a matte-black pistol fitted with a suppressor. The cop's eyes widened a fraction — not enough to be fear, but enough to be surprise.
Kane didn't raise his voice. "You've been in my city a long time. You know how it works."
The detective's hands twitched, maybe in reflex. Kane's shot was quiet, almost delicate. The man jerked once, then crumpled to the carpet.
Grayson's breath caught. He hadn't moved, hadn't even leaned back, but his fingers had curled into fists against his thighs.
Connor was already crossing the room, closing the blinds, locking the door. He didn't look at the body. Just bent, hooked his hands under the man's arms, and started dragging.
Kane sat again, setting the gun down on the desk like it was nothing more than a pen. He poured another drink, the splash of amber loud in the quiet.
When Connor was gone, Kane leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His eyes were pale and cold and fixed on Grayson.
"There's nothing that happens in this city I don't already know about," Kane said. "If a man dies, I know who put him down. If a body disappears, I know who carried it. And if someone thinks they can walk away from me…" His mouth curved, slow and cruel. "…they learn there's no such thing as a way."
Grayson swallowed, the knot in his chest tightening. He didn't speak.
Kane's gaze dropped to his hands. "You've got blood in you, Hale. I can smell it. But what matters is whether you use it for me… or waste it."
The room felt heavier. Grayson's skin prickled, the air too thick.
"If you ever want out," Kane said softly, "there isn't one."
He sat back, picking up his drink again. "Now get downstairs. You've got work to do."
Grayson stood, legs stiff, and left without looking back. But as he reached the door, Kane's voice followed him.
"Remember, Hale…" Kane's voice followed him, smooth and cold. "I'm the one who decides how your story ends."
********************
Grayson made it to the bar without remembering the walk down to the bar. His hands moved on instinct — glass, ice, pour, garnish — but his head wasn't in it.
Every time he blinked, he saw the cop's body hitting the carpet. Heard the soft thud of it. Smelled the faint gunpowder under the expensive cologne that hung in Kane's office.
Tessa caught it first. She was quick like that — quick with her hands, quicker with her eyes. She leaned in when she dropped off another ticket.
"You okay?" she asked, voice pitched low so the customers wouldn't hear.
"I'm fine," he said, which was exactly what people said when they weren't.
"You're not on form." Her gaze flicked to the coupe glass he'd just set down, the garnish off by a breath, the pour heavier than it should be. "That's not like you."
He forced a shrug. "Long day."
She didn't buy it, but she moved on.
The night crawled. Every sound felt sharper, like the club was breathing too close to his ear. He couldn't shake the sense of being watched, and not just by the patrons.
And then Kane was there. He didn't approach like a customer. He leaned against the end of the bar, one hand flat on the polished wood, pale eyes tracking Grayson's every movement. It was like being pinned without a hand on him.
"Something on your mind?" Kane asked, voice low, smooth.
Grayson's grip on the shaker tightened. "Not really."
Kane's gaze dipped to his hands, then back to his face. "You're distracted."
"I'm working."
"You're sloppy," Kane said, the words cutting without raising his voice.
Something in Grayson snapped. He set the shaker down harder than he meant to, tugged at the knot of his tie, and pulled it free. It landed on the bar between them with a sharp flick of fabric.
"I'm taking five," he said, already moving toward the back.
The staff hallway was cooler, quieter. He stepped out the side door into the alley, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag. The smoke steadied him, but not enough. His ribs still ached. His head was still full of Kane's voice and the sight of that body on the carpet.
The door clicked open behind him. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Kane joined him in the narrow strip of space between the club and the next building, the glow from the security light cutting a sharp line across his face. He didn't say anything for a moment, just watched the smoke curl from Grayson's lips.
"I know what you did," Kane said finally.
Grayson turned his head, met his gaze. "It was self-defence."
Kane didn't flinch. "Doesn't matter. You put a man down. And in this city, that means something."
"It means I was trying not to get killed," Grayson snapped.
"It means," Kane said, stepping closer, voice low and certain, "you're in my debt now. And I always collect."
Grayson frowned. "That's not how this works."
Kane's mouth curved faintly, though there was nothing soft in it. "You think because no one's knocking on your door, it's gone? You think it disappears just because you want it to?" He shook his head slowly. "That man you dropped… he wasn't a nobody. And the only reason you're standing here smoking a cigarette instead of rotting in a cell is because I decided you should be."
Grayson's pulse kicked hard. "Why?"
"Because you're useful." Kane's voice didn't rise, but it seemed to fill the alley all the same. "Because you're exactly the kind of man I can use. And because now, whether you admit it or not, you're mine."
Grayson's cigarette burned low between his fingers. He took another drag anyway, letting the smoke hang in the air between them. "And if I say I'm not?"
Kane stepped in until there was barely space to breathe. His eyes were pale and unblinking, his voice almost quiet enough to be mistaken for something intimate.
"Then I'll remind you," he said, "that in Briarwick, an out doesn't exist. You either work with me… or you disappear like the man you killed."
For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the faint hum of the security light and the distant bass from inside.
Kane glanced at the cigarette in Grayson's hand, then back at his face. "Finish that and get back inside. You've still got a shift to work."
Then he turned, leaving the air colder in his wake.