Chapter 37
Jiya
Light streams through the car windows, dappling across my hands. I flex my fingers on my lap, half-expecting the bite of steel cuffs that are no longer there. Freedom feels like a phantom limb.
“Thank you.” My voice sounds strange, too small for the enormity of what just happened. “Who paid for my bail? I don’t have that kind of money.”
Darius adjusts his designer sunglasses, eyes on the road ahead. “The Society maintains a fund for operational necessities. Consider this one of them.”
I study his profile as he drives. My heart belongs to Calloway, but that doesn’t make me blind.
Darius Evers is a work of art. The sunlight catches the warm, deep bronze of his skin, making it glow.
His profile is all sharp, clean angles. A strong nose, full lips, high cheekbones, and a jaw that looks like it had been carved from stone.
A crisp, perfect line of black hair frames his strong forehead.
He is the kind of handsome that commands respect, a quiet, intimidating beauty built on structure and control.
“Are you part of The Society? What the hell happened to that video?” I ask.
“The car is clean,” he says, his voice calm and even. “But paranoia is a survival trait. We don’t speak specifics outside. Ever.”
Message received. A cold knot of awareness forms in my stomach as I realize we’re heading away from my neighborhood.
“Where are we going? This isn’t the way to my apartment.”
“Your apartment is being watched. And you two need to talk.”
You two? My heart jumps into my throat. He means Calloway.
“I don’t want to get him in trouble.”
A short, humorless laugh escapes Darius. “Sweet summer child. Trouble is our second name.”
After twenty minutes of random turns designed to lose a tail I can’t see, he pulls into an underground garage beneath a nondescript brick building.
He kills the engine but doesn’t move, his eyes scanning the concrete space.
He pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, then produces a small mirror on a telescoping rod from his suit jacket and does a slow, methodical sweep under the car.
The sheer, practiced professionalism of it makes my stomach clench.
These people aren’t playing around.
“We’re clear,” he announces, retracting the mirror. Instead of getting out, he puts the car in gear and drives to the other side of the garage, parking next to a nondescript black sedan with windows so tinted they are practically opaque.
“Out,” he says. “We switch here.”
I follow him out of the polished luxury car and into the anonymous-looking sedan. The interior is clean but spartan. No personality. A ghost car.
“What was that about?” I ask as he starts the engine and pulls out of the garage. “The sweep, the switch.”
“That was my car. At my building,” he says, his eyes checking the mirrors as we merge into traffic. “If I missed a tracker, I want the police to think that's where I was headed.”
The layers of paranoia were dizzying. And strangely comforting.
He drives for another ten minutes before pulling into a different garage. This time, there is no sweep.
The elevator requires both a key card and a code, which Darius shields with his body. We ascend to the seventh floor in a heavy silence.
“The Society keeps a few places like this,” he explains, unlocking apartment 712. “Clean. Anonymous. Untraceable.”
It’s not a sterile safe house; it’s a home. Comfortable furniture, well-stocked bookshelves, even thriving plants. A throw blanket is draped over the arm of the couch.
“Kitchen’s stocked if you’re hungry,” Darius says, gesturing toward an open-concept kitchen with gleaming countertops. “Bathroom down that hall. Windows are treated with a special film—you can see out, but no one can see in.”
“Does someone live here?” I ask, running a hand over the back of a soft leather armchair.
“We all use it when needed.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Think of it as a timeshare for murderers. Help yourself to anything. He’ll be here soon.”
My heart jumps. “Calloway?”
Darius nods. “He’s been...let’s just say ‘frantic’ would be an understatement.” He checks his watch. “I have to get back to work. The police haven’t connected you two just yet, and it’s better if it stays that way. We need to keep you both insulated from each other in the official record.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” I ask.
“Wait. Don’t leave. Don’t contact anyone.” He heads for the door, then pauses. “And Jiya? Try not to kill anyone for the next two weeks. The legal paperwork is already a nightmare.”
The door clicks shut, and the silence of the apartment descends. I wander to the window, looking down at the city.
I’m still standing there when I hear the key in the lock.
The door opens, and there he is.
Calloway looks like a mess. His hair, usually a study in casual perfection, is a disaster, as if he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours.
Dark circles bruise the skin under his eyes.
