Chapter 13
Iwake hollowed out, scraped raw from the inside, with sunlight warming my puffy, swollen face.
Slowly, the memory of last night floods back. My breakdown, the sounds I made, and the tears I couldn’t stop. Embarrassment heats my neck as I grind the heels of my palms over my burning eyelids.
The sheet slides across my bare skin as I roll to check the time and find it’s past ten in the morning. I never sleep this late on weekdays, and my pulse leaps. Did Lena get up for school on time? I didn’t check her homework.
My muscles protest as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the soreness in my lower back a physical reminder of everything I surrendered.
I shuffle to the bathroom, avoiding my reflection until I’ve splashed cold water on my heated skin three times. When I lift my head, a puffy-eyed stranger stares back at me, lips chapped and swollen, hair sticking up in tufts.
I touch my throat where bruises bloom in the shape of Rowan’s mouth above the cheap nape guard, now mangled as if it’s been fed through a crimper.
After I brush my teeth, I shuffle out to the closet and pull one of my high-collared shirts from the hanger and find a clean pair of sweats to put on.
Dressing hurts as every movement pulls at muscles I didn’t realize could ache.
The soft cotton catches on my skin, still tacky from dried sweat we didn’t wash off.
When I enter the kitchen, Lena sits perched on a stool at the island, her school uniform crisp and her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
I gape at her, then at the spread of food before her.
It looks as if it belongs in a magazine, with fresh fruit arranged in spirals, pancakes stacked in perfect towers, bacon laid out in rows, and pastries from a bakery, not a box.
“Well, well,” she says, fork paused halfway to her mouth. “You finally decided to join the living.”
I grunt in response, beelining for the gleaming coffee pot on the counter. “Why aren’t you at school?”
“Late start,” she reminds me with a note of amusement that scrapes over my raw nerves. “Rowan said you needed rest and not to wake you.”
The mug is heavy in my hand as I pour, black liquid steaming into blue ceramic. “Where is he?”
“In the office upstairs.” She points to the iron staircase that leads to the floating platform as she studies me over the rim of her orange juice glass. “Have you been crying? Your eyes are all puffy.”
The coffee burns my tongue as I drink. “Mind your own business.”
“Sorry for caring.” She puffs her cheeks at me before returning to her pancake, cutting it into neat triangles. “You’re extra grumpy today.”
Before I can respond, footsteps sound on the stairs, and Rowan appears, hair still damp from a shower, wearing a button-down shirt that molds to his broad chest. His scent reaches me first, clean soap and pheromones triggering memories of last night.
Heat floods my body, clashing with embarrassment.
He crosses to me without hesitation, his hand finding my hip in a casual claim as his lips brush my temple, warm breath tickling my ear. “You should have slept longer. You wore yourself out.”
I step back, putting space between us. “I’m fine.”
His fingers trail along my arm as I move away, not willing to let go.
Lena stares at us with undisguised interest, her fork abandoned beside her plate. “You guys are so cute. I’ve never seen my brother let anyone touch him like that.”
I narrow my stare at her. “Shouldn’t you be leaving? Even if you catch the bus now, you’re going to be late.”
She shrugs, popping a grape into her mouth. “Rowan arranged a car service. It should be here in fifteen minutes.”
The mug almost slips from my fingers. “A car service.”
“It’s safer.” Rowan reaches around me to grab his own coffee, his chest brushing my back, and I fight the urge to lean into his warmth. “Especially with everything that’s happened recently.”
Lena hops off her stool, gathering her backpack from the floor. “I’m going to finish getting ready. Thanks for breakfast, Rowan.”
She disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with the Alpha and the ridiculous breakfast spread. The scent of maple syrup mixes with coffee, so sweet it sticks in my throat.
“You’re spoiling her,” I mutter once she’s out of earshot.
Rowan circles the island and pulls out a stool. “Sit down and eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
His hand catches my wrist, tugging me forward with gentle insistence. “Sit.”
I comply, but my spine remains rigid as I perch on the edge of the stool. Rowan doesn’t return to his seat. Instead, he moves behind me, hands settling on my shoulders. His thumbs dig into the knots at the base of my neck, and a traitorous sigh escapes me.
“Let me spoil you, too,” he whispers, his lips close to my ear.
Before I can respond, he reaches across the island for an untouched plate. He cuts a piece of pancake, dips it in maple syrup, and holds it to my lips.
