The city had a way of breathing down your neck. Even on a day off, Briarwick didn't really stop, the slow hum of traffic rolling over wet asphalt, the far-off honk of impatient horns, the clink of bottles at a corner stand. The air smelled faintly of rain and fried onions, heavy with a kind of restless energy.
Grayson leaned against a rusting lamppost at the edge of the Saturday market, cigarette balanced lazily between his fingers. His gaze roamed past a gaudy spread of scarves and trinkets to where Holly was locked in a mock-standoff with a vintage jacket vendor. Her weight shifted onto one hip, hands planted with easy authority, chin tilted up like she owned not just this stretch of street, but the man's next three pay checks. She was in her element here — haggling, teasing, letting the crowd carry her from stall to stall. Sunlight caught in the waves of her hair when she finally turned, a small leather jacket draped triumphantly over one shoulder.
"Twenty off," she said, grin sharp as a blade.
Grayson exhaled smoke and smirked. "You could talk a nun out of her rosary."
"Keep flattering me," she said, looping her arm through his without hesitation, "and you might get lucky. Now come on — lunch is on you."
They moved through the market shoulder-to-shoulder, the crowd breaking around them. The air was thick with frying oil and cinnamon sugar, voices overlapping in a dozen accents. Holly lingered over everything — a necklace she let pool through her fingers like water, a stack of dusty records she flipped through slowly, a bar of lavender soap she held up to her nose. He kept his hands in his pockets, watching her with that quiet, steady kind of hunger.
Lunch came from a food cart — lamb wraps dripping juices down their wrists, eaten standing against a graffiti-tagged wall. They took the long route back, winding through quieter streets that smelled of damp brick and stale beer. Somewhere along the way, Holly slid her hand into the crook of his arm again and left it there. It was easy with her. Easier than anything had been lately.
Which was probably why, when she said, "We should get a drink later," he didn't even think to give his usual maybe.
******************
The first bar was narrow and dim, the kind of place where the jukebox was older than the bartender. They played pool until she was laughing into her drink, hips against the table as she leaned in to line up a shot. She won twice and let him buy the next round without gloating — much.
The second bar was warmer, low amber light dripping over them. Music pulsed quietly under the murmur of voices. They talked slower here, her knees brushing his under the table, her fingertips absently toying with the lip of her glass.
By the third bar, they'd stopped pretending. She slid into the booth beside him instead of across, her bare thigh pressed against his. The glow from the streetlamps outside striped her skin gold. Her perfume curled in the air between them, something sweet undercut with smoke.
"So," she said, whiskey glass hovering near her mouth, "what's he like?"
Grayson's eyes narrowed slightly. "Who?"
"Kane Blackwell." She watched him over the rim of her drink. "You've been working for him what — a couple days? You're… different."
"It's just a job."
"Bullshit." Her voice softened but didn't lose its edge. "You've got that wound-up look. And I know it's not me putting it there."
He didn't answer. The silence stretched, heavy enough to make her look away first.
They finished their drinks without hurry, but something had shifted. When they stepped out into the night, the air was cool and damp, the streets shining under the glow of streetlamps.
Holly walked close, her coat brushing his arm. At the next corner, her hand found his, fingers curling tight. She didn't say anything, and neither did he, but his mind wasn't quiet. Kane's voice echoed faintly, threaded into the rhythm of their footsteps.
The walk back was a slow burn. She stopped once under the neon buzz of a late-night florist to pull him toward her for a quick, daring kiss, her smile curling against his mouth before she pulled away again.
"You're quiet tonight," she said.
He smirked faintly. "Not used to being interrogated over whiskey."
She laughed, but it was low, knowing. The sound curled low in his gut.
By the time they reached his building, the silence between them wasn't comfortable anymore, it was charged, heavy, alive with everything unsaid.
The lock clicked, the door swung shut and Holly shoved him into it, her mouth already on his.
