Chapter 21
The Blue Note’s front door swings open on silent hinges, a testament to my own handiwork from weeks ago.
Inside, familiar scents of polished wood, aged whiskey, and the faint trace of smoke that clings to the velvet curtains wrap around me. But beneath it all lies another scent, one I’ve spent the last week trying to scrub from my skin, my clothes, and my memory.
People freeze as I pass, conversations cutting off mid-sentence. Ghost’s polishing cloth pauses on the glass in his hand. Saint and Luca turn on their barstools, their stares tracking me across the room, a mixture of curiosity and caution in their expressions.
I clock in at the terminal behind the bar, punching in my employee number.
“Morning,” I say to no one in particular.
Ghost sets down his glass. “Morning, Ash.”
I turn away. “Thanks.”
I move through the Blue Note, checking locks and cameras with detachment. My black button-down shirt chafes my skin, my dark jeans clean but worn at the knees. No designer labels. Nothing that could be mistaken for a gift.
The black leather at my neck isn’t Rowan’s gift anymore, but a cheap replacement I bought the day after walking out. The clinic-grade guard chafes my skin in a way I’ve forced myself to appreciate. Pain keeps you alert. Keeps you from forgetting.
The security hub sits at the back of the building, its reinforced door requiring both keycard and code. Inside, screens flicker with camera feeds from every angle of the Blue Note.
Orien sits at the central console, his lean frame draped across a chair. He turns at my entrance, dark eyes assessing me in that unnerving way of his. “The prodigal locksmith returns.”
“Just here to do my job.” I move to the monitor bank, logging into the system to check the overnight security logs.
“Brave man.” He swivels his chair toward me. “Given that your boss has been breaking glassware for the last week.”
The monitor displays the alarm history, green check marks indicating all systems are normal. I scroll through without responding.
“Canceled two liquor shipments.” Orien continues, fingers tapping on his thigh. “Rewrote the schedule multiple times. Sent Ghost home when he suggested taking a day off. Ghost never goes home.”
My shoulders tighten. “The Blue Note’s operations aren’t my concern.”
“No?” His head tilts. “What about the Harmon job?”
The name sends a jolt through me. “What about it?”
“It’s been redistributed. Split between two smaller crews.” Orien remains neutral, his stare unwavering. “Riskier approach. Higher chance of exposure.”
“Not my call.” I can’t quite mask the bitterness under the words.
“Not your call,” he repeats. “And here I thought you were integral to the entire operation. So why are you suddenly not on the job?”
My fingers pause on the keyboard. “Ask Rowan.”
He sorts out a laugh. “Naw, I’d rather keep my head on my shoulders, thanks.”
I grunt without comment.
His mouth curves at the corners. “I do have a professional curiosity about the sudden schism between our esteemed leader and his new favorite asset, though.”
“Nothing to discuss.” I resume typing, pulling up maintenance logs with more force than necessary. “My place in the business was clarified. I made my choice.”
Orien rubs his chin. “We had bets on whether you had the balls to show up here again.”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s a good-paying job.” I clench my teeth. “If Rowan wants me gone, he’ll have to fire me and pay my severance, per my employment contract.”
“Balls of steel on this one.” Orien leans back, stretching his long legs beneath the desk. “The boss prioritized which systems need upgrades first. Your assignment sheet is in the top drawer.”
I retrieve the paper, scanning the list of tasks.
“Not sure you’ll be able to avoid him for long,” Orien says, cutting through my concentration.
“I don’t plan to avoid him. He’s my boss, and this is his business.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” He rises from his chair with fluid grace. “Because to me, it looks a lot like two people who—”
The door crashes open, and time freezes. Rowan’s amber eyes lock onto mine before his focus drops, not to my mouth, but to my throat, and his nostrils flare.
His teeth clench, and his scent spikes, heat rolling off him in a wave that causes my pulse to stumble. “You replaced it.”
I lift my chin, denying the guilt flashing through me. “It’s functional.”
His nostrils flare. “That wasn’t the point.”
No, it wasn’t.
I thought I was prepared for this moment. I thought I could stand in front of Rowan and remain unaffected, but I was wrong.
