Chapter 5 Rory
Rory
Darkness pressed against my eyelids. The basement again. Cold concrete beneath my bare feet, the musty smell of damp and disappointment filling my nostrils.
“What did I tell you?” Dad’s voice boomed from the shadows, each word like hooks tearing through my skin.
I tried to remember what I’d done wrong this time. Was it fidgeting during family dinner? Talking too much when another alpha came over? Or maybe it was the broken vase—an accident, I swear—when I’d been racing through the living room pretending to be a superhero.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words automatic, meaningless from repetition.
My father’s silhouette loomed larger. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything, does it? You never learn.”
The familiar knot of dread tightened in my stomach. Would it be the belt today? Or just locked in here until morning? Maybe he’d make me stand in the corner for hours until my legs gave out. Creative punishment was his specialty.
“This is for your own good,” he said, stepping closer. “When are you going to learn to control yourself?”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I repeated, because I had no other words.
“Rory, wake up.”
I blinked at him, confused. I was awake. What did he want from me now? I needed to think, quickly, understand—
“Rory, wake up!”
My eyes flew open, head instantly splitting with pain. A face hovered inches from mine—definitely not my father’s. Maxwell’s dark eyes stared down, annoyed and… uncomfortable?
“Let me go,” he said, voice tight.
Horror dawned as I registered my current position—arms and leg tangled around his body, my head resting comfortably on his chest like he was my personal pillow. I was clinging to Detective Dickface like he was my favourite teddy bear.
I recoiled so fast I nearly fell off the bed, scrambling to the opposite edge, dragging the sheet with me. He shot to his feet like I’d electrocuted him, towering over me with that familiar crease between his eyebrows that meant I was in trouble—again.
“What the fuck were you doing in my bed?” I demanded, pulse racing, desperate to cover my mortification with outrage.
Maxwell’s expression could have frozen hell. “My bed. You stole it, despite me explicitly telling you to sleep on the sofa.” He gestured between us. “And then you proceeded to latch onto me like some kind of octopus in the middle of the night. Just now you were squeezing me so tight it woke me up.”
Heat crawled up my neck. I’d been having yet another nightmare about my father. It seemed that no matter how many years passed, I’d never truly be able to escape him.
“I always cuddle the duvet when I sleep,” I snapped. “Must’ve gotten confused.”
Aside from Priya, I rarely slept in the same bed as anyone—not even hookups.
Those guys got a kiss on the cheek and directions to the nearest Tube station before their clothes were fully back on.
Yet there I’d been, wrapped around Theodore Maxwell like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Mortifying.
“I need coffee,” I groaned, pulling away and smacking my dry mouth.
My tongue felt like sandpaper glued to the roof of my mouth.
Last night was the drunkest I’d been in ages.
Memories blurred into fragments of neon lights, bass-heavy music, Bradley all over me, and…
“Oh god, I can’t believe I threw up on the way home. I haven’t done that in years.”
Maxwell passed me a glass of water without comment. I gulped it down, spilling some down my chin.
“I need you to leave soon,” he said. “I need to shower, get dressed, and go to work. You know, my actual job.”
He was still in yesterday’s clothes, but so was I, so I could hardly judge.
“The police station can wait,” I waved dismissively. “What did we find out last night?”
Maxwell’s eyebrow arched. “We?”
“Fine, what did you find out while I was busy being the diversion?”
He sighed, scratching at his stubble. “Meridian hired Bradley and Brody as informants. They were paid to identify potential shifter targets—specifically lone wolves who wouldn’t be missed or who had few pack connections.”
My stomach turned. “And Dev?”
“Meridian must have realised he was still investigating the disappearances. The men were tasked with monitoring him, finding out how much he knew, and reporting back.” Maxwell crossed his arms. “Though apparently, when the pair of them met Dev, he seemed to suspect them. Dominic interrupted us, so it’s unclear what they ultimately told Meridian, but… ”
The chips and curry sauce I’d inhaled last night threatened a reappearance. “So Meridian has him?”
“It’s looking that way,” he admitted.
My shoulders sagged with relief. I’d spent over a week convinced something terrible had happened to Dev while being convinced everyone else would see me as some pathetic ex who couldn’t let go. Like I was making mountains out of molehills because I was still hopelessly hung up on him.
“Thank fuck,” I breathed, running my hands through my disaster of a bedhead. “Not that he’s been kidnapped—obviously that’s terrible—but that you believe me. That I’m not just being paranoid.”
Maxwell’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “The evidence is pointing that way.”
“Okay, so… we’re going to storm the place, right?” I perked up, already picturing myself in full action-hero mode, kicking down doors and rescuing Dev. Maybe he’d finally see me as something more than a chaotic mess who couldn’t keep his shit together.
“No. No, we are not going to ‘storm the place,’” Maxwell said, his voice dripping with that special brand of condescension he surely reserved just for me. “I’m going to go to work, and then I’ll be in contact this afternoon.” He paused, then added pointedly, “Through Seb.”
I glowered at him. Clearly, I’d pissed him off somehow. Probably the whole “getting absolutely smashed while on an investigation, throwing up on the way home and needing to crash at his house, leading to stealing his bed and cuddling him to death” thing. Or maybe it was just my general existence.
“So what, I’m just supposed to sit around twiddling my thumbs while Dev could be in danger?” I demanded, ignoring the throbbing in my temples. “Why can’t I come with you to the station?”
“Because you’re a civilian with no official standing, because you’re probably still drunk after the amount you had last night…” He threw me my car key. “And because I said so.”
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out of my skull, and stomped towards the door. My head pounded with each step, a hangover making its presence known.
“Rory, stop.”
I whirled around, nearly losing my balance. “What now?!” I snapped, voice sharp.
Maxwell crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes travelled down my torso, lingering on the black mesh top I’d worn to the club last night. The shirt that admittedly now felt sort of ridiculous in the harsh morning light of Maxwell’s flat.
“You can’t go out like that,” he said, one eyebrow raised.
“Are you fucking joking right now?” I gestured wildly. “What, is Detective Dickface suddenly the fashion police too? Worried I’ll embarrass you in front of the neighbours?”
He sighed, that familiar sound of exasperation. “It’s not that warm out. And it looks like it’s going to rain. Just… borrow that shirt again.” He nodded toward the blue button-up lying crumpled on the bed—the one I vaguely remembered clinging to last night.
I paused, my next cutting remark dying on my lips. The anger drained from me, leaving only confusion in its wake. Was Maxwell actually… being nice to me? First the chips and now this?
Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across his face. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Our eyes met, and a jolt shot through me—like static electricity but beneath my skin, radiating outward from my chest. I nearly gasped, fingers twitching involuntarily.
What the fuck?
Maxwell flinched slightly before staring at me, mouth slightly ajar.
I looked away first, rubbing my arms to dispel the lingering sensation. Likely, I was in caffeine withdrawal.
But something unfamiliar still hung in the air between us—not our usual antagonism, no, but something visceral and unspoken that made my