Chapter 10 The Present
The moment we turn onto the Candy Maker's street, it’s immediately obvious that we’re in way over our heads.
The entire block is swarming with police.
And this isn’t some routine patrol or a couple of cruisers idling on the curb.
No. This is an active crime scene. Yellow tape slices across the lawn like a barricade, and uniformed officers move in sharp, efficient lines, snapping photographs, bagging evidence, talking into radios.
A few stand in clusters, their faces drawn, their notepads filling fast. A black SUV sits at the curb, its engine humming low, the emblem of the Major Crimes Unit stamped on the side.
I exhale, part groan, part bitter laugh. “Of course it can’t be easy.”
Cassian pulls over three houses down, tucking us behind an overgrown hedge. He cuts the engine and grips the steering wheel, jaw tense as his eyes track the movement up ahead.
“It never is,” he mutters under his breath. “But this… this is worse than I expected.”
“My God,” I whisper, stomach twisting. “There’s no way we can get inside now. They’ll spot us the moment I step onto the porch.” I tap my finger against my knee, mind racing. “How the hell did they get here so fast? Did you guys leave something behind? A trail? Did they track us?”
“No,” he answers without hesitation. “We were thorough. The house was cleaned, the body’s gone, the weapon’s destroyed. They’re not here because of us. That much I’m sure of.”
I blink at him, struggling to piece it together. “Then why—?”
He gestures toward Laura Collins’ house, his voice tight.
“They must’ve opened up her case. Someone tipped them off about her crimes.
They got a warrant, went inside, and found her stash in the basement.
Once that happened, protocol kicked in. Full sweep.
They’ll collect every shred of evidence.
This kind of operation can take days. And with what she had hidden down there, I guarantee forensics is already crawling all over it.
They’re probably combing through every inch right now. ”
My stomach twists into a cold, heavy knot.
If forensics is tearing that house apart piece by piece, how long before they find something, anything, that ties back to us? Even the smallest mistake, a hair, a fiber, a single drop of blood, one partial DNA sample, and it’s over.
And that’s not even the worst part.
My mind flashes to the crash site just a few blocks from here—the broken glass, the blood, the witnesses who saw three men fight for their lives in the middle of the night.
The security cameras on nearby porches. The traffic cams at the intersections.
If the police start connecting those pieces, Laura’s house, the crash, the strange abandoned car, they’ll have a trail leading straight to us.
And once they have a trail, they won’t stop pulling.
The panic builds in my chest, sharp and hot.
Cassian’s eyes flick over to me, reading my thoughts.
“We were careful,” he says. “Nathaniel knows what he’s doing when it comes to cleaning up traces.”
“But the car,” I say, my voice tight. “What about the car?”
“Most likely, it’s already been moved,” he replies. “The medics would’ve logged it as abandoned since there were no patients on scene. No victims to transport. Without anyone there, it doesn’t raise flags.”
I shake my head, the words barely helping. “Even with the blood inside?”
Cassian nods.
“Even with the blood. Look, this is how it works. An accident like that happens. Medics show up. No bodies, no victims, nothing to transport. Once they confirm there’s no immediate medical emergency, they hand it off to the police.
But if there’s no registered owner on-site or any clear connection to a crime, it’s just logged as an abandoned vehicle. ”
He gestures lightly toward the street, as if walking me through it.
“The police run a basic check for liability: they look for stolen property, check the VIN to see if it’s reported stolen, and search for outstanding warrants connected to the vehicle.
If the car’s clean, which ours was: no plates, nothing traceable, completely unregistered—they have no name to attach to it. ”
I exhale slowly, trying to take it all in.
“After that,” he goes on, “the city calls a tow service. The car gets impounded or, if it’s badly damaged and unclaimed, processed for junk or auction depending on the backlog.
That can take weeks, sometimes months, before anyone even opens it again.
And unless there’s already an open investigation tied to that specific car, they won’t start forensic testing on abandoned vehicles.
The blood? Sure, they’d log it as suspicious.
But without DNA on file, no witnesses, and no missing persons report, it leads nowhere. They have to prioritize active cases.”
I look at him for a moment. It’s not the first time I’m struck by how much he knows about these kinds of processes. I suppose he should, being a literal criminalist. He knows exactly which laws he’s breaking. But still, it’s impressive.