His shirt is a roadmap of wrinkles, the top two buttons undone.
He looks wrecked. He looks like he’s been living in the same hell I have, just on the other side of the bars.
The urge to run to him, to feel his arms around me, hits with unexpected force. My body tenses, ready to move, but the look on his face stops me.
He closes the door behind him but doesn’t step forward. The silence stretches between us.
“You’re okay.” It isn’t a question. It’s a prayer he is just now seeing answered. His voice is a rough sound I’ve never heard from him before.
I nod, my hands twisting together. “Yeah. I’m…out.”
He swallows, the motion sharp in the column of his throat. The controlled, untouchable artist is gone, stripped away to reveal something raw and frayed at the edges.
“I was worried.” He runs a hand through his hair again, making it worse. “When they took you, I didn’t know if we could fix it.”
I take half a step forward, then stop again. “Darius said something about The Society having resources.”
“We do.” He nods, but his eyes are still locked on me, searching. “We’re using all of them.”
The air between us crackles.
“Thank you,” I say. “For helping me.”
Calloway takes a shaky breath. “I couldn’t let them—” He stops again, seems to gather himself. “You’re one of us now.”
One of us.
Is that all this is? A business transaction? The distance is wrong. It physically violates everything that has happened between us. A hot, bright anger flares inside me, burning through the exhaustion and fear. It’s easier to feel than the hurt of his rejection.
“That’s it?” I take a step toward him, my voice sharp. “You were ‘worried’? Why are you standing over there like I have the plague?”
Calloway blinks, the confusion on his face genuine. “What—”
“What about this?” I gesture between us, at the invisible, charged space. “What about what happened at your place? At my apartment? Does that mean nothing now?”
His eyes widen, a flicker of hurt in their depths. “No, Jiya, of course not—”
“Because I was in a cage, Calloway.” My voice cracks on the word. “And the only thing I thought about was you. Not The Society. You.”
I take another step, closing the distance he refuses to, close enough now to see the darker flecks of blue in his eyes, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw.
“I thought we had something,” I whisper, hating how vulnerable I sound. “Something real. So why won’t you touch me?”
His gaze drops to the floor. “I thought…after this…you might have second thoughts.”
“About what?”
“About me.” His voice is a low murmur, thick with a shame that stuns me.
I close the final inches between us until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “Why would I have second thoughts about you?”
His shoulders tense. “I hid while they took you. I ran. I did nothing.” The self-loathing is a raw, open wound in his voice. “I should have protected you.”
“You did the only thing you could,” I insist, my hand finding his. His fingers are ice-cold. “You getting arrested helps no one. You being free is the only reason I’m standing here right now.”
His eyes lift to meet mine, searching my face as if looking for signs of deception.
A tear escapes, sliding down my cheek before I can stop it.
My throat closes up around all the words I want to say.
That he feels like coming home. That when we’re together, the loneliness that’s shadowed me my entire life finally retreats.
That I’m in love with him. Stupidly, dangerously in love with him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and finally, finally, his hands come up to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away the tear. “Don’t cry. It’s okay. We’ll fix this. Darius says—”
“I’m not crying because of the fucking trial!” The words burst out of me.
His hands still against my skin. I watch understanding dawn in his eyes.
“I’ve never had a girlfriend,” he whispers. “I’m afraid to mess this up.”
I bite my lip, afraid to breathe.
“I want you to be mine, Jiya.” His gaze is intense, unwavering. “In this. In everything.”
“I want it too,” I whisper back.
“Fuck, Jiya.” His fingers tighten against my face. “No, you don’t understand. I want everything. I don’t think ‘girlfriend’ is a strong enough word for what we are. Perhaps mate is better.”
I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. “A mate?”
“My mate,” he says, and a hint of self-consciousness crosses his face. “Like in those werewolf books you read.”
“What do you know about werewolves?”
“Nothing.” His smile is soft, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before. “But I know you feel like a part of me.” His voice drops lower, more intense. “I love you, Jiya Kline. You are my beautiful, beautiful ruin.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.
His thumbs trace my tear tracks, and then his mouth follows, lips pressing against my wet cheeks. The gentle touch shifts, his tongue darting out to lick the salt from my skin. It is a possessive, claiming gesture.