Chapter Eleven #11
After starting the ignition, he worked the seatbelt across his chest and reversed.
Through the glass, he caught Quinn’s stare—a look impossible to read—and for a moment, it felt like the whole world turned on that gaze.
Sasha lifted a hand in farewell but didn’t wait to see if Quinn waved back.
He took off down the street, glancing in his rearview to see Quinn heading inside Cyril’s Café.
He gripped the steering wheel, thumb pressed to his sternum, that familiar ache flaring already. It was ridiculous how quickly he missed Quinn. Turning back was tempting, maybe just to catch one more glimpse or another smile, but he forced himself to keep going.
“You can spend time away from him,” Sasha told himself.
Uselessly, he tried to focus on something else, but Quinn lingered in every thought. The memory of breakfast, those pancakes burnished gold, the rough crunch of bacon, eggs fluffy as clouds, thick slices of buttered toast. And that orange juice, freshly squeezed, like sunshine in a glass.
How long had it been since he’d eaten like that? The taste of syrup was still on his lips, mingled with Quinn’s last kiss.
“You got it bad.” He laughed, a small, half-broken sound. “Mayday, mayday. Man down.”
Sasha rolled his eyes as he turned left then right at the next intersection, making his way to the less desirable part of town. He passed Pinecrest Apartments then several houses before his next turn.
He already knew he was in too deep, and he was scared shitless.
Five minutes later, his house came into view, relief easing the tension in his shoulders when he spotted an empty driveway.
Marcus wasn’t home. Sasha still couldn’t believe the jerk had demanded the money back outside of Cyril’s. Marcus wasn’t getting a dime of it. The grand would help Sasha catch up on bills and put some much-needed groceries in the house.
Damn. He should’ve stopped and loaded the money on his Cash App card.
Quinn was right. Carrying this ridiculous amount of money wasn’t safe and made Sasha nervous. He could’ve left it his room before he’d left for work yesterday, but Marcus had an uncanny ability to sniff out what didn’t belong to him.
Not only had Sasha loaned him hundreds of dollars, but his cousin had stolen cash from him. Whenever Sasha confronted him about the missing cash, Marcus would flip out, turning things around to make Sasha somehow the bad guy.
“Damn it,” Sasha muttered when he realized Marcus hadn’t locked the front door. He’d reminded his cousin at least a hundred times. In this neighborhood, Sasha didn’t even leave his windows unlocked.
Closing the door behind him, Sasha felt for the light switch. At least Marcus hadn’t left every single light on like he normally would.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” The living room was a complete mess. Shoes scattered, dirty dishes piled on the coffee table and floor, beer cans scattered like scattered marbles. Sasha wrinkled his nose when his gaze landed on a dirty pair of underwear.
The room smelled like unwashed ass.
If the sun wasn’t already setting, Sasha would’ve opened a few windows to air out the place.
The kitchen was just as bad. Dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter. Something crunched under his foot as he walked. The smell of something burned made his nose twitch.
His gaze landed on the floor where Marcus had clearly spilled something and had done a half-ass job of wiping it up. Not with a mop but with paper towels. How did Sasha know?
They were still on the floor, crumpled, large dark spots soaked into most of the towels. Jesus. Marcus had to have used a half the roll.
With a disgusted grunt, Sasha walked out of the kitchen. As much as he wanted to say he wouldn’t clean up his cousin’s mess, Sasha knew he would. Just not right now. He hated messes, and even now, the skin under his eye was twitching.
He stopped and lifted his foot, wondering what the stickiness was under his foot.
“Don’t give in.” He headed upstairs, fighting the urge to scrub until the house smelled like lemons and every surface shined. How could anyone live in such filth?
Sasha sucked in a sharp breath when he cut on his bedroom light.
His normally pristine room looked as if it had been tossed.
Drawers open, clothes spilled onto the floor.
Closet doors swung wide, contents looking as if they’d been thrown over someone’s shoulder.
The blankets had been flung from his bed, and the mattress was hanging halfway off the box spring.
His room felt gutted, like Marcus had left his dirty fingerprints on Sasha’s very soul. This wasn’t just a mess. It was violence. It screamed violation, like his cousin had ripped through Sasha’s life without a shred of care.
The money.
Marcus had torn apart Sasha’s bedroom looking for it.
He rubbed his sweaty hands on his jeans, leg muscles tightening like he wanted to run. His heart raced so hard his chest hurt.
If Marcus was this desperate, Sasha wasn’t safe. His chest tightened as he realized his cousin wouldn’t stop at just furniture.