And weirdly, it calms me down.
He might be a bad fucking man, but at least he’s a bad man who knows his shit.
It would just be nice, though, if he, and the others, used that knowledge before everything goes to hell, not after.
“Sounds simpler than it should be, honestly,” I murmur.
Cassian allows himself a small, grim smile. “Yeah, well. There are gaps in the system. There’s no guarantee, but our best bet right now is to hope the police see it as just another hit-and-run or a stolen car dumped after a joyride. If so, they won’t connect it to us.”
I glance nervously back at the crime scene. “And if they don’t?”
“Well,” he says, steel entering his voice, “then we better be faster than them.”
I lean back in my seat, heart still pounding, and press my fingers to my temples. The scene outside isn’t calming down. It’s escalating. A second black SUV pulls up behind the first, and two more officers step out. One of them carries a box labeled EVIDENCE COLLECTION UNIT in bold letters.
“But how? We can’t exactly wait for them to pack up and leave.”
Cassian’s jaw tightens as he scans the block again, weighing our options. “We’ll have to improvise.”
I arch a brow. “Improvise?”
“Can you turn invisible?” he asks. “Blink inside the same way you blinked us into the ambulance?”
Oh, great. So this is where we’re going with this.
“What do you think?” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You really want to gamble on my unstable powers? Back then, I didn’t even have full control. I was overloaded, scared… my powers just reacted. It’s not like I can snap my fingers and disappear on command.”
Cassian’s gaze sharpens. The corner of his mouth lifts, but there’s no humor in it.
“Well,” he says, voice low, “aren’t you stronger now? After fucking Talon?”
The bluntness of it hits me like a slap. I shift in my seat, heat blooming in my chest. It's part embarrassment, part… something darker.
“Stronger, maybe,” I admit, forcing my voice steady. “But that doesn’t mean I can control it. If I mess up, I could blink myself straight into a wall. Or worse, half inside one.”
His eyes narrow. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He lets go of the wheel without hesitation.
His hand slides onto my thigh. The size of his palm engulfs my kneecap easily, his thumb grazing the inside of my leg.
My breath catches. Everything inside me pulls tight, hyperaware of his touch, of his proximity, of the heat radiating off his body.
“Because I’m going to make you stronger,” he says, voice rougher now. “Stronger than he did.”
Um… what?
I blink at him, lips parting, heart hammering against my ribs. For a second, it feels like the world narrows to just this car, just him, just me.
Did I hear him right just now?
I can’t help but think: This isn’t my reality. This is some alternate version of my life. One where I’m some fugitive, a supernatural creature feeding off sex, with this dangerous man beside me. He's closed-off, massive, and suddenly willing to push me past every boundary I thought I had.
“I’ll charge you up,” he says.
My whole body goes rigid.
“You mean…” I trail off, because I already know what he means. I just want to hear him say it. To watch him admit it out loud so I can really believe it.
He admits it. Just not with a confession.
“Slide your seat back, so you have more space in front of you,” he tells me, doing the same on his side.
Instantly, I start wondering how much this beast of a car costs, because the amount of space Cassian gains looks almost obscene.
He leans back, knees spread, like he owns the entire damn car, and me, by extension.
I swallow hard.
“You’re serious?” I whisper.
“I very often am, Skye,” he says.
The air between us thickens. I could almost believe the world outside doesn’t exist: the cops, the crime scene, the danger. It all fades beneath the weight of his stare.
“But here?” I murmur. “With cops outside?”
“Better here than not at all,” he says simply, his hand sliding a fraction higher up my thigh. “They won’t see. The windows are tinted, and they’re too busy processing the house.”
He unbuckles smoothly, his movements sharp and efficient. There’s no hesitation. No uncertainty. He leans across the console.
“Why are you making that face?” he asks.
I have no idea what kind of face I’m making, so I can’t answer.
My mind is too busy trying to string together at least one coherent thought.
Because, I mean… I never expected Cassian to want to touch me.
I know he’s doing this to help me get my powers back, but still…
this is so unlike him. It’s the first time I’ve seen this side of him.
Then again, what did Talon say?
Cassian would worship me.