“I’m not a baby. If I’m not hungry, I’m not hungry,” I protest right as my stomach growls, betraying me.
“Come on, humor me.” He wafts the bite of pancake beneath my nose. “Lena told me these were your favorite, but you never waste money on empty carbs.”
My stomach lets out another loud growl, and I relent, opening my mouth. The sweet warmth melts on my tongue.
Rowan nuzzles behind my ear. “Good boy.”
“I will gut you like a fish,” I say before I open to accept the next bite he brings to my lips.
A pleased rumble comes from him as he slides a piece of bacon onto my plate.
“You’re thinking about finding new work, aren’t you?” he asks with a casualness that sets me on edge. “Lena mentioned you lost the diner job.”
My hand freezes over the bacon. “I’ve still got my locksmith jobs.”
“Which pay well but are irregular.” He takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. “The police showing up twice might hinder finding steady employment.”
The bacon crunches between my teeth as I consider his words. He’s right, though I hate to admit it. My reputation has always been built on discretion and reliability. Police attention changes that calculation for potential clients.
“I might know someone who needs a locksmith on retainer.” Rowan pours more maple syrup onto the pancakes, the golden liquid pooling in the center. “Cash-heavy. Discreet. Regular hours so you can work around Lena’s schedule.”
It sounds too good to be true.
“What kind of locksmith work?” I keep my tone neutral, though my pulse picks up.
If I find a better job than the diner, one with hours giving me more time with Lena, maybe I can move us out of our shitty apartment and into somewhere safer.
“Security consultation, for the most part. Installation of specialized systems.” He cuts the pancake into bite-sized squares. “The owner of the Blue Note Lounge needs someone who understands both traditional locks and digital systems.”
I push my plate away, appetite gone. “And you just happen to know the owner.”
His mouth curves into a smile. “I’m the owner.”
Fuck. Not only a great apartment, a reliable car, a lawyer on retainer, but a business owner, too?
“Get dressed,” he says, rising from his stool before I can argue. “I’ll show you the place after Lena leaves for school.”
Forty minutes later, we pull up to a building that doesn’t match the name. No neon signs, no line of people waiting to enter. Just a three-story brick structure with tasteful exterior lighting and unmarked doors. Morning sunlight catches on brass fixtures gleaming against the weathered brick.
“Most people think we only open at night,” Rowan explains as he parks in a reserved spot behind the building. “But there’s business conducted during daylight hours, too.”
My fingers tingle with anticipation as we approach a steel door with no visible handle. Rowan holds his palm over a scanner disguised as a decorative panel, and the door clicks open.
The front room welcomes us inside with polished wood floors and dim lighting, even with no customers present. A long bar stretches along one wall, bottles arranged by height and color behind it. Leather booths line the opposite wall, positioned to form pockets of privacy without blind spots.
My skin prickles as I catalog each lock, each camera, and each keypad we pass. Standard commercial grade at the public entrances, increasing in sophistication as we move deeper into the building.
“The public never goes past the first room,” Rowan explains, leading me through a door marked ‘Private’ that requires both a key card and a numeric code. “The real business happens back here.”
The back rooms transition from polished wood to industrial concrete, and I reach out to trace the edge of a door frame reinforced with metal plates, the hinges oiled but showing wear patterns that suggest frequent use.
The room we enter appears to be some kind of changing room, with metal lockers lining one wall and an industrial sink tucked in next to a corner shower.
“You’re in early.”
I turn as a man rises from a table off to the side, tucking a phone into his pocket.
His black hair falls in tousled waves, and a thin white scar traces his jawline.
When his dark eyes lock onto mine, they assess me in seconds.
His T-shirt stretches across his shoulders and does nothing to hide the scars on his arms as he straightens, his presence filling the space with unmistakable Alpha energy.
“Saint.” Rowan’s hand settles on my shoulder. “This is Ash. The locksmith I mentioned.”
Saint’s stare returns to me. “He doesn’t fit the usual profile of your hires.”
“That’s the point.” Rowan’s hand slips down to settle at the small of my back. “He knows security systems better than anyone in Ashford Heights.”
Saint strides forward, his movements fluid with the control of a predator. He stops close enough for me to catch a whiff of his pheromones, along with another layer of pheromones, also Alpha.
“I brought him to meet Ghost,” Rowan continues. “Where’s he hiding?”
Saint jerks his chin toward a door at the end of the hallway. “He’s doing inventory.”