With a trembling hand, he pulled his phone from his back pocket to call Quinn but paused when he suddenly heard voices downstairs.
Sasha crept to his bedroom door and strained to listen. Low, indistinct, but Marcus’s among them.
There was no mistaking Marcus’s voice.
Heart hammering, Sasha eased the door closed then called Quinn.
“Hey, firefly.” His voice was low, just a whisper that slinked through the phone like molten chocolate. There was a grin in it, a touch of heat. “You miss me already?”
“Marcus… He just showed up.” Sasha braced a hand against the door. His voice trembled. “He trashed my room looking for the money.”
Quinn’s tone cut through Sasha’s gut-punch dread, sharp as shattered glass. “What’s your address? Now.” Sasha choked it out. “Find somewhere to hide, firefly. I’m coming. If he finds you, stay quiet. No scenes, sweetheart. Don’t push him.”
His truck roared to life, an engine that seemed loud enough to bring down the whole house. Sasha winced, clutching the phone tighter.
He turned, scanning the mess. Bare mattress, clothes on the floor, desk drawers torn out and tossed aside. No space in the closet or under the bed unless he could shape-shift into dust.
“I don’t have anywhere to hide in my room.” His throat closed around the words, feeling the trap closing.
“Stay calm, baby.”
Footsteps creaked up the stairs. The sound bled through the walls and nailed him in place. He barely breathed.
“He’s coming upstairs,” Sasha whispered, barely a thread of sound.
“Baby, hide.” There was a snag in Quinn’s voice, a raw edge. “Closet, under the bed, behind something. Just get small, firefly. Please.”
A gentler sound next—the knock was like rain tapping the glass, almost shy. Marcus. Like they were cousins, just talking.
“Hey, cuz. Need to talk with you,” Marcus said almost playfully. “Open up.”
Sasha took a step back, glaze flicking from his dresser to the pile of clothes on the floor. Nowhere. Nowhere at all.
“Don’t open that fucking door!” Quinn’s snarl rumbled from the phone.
Then something struck the door. Hard. Sasha slapped a palm over his mouth to keep from crying out. His whole body shook, teeth knocking together like dice in a cup. The phone almost slipped from his slick hand.
“Goddamn it!” Quinn growled. “If he touches you—”
The next hit cracked the doorframe, splinters flying to the floor.
“He’s breaking in.” A gasp, barely there.
Another slam splintered the door wide, and there Marcus stood. Smirking. In his shadow, Lanky, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth twisted with a grin made of knives.
“Miss me?” Lanky asked. Same words as Quinn’s, only Lanky’s voice was like fire dipped in gasoline.
Chapter Eight
After Quinn purchased a Frappuccino from Cyril’s, he headed home.
Quinn already missed Sasha and was tempted to call his mate for his address.
But Sasha clearly wanted space, and Quinn would respect that, even if it was killing him to be apart from his mate.
They’d just met yesterday, and his wolf was going feral to get back to the redhead.
It was only by sheer will, he headed out of town instead of tracking his firefly down.
The drive through the winding roads gave him time to think about the mating bond that had detonated between them so quickly. He still couldn't believe how lucky he’d gotten. Even now he could smell his mate’s scent still lingering inside the truck, still lingering on his skin.
And how fucking adorable was a drunk Sasha? Quinn still chuckled when he thought about last night.
But something about that money and Marcus had felt wrong. Maybe he really should call, just to check in.
Give him the time he needs. He might graduate you from a voyeur to a straight-up stalker if you bug him too soon.
Quinn pulled to the back of the house and parked, killing the motor seconds before getting out. The familiar scents of pine and wild grass greeted him as his phone rang.
Sasha’s name lit up the screen.
Ha! His mate was feeling the pull just as much as Quinn was. Did he want Quinn to come over for “movies” or something more?
Tamping down his excitement and playing it cool, he leaned against his truck before answering his phone.
“Hey, firefly.” He smiled, stubbing his foot into the gravel and refusing to admit how badly he felt himself blushing. Him, a 237-year-old wolf who’d had plenty of bed partners… “You miss me already?”
“Marcus… He just showed up.” Sasha’s voice trembled through the line. “He trashed my room looking for the money.”
For a single heartbeat, the words refused to sink in.
Quinn’s mind lagged, still caught in the warm fantasy of Sasha’s lips, then the terror in his mate’s voice finally registered.
The cognitive dissonance lasted only microseconds before his battle-hardened reflexes slammed into place, wiping away everything but the need to protect.
“What’s your address? Now.”