16. Zyran
ZYRAN
Ifinished my last bite as the waitress came over, dropping the check off near the edge of the table, sliding it between us with a tired smile. “No rush,” she says, already turning to the next booth that just sat down.
Setting my fork down and pushing the skillet over, I reach for the check just as Esperr tries to.
“You don’t have to— “ she starts, but I pin her with a look that shuts down whatever she was going to say.
She watches me for a second longer than necessary, like she’s actually thinking about putting up an argument. In the end, she just rolls her eyes, letting out a small huff, leaning back against the booth, fingers tapping idly against her mug as I tuck the cash under the edge of the receipt.
Neither of us says much while we slide out of the booth, the vinyl squeaking as she stands, and she winces before she can stop herself, one hand coming up briefly toward her cheek.
It’s quick, almost like she hadn’t realized she’d done it until her fingertip brushes her skin, and then she slams her hand down. But I caught it.
Rage hits me all over again, enough that I’m half tempted to find a way to bring him back and murder him with just my bare hands. My jaw tightens, and flashes of me bashing his skull into the ground have me stopping mid-step.
I’d grab each side of his head, slamming it into the ground over and over again until he’s nothing but brain matter spilling from his skull.
The image is so vivid that it almost feels real: a dull crack of bone, the weight of his body in my hands. I want to feel his skull cut into my hand; I want to hear him begging for his life only for him to realize there’s no one there to save him.
“You okay?” Esperr asking, pulling me back to the diner—to her.
“Yeah,” I mutter, stepping forward.
Side by side, we walk to the door, close enough that I can feel the faint heat radiating off her. I can smell her, the cactus blossom, and coffee, but there’s that tinge of sweat, and while that might turn other people off–not me.
I want Esperr.
More than before.
More than I ever knew.
Jesus fuck, it takes a lot not to grab her, kiss her, and touch her. My pulse picks up, each beat sounding like thunder in my ears.
And even worse than just wanting to hold her—I want to fuck her.
The idea of her beneath me, my hips grinding into her while she moans my name, her fingers gripping me like I’m the only thing tethering her here.
I want—need—it all.
So much so that I have to shift my weight, hiding behind her with my cock rock hard, hoping that no one, especially her, notices.
Just as she reaches for the door, I stretch my arm across her, not letting her touch the handle. Pushing it open, she steps out first, the bell above the door jingling, while the cool morning air spills in around us.
We get four feet from my truck when she stops, shoving her hands into the pocket of her jacket, rocking back slightly on her heels, blowing out a breath.
“This has been great and all, but I think I’m going to run back to my apartment,” she sighs.
“A run?” I repeat, frowning slightly.
I don’t want her to go; I want to take her back to her apartment and follow her upstairs?—
Esperr smiles, shaking her head. “Yeah, I–I need to clear my head, burn off whatever… what happened tonight.”
“I can drive you home.”
Her eyes drop to my hands, then lift back to my face, and for a split moment there’s hesitation there, like she’s weighing the offer instead of rejecting it outright. And then she’s shaking her head gently.
“I’m okay. It’s not far—” I know it’s not. “And honestly, if I sit in a car right now, I’m either going to fall asleep or overthink everything. And well…neither of those sound like great options.”
I study her for a moment, taking in the bruise darkening under her eyes, the way she shifts her weight just slightly, like her body is finally feeling everything that's happened tonight.
Every instinct I have screams at me to insist, to make her let me drive her home. But I don’t.
So I swallow and give her a single nod. “Alright.”
And even worse, she takes a step backward once and then again, creating distance that feels bigger than the few feet between us.
Even as she looks seconds away from changing her mind, she gives me one last small smile and turns on her heel.
At first she just walks, eventually jogging down the street towards her shitty apartment building.
I stay where I am, watching until she disappears around the corner before I head towards my truck. Only then do I climb inside and start the engine, waiting a minute before I pull out of the parking lot, keeping my distance as I follow her home.
She keeps jogging, arms loosely at her side as she turns down the street where the apartment complex sits.
Shitty, and that’s putting it nicely.
Peeling paint, flickering light just above the door that’s going to go out any minute. The kind of place that never feels safe no matter how many locks you put on the door.
My jaw tightens as she opens the door and heads inside without looking back, keys already in her hand, like this routine is more than just muscle memory for her.
In the next blink of an eye, she’s gone, and I’m left sitting there for a few seconds longer than necessary, engine idling, eyes fixed on the darkened windows like I expect one of them to light up and prove she made it inside in one piece.
Nothing happens, and I force myself to look away.
This isn't healthy.
She’s fine; she made it home, and that should be the end of it.
But it’s not.
I’m addicted to her.
Even if I try to tell myself that she doesn’t need a man with PTSD, night terrors, and a secret obsession with stalking her.
It’s the way she thinks, the way her mind moves three steps ahead even when she’s pretending to react. It’s the way she chose not to ask the questions that she so clearly wanted answers to. She’s been burned by answers before, and I hate that.
I’ve watched her for so long now and still know almost nothing real about her. Not from where she came from, or who she used to be, and not what taught her to stay so calm when things get ugly.
Just fragments, or the habits, the way she lines up cups by size when she thinks no one else is paying attention. To the way she presses her lips together when she’s holding back a comment she probably shouldn’t say out loud.
Now I know one more thing—she can look at a dead body and laugh like the blood didn’t touch her.
But that means there’s more under the surface. There’s more history and damage, secrets that explain why she didn’t run the second she realized what I am.
I exhale slowly, the sound rough in the quiet cab of my truck.
I’m not like my twin; I’m not like Cyran—I can’t let things go. Especially not when it’s something that matters.