Desire hits before my mind can mount a defense, slick gathering and skin prickling with awareness as my heart slams into my ribs as if trying to reach out to him. His pheromones wrap around me, invisible fingers stroking places he has no right to touch anymore.
“And that’s my cue to leave.” Orien slides past Rowan, leaving us alone in the security hub.
Rowan ignores him, all of his focus on me, a predator on the hunt. “We need to talk.”
The deep rumble sends an involuntary shiver through me, and as I fold the assignment sheet into quarters, my fingers tremble. “Is this about business?”
“No.” The conversation he wants to have hangs in the single syllable.
“Then I’m not available.” I tuck the paper into my pocket, hyperaware of his eyes tracking the movement, the way his nostrils flare to take in my desire perfuming the air.
For the last week, I’ve pictured this moment of seeing him again, hearing his voice, breathing his scent. In my imagination, I remained untouched, unmoved, my control absolute.
The reality is a knife-edge balance between want and pride.
“I’m on shift,” I say, my stomach tightening. “Keep your personal life out of company time.”
He grips the door handle, knuckles whitening, and the veins in his forearm stand out. “I gave you space to calm down,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave that makes me want to whimper, “but you can’t keep avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” I rasp, and clear my throat as I tap the paper in my pocket, aware of how his eyes linger on the pulse hammering in my throat. “I have work to complete.”
Rowan’s stare burns into me, and the room shrinks with each breath we share.
“How’s Lena?” he asks at last.
The question catches me off guard. “Fine.”
I won’t tell him how returning to our old apartment felt like returning to hell, or how Lena is still mad at me for dragging her back there. Or how much I worry it’s reminding her of what happened with Danny.
“Did she get to school okay this morning?” he pushes.
“How is that any of your business?” I say, the huskiness under the question betraying his effect on me. I step toward the door. “I have locks to check.”
His body shifts, blocking my path without touching me, and the air between us crackles with dangerous electricity.
I lift my chin. “Are you going to stop me from leaving?”
A dangerous thrill shoots through me, and slick dampens my underwear, the scent rising between us before I can stop it.
Rowan shifts to leave a narrow gap, and he stares at me in challenge.
Our bodies brush as I slip past, and electricity arcs between us.
Unable to resist, I pause, relishing the heat of his body after too many nights of sleeping alone.
I want him to grab me, force me against the wall, and reclaim what’s his.
“Run all you want,” he rumbles, his fingers grazing my arm with deceptive gentleness, “you’re still mine whether you admit it or not.”
I bolt from the room before I can shatter completely.
The next four hours become a dangerous dance.
As I adjust a camera in the VIP section, the hair on the back of my neck rises. Rowan stands in the doorway, tracking my movements, and heat floods my system.
I retreat to the storage room, only to find him there minutes later, inspecting the liquor inventory despite that being Ghost’s job.
We circle each other through the club, me testing an alarm panel, him appearing to check the adjacent wall safe.
Never touching, never speaking, but the air between us crackling with awareness.
Behind the bar, Orien nudges Ghost, both watching with undisguised interest as I duck into the hallway, Rowan’s scent following me like a physical touch.
At a quarter past noon, the intercom crackles to life, Rowan’s voice filling every corner of the Blue Note. “The lounge is closed for the remainder of the afternoon. All staff are dismissed.”
Confusion ripples through the room, and no one moves. Except for rare, controlled events like my welcome into the crew, the Blue Note never closes.
Not like this.
“Effective immediately,” Rowan adds, brooking no argument.
Chairs scrape over hardwood floors. Glasses clink as they’re put away. Everyone moves with the efficiency of people who know better than to question direct orders, gathering personal items and signing out at the terminal.
I join the exodus, grabbing my jacket from the back room. I didn’t get everything on my list completed, but I get paid whether I stay until the end of the shift or not. I can use the extra hours to check out apartments.
My fingers brush the door handle as Rowan’s command freezes me in place. “Not you.”
I turn, my spine straightening. “You told everyone to go home.”
“You’re not finished here,” he says in a timbre that bypasses my brain and liquefies my ability to reason.
The heavy door thuds shut behind the last employee, and Rowan stalks to the entrance to slide the key into the lock, the click jolting through my system.