She kissed like she'd been starving for it all night, biting his lip, dragging her nails up under his shirt. He groaned into her mouth as her hips ground against him, her skirt riding up to give him flashes of bare thigh.
"Couldn't wait?" he rasped, his hand sliding between her legs, fingers brushing over the heat he found there.
"Didn't want to," she breathed, catching his mouth again.
He spun her, pressing her into the wall, his thigh between hers. His mouth worked down her neck, sucking until her skin marked. She gasped when his fingers tugged her panties to the side, sliding between her slick folds without warning.
"Fuck" he murmured against her throat.
"Do something about it," she said, smirking.
Then, that flicker.
Cold eyes.
Kane's voice, steady and certain: You're mine.
Grayson's jaw tightened. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so he could kiss her harder, teeth and tongue. She moaned into it.
He stepped back just long enough for her to drop to her knees. "Let me," she said, eyes flashing.
She freed him from his jeans, licking her lips before wrapping them around him. The first slow, wet stroke of her tongue had his head tipping back, a curse slipping from his mouth.
"Take it all," he ordered, looking down at her. She obeyed, swallowing him until her nose brushed his stomach. He held her there, his hand heavy on the back of her head. She gagged, throat tightening around him.
"That's it. Stay there." His hips rolled, using her mouth in slow, deep thrusts. Spit ran down her chin, wetting her chest. He dragged her off just to see her gasp for air, then shoved her back down, fucking her mouth harder.
She moaned around him, hands gripping his thighs for balance. He smirked down at her. "That's it… good girl."
When he let her breathe, her lips were swollen, wet, eyes shining. He slapped his cock lightly against her tongue. "Open. Show me." She obeyed, sticking it out, and he tapped it against her again before shoving back into her mouth.
Grayson's hips moved with more force. She choked around him, her hands clutching his thighs. His free hand cupped her jaw, thumb pressing into the corner of her mouth. "Hold it—" he growled, keeping her there for a beat before letting her pull back, gasping, her lips swollen and wet.
He hauled her up, kissing her hard, tasting herself on his tongue, and half-walked, half-dragged her toward the bedroom.
Clothes fell in a trail. He pushed her face-first onto the bed, yanking her panties down. His hand landed hard on her ass, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
She gasped, looking over her shoulder. "Again."
He smacked her harder, then gripped her hips, lining himself up before slamming into her with one deep, brutal stroke.
"Fuck!" she cried, hands fisting in the sheets.
He set a relentless pace, his hand tangling in her hair to yank her back onto him.
Kane's face flashed again, saying it in her voice: Mine.
Grayson's thrusts turned punishing. He reached around, rubbing her clit hard. She whimpered, bucking against him.
"You don't come until I say," he growled, feeling her tense around him.
She panted, holding back until he finally hissed, "Now." She broke instantly, coming hard, legs trembling, clenching around him.
He pulled out suddenly, flipped her onto her back. "Not done."
He climbed over her, pressing the head of his cock against her lips. "Clean me up."
She took him into her mouth again, licking herself off him without hesitation. He groaned, holding her hair out of her face so he could watch every inch disappear between her lips.
When she let him go, he pushed back inside her, this time with her on top. "Ride me."
She rolled her hips slow, dragging him deep with each movement. His hands gripped her ass, guiding her rhythm harder. "Faster," he demanded, and she obeyed, bouncing on him until his control snapped.
He flipped her again, pinning her flat to the bed, pounding into her with one hand locked around her throat.
Her moans turned ragged. "Gray—"
"Come on my cock," he growled, and she came again, nails clawing at the sheets.
He shoved deep, spilling inside her with a low, rough groan, holding her there until the last pulse faded.
******************
Holly fell asleep within minutes, sprawled and flushed.
Grayson didn't.
He lay still for a while, watching the slow rise and fall of her back, her breath soft and even. His own was still shallow. Every nerve felt scoured raw, not from the sex, but from the dissonance curling in his chest.