And Esperr, she matters in a way that doesn’t make sense—it’s like my brain decided she was important long before I realized or before I gave it permission.
That’s the dangerous part—not the attraction or the curiosity, it’s that I can’t ignore that I’ve adjusted my decision around her without even noticing I’m doing it.
My phone buzzes against the console, dragging me back to the present, and I glance down, seeing Rhys’ name flash across the screen before it stops.
He’ll know where to start.
It'll be quiet digging, just enough to answer the questions she won’t ever tell me and I can’t afford to ignore.
I need to know exactly what I just stepped into before it decides to swallow both of us whole.
The house is quiet when I step inside, and when I move inside, the kitchen light is on. Rhys is at the counter, hoodie pulled up, spoonful of yogurt halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t look surprised to see me, not that he ever does; I swear he has us bugged.
He chews once and then swallows, eyeing me.
“You look like shit,” he says rudely.
I ignore that and move to the sink, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and turning the faucet on. Water splashes against the sides while I try to decide how to word what I need from him without making it sound like I’ve finally lost it.
I don’t find a better way.
“I need more. I want–” I shut the water off and turn towards him. “I need information.”
Rhys doesn’t ask who right away; he just slowly finishes his yogurt before setting his bowl down on the counter.
“Who?”
What does he mean by who? He’s joking; he must be—he has to be.
“The girl?” I frown, annoyed that he’s pretending not to know. “The one from Wicked Co.”
One brow lifts, and my eye twitches. “Hmmm, I think I’m remembering.”
“I’m serious,” I snapped. “Rhys, I want everything. Where she’s from, who she used to be, if anyone’s looking for her—I want to know.”
He nods, quickly shifting from a regular asshole to one that’s listening. “What happened that made you finally decide she needs a full background check?”
I lean my hip against the counter, setting the water down and crossing my arms. “She…something…might have happened.”
It was then that I realized I needed to tell him about Dean and the fact that we dumped his body. He needs to make sure I’m not traced back to it or her, for that matter.
“Zyran, I need to know if something happened.” Rhys stands to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest.
“She sort of kind of…helped me get rid of a body,” I mutter, unable to look at him.
The words hang between us, neither of us moving; shit, neither of us blink. Rhys just stares at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m screwing with him or if this is one of the moments where the situation is actually as bad as it sounds.
I keep my eyes on the counter, on the faint scratch in the granite top where Raiden slammed a knife into it.
“Repeat that,” he says, his voice low.
I drag a hand down my face and sigh. “There was this guy,” I mutter. “Dean, he was drunk and sloppy, thought he could corner her outside the bar.”
I finally look up to Rhys, watching as his jaw tightens just a fraction.
“She defended herself, bottle to his neck. It wasn’t clean or planned.”
“And you what? Just so happened to be there.”
I pin him with a look.
“Fine, where’s the body?”
“Gone. Wrapped and dumped. No witnesses and no cameras that I saw, but?—”
“I’ll double check, make sure neither of you are tied to it.” Rhys studies me, eyes flickering over my face.
He’d always been the best at reading us, being able to tell what words I couldn’t say.
Having been the one to listen for footsteps first. Even though he’s only two years older, at thirty-three, he understood what was coming when Slater and Raiden left.
He’d hear the front door slam and his whole body would go rigid.
His eyes were already scanning the room like he was looking for existing objects, almost anything that could become a weapon in our father’s hand.
He’s the one who fixes things after they’ve already gone to hell, the one who cleaned up messes we were too young to understand and too broken to solve ourselves. Cyran and I learned early that problems didn’t get smaller if you ignored them—they got meaner. Rhys taught us that.
Really taught us all that.
“You trust her?” He asks slowly.
I hesitate just long enough that it’s enough for Rhys.
“I trust that she didn’t plan it, and that’s enough.”
And the way she stayed, the way she laughed—soft and breathless over a situation that would’ve shattered anyone else.
Rhys exhales through his nose and uncrosses his arms, already running through in his head what he needs to do. “I’ll scrub traffic cams in the area, pull local police chatter. If anyone reports him missing, I’ll let you know by the end of the day.”
I nod once. “And dig into her. Quietly, I want to know if this is the first time she’s dealt with something like that… If—if she’s hiding something and I need to know.”
“You think she’s killed someone before?”
I swallow and shake my head. “I think most people don’t keep their hands that steady the first time they’re standing over someone bleeding out.”
Rhys nods. “Alright, I’ll see what I can find,” he says, turning toward the hallway. “But if this gets messy, Zy?—”
“I’ll handle it,” I cut him off.
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, and I hold his gaze, letting him see that I’m not saying it won’t—that when it does, I’ll be there.
Rhys stares at me for thirty seconds longer than I’d like, then turns back and is out of the kitchen before I can take another breath.
I stand there for a moment, staring at nothing but the weight of the conversation settling heavier now that I’ve brought it to his attention.
Followed close behind is exhaustion, and it hits me like a ton of bricks, sinking down into my bones, dull and heavy.
Each movement feels slower as I push off the counter and head toward the hallway.
My room waits just up the stairs; I know the bedroom door is still slightly cracked, and the bed is probably still unmade from the last time I crashed there.
I make it about two feet up the stairs before I stop; the thought of lying in that bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night on a loop until sleep would finally drag me under sounds unbearable.
I turn around and pull my keys from my back pocket, heading back to the garage. My truck sits there, and I climb inside, shutting the door.
For a minute I just sit there, staring out the windshield, and then I lean back, eyes closing as the faint scent of her lingers in the cab—cactus blossom and coffee, all stubborn and impossible to ignore.
My chest loosens before I can think better of it, sleep taking me—and it’s not my room or my bed; it’s in the driver’s seat of my truck with the ghost of her still caught in the air around me.