We stand alone in the empty bar, the distance between us charged with desire.
His amber eyes track me, cataloging every micro expression, every hitched breath.
Sunlight slices through tinted windows, illuminating dust motes that dance between us.
I plant my feet on the polished floor, refusing to back away as his pheromones invade my senses, demanding submission I won’t give.
“Why are you treating me like a stranger?” His question hangs in the still air.
“Because that’s what employees do with their boss.” The words come out flat, stripped of emotion.
Rowan takes a step forward, then another, moving with the fluid grace of a predator confident in his territory. “Is that what we are now?”
“You made your position clear enough.” My chin lifts, pride warring with the magnetic pull of his presence.
“You’re running.” Another step closer. “Again.”
“You’re controlling.” I hold my ground, refusing to yield even as my knees tremble. “Still.”
His scent shifts, warming as his pheromones respond to our proximity. My pulse quickens, skin flushing with heat that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
“I’m protecting what’s mine.” The possessive statement should anger me, but instead, it sends electricity crackling through my system.
“I was never yours to protect.” My voice wavers, undermining my declaration.
Rowan moves into my space, close enough for the heat radiating from his body to invade mine. His breath brushes my cheek as he speaks, low and dangerous.
“Liar.”
The accusation slices through the air between us. His irises shift to molten amber, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of gold remains.
We move at the same time, crashing together.
One hand grips my jaw with bruising possession, the other yanking me against the hard plane of his body.
His mouth claims mine with punishing force, teeth scraping my bottom lip until the tang of copper joins the kiss.
My back slams into the edge of the bar, the wood digging into my spine.
I bite back, refusing to surrender. My nails rake down his shoulders, marking him through expensive fabric while slick trickles down my thighs, my dick straining the front of my jeans.
He growls into my mouth, the sound primal and satisfied, as if my resistance only proves what we both know. I’m fighting myself more than him.
“Fuck,” he groans against my lips. “I’ve missed you, precious.”
My body arches, starved for my Alpha after being without his touch. His palm slides under my shirt, branding my stomach, and my muscles tighten. His fingers spread across my skin, marking me without leaving a single visible bruise.
“Mine,” he growls into my mouth, the word vibrating through my bones. “My Omega.”
I bare my teeth as my body clenches in response. I want to deny him, to maintain the line I drew when I walked away. But my treacherous hands fist in his hair, yanking him closer, surrendering to the brutal kiss while some last defiant spark in me refuses to submit.
Rowan lifts me onto the bar, his strength effortless, my weight nothing to him. Glasses scatter, napkins fluttering to the floor. His hips thrust between my thighs, the hard length of his cock grinding into me through our clothes, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body.
My head falls back, exposing my throat to his mouth. His teeth graze the sensitive skin where my pulse hammers wildly, then catch on the cheap nape guard I replaced his with, and a frustrated growl tears from him as he bites down on it with a promise of the claiming Mark my treacherous body craves.
His fingers hook at my belt buckle with possessive certainty, tugging roughly, and the metal clinks as it loosens, the sound slicing through the fog of desire clouding my mind, a warning bell I can’t ignore.
This is how it always goes between us, fire and need and the surrender of thought to sensation. Sex as communication, as apology, as a reset button. The path of least resistance.
His teeth find my collarbone, biting down hard enough to mark, reclaiming territory that belongs to him.
The pain blends with pleasure, pulling a sound from my throat that’s half protest, half surrender.
My body trembles beneath his hands from the effort it takes not to give in to this gravitational desire.
It would be so easy to let his hands continue their path. To lose myself in his touch, his scent, the familiar rhythm of our bodies moving together. To accept the temporary peace that comes after, when words aren’t necessary, and complications fade beneath the blur of satisfaction.
I grip the bar top, knuckles aching with strain, and sweat beads at my temples despite the cool air of the empty lounge. Rowan’s breath comes hot and fast against my neck as he works to open the button on my jeans.
But this isn’t a solution. This is another form of avoidance, us running from the conversation we need to have. From the truth that lies beneath our anger and hurt.
And I promised myself I wouldn’t run anymore.