This should've quieted things. Should've drowned the noise. It hadn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Kane. Not just Kane's face — but his control. His voice, steady and quiet. The blade against his throat. The words that still clawed under his ribs: You're already kneeling — you just haven't looked down yet.
His skin prickled with a sick kind of heat. What the fuck was wrong with him?
He slipped out of bed silently, pulling on his jeans. The sheets clung to his skin, sweat still cooling on his back. In the half-dark, he padded to the kitchen and lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, the smoke curling into the ceiling.
His hands were still tingling, not from Holly's skin, but from the memory of Kane's. The way Kane's voice had rasped low behind him. The steel at his throat. The goddamn envelope.
Grayson took a drag like it might settle him, but it didn't. He could still feel the pressure of Kane's fingers where they hadn't even touched, like his body was betraying him by keeping the memory alive.
A sound behind him.
Holly.
She leaned in the doorway, barefoot, wrapped in one of his shirts. Her hair was tangled and her eyes sleep-heavy, but sharp enough to clock the cigarette, the stare, the quiet coil of tension in his body.
"You good?" she asked, voice rough from sleep — and maybe more than sleep.
Grayson nodded. Lied. "Just couldn't sleep."
She came closer, winding her arms around his waist from behind, her cheek pressing between his shoulder blades. "You didn't seem distracted earlier."
He exhaled a laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe I was trying to prove something."
Holly stilled behind him. "To who?"
He didn't answer. Because he didn't know. Not really. Or maybe he did and just couldn't admit it. Not yet.
He didn't want to belong to anyone. But apart of him — the worst part — already liked how it felt.
******************
The meeting room still smelled faintly of smoke and expensive liquor, though Kane hadn't touched either tonight. The air was heavy with old velvet and silence, lit only by the low hum of recessed lighting and the pulse of the city beyond the window.
Kane sat at the head of the long, dark table, sleeves rolled, jacket folded over the back of his chair, wristwatch catching the light like a blade. His posture was relaxed, but in the way a coiled wire is relaxed.
Connor stood just left of centre, paper in hand, voice clipped and low. "Uniforms hit the east lot just after two. Went straight for the container — didn't sweep the yard, didn't check the fence. Walked in like they had GPS coordinates."
Kane flipped a page in the folder in front of him without looking up. "Not a guess, then."
"Not even close," Connor said. "They were told."
Jax, pacing at the far end of the table, barked a sharp exhale. "Could've been a local. One of the barflies down the block—"
"No," Kane said, voice flat. He finally looked up. "They didn't find crates. They didn't find weapons. They found the body." His gaze cut through the room like a scalpel. "You don't stumble into a corpse like that. Somebody pointed."
Connor's jaw tightened. "Jack Marlowe's place is two streets over. Half the uniforms drink there, and he's been in our pocket since the Westbury job. But—" he hesitated, just for a breath. "He's been quieter lately. Been… keeping his head down."
"Too far down," Kane murmured.
Jax frowned. "You think Marlowe flipped?"
"I think," Kane said, leaning back in his chair, "that fear only works if a man still believes you're watching. And Jack?" He drummed a finger once, lightly, on the folder. "Jack's been feeling unobserved."
The room went still.
Connor crossed his arms. "You want me to lean on him?"
Kane's smile was thin, precise. "I want to know who he's been talking to. Who's been paying him better, or promising him things I didn't. And if his mouth's been moving—" He closed the folder with a soft snap. "—make sure it doesn't again."
Neither man asked for clarification.
"I'll get Hale on the job."
Connor scoffed. "He won't clean up."
"He'll do what he's told." Kane stood, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with clean, efficient movements. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't threaten. He didn't need to.
In Briarwick, there were whispers about who really ran the city. No one said Kane Blackwell's name out loud — not in places with ears. But when the lights dimmed or the wrong car idled too long outside a storefront, people knew. People remembered. Kane didn't have to chase loyalty. He bought it. Owned it. Broke it. Whatever worked. And sometimes, when it stopped working he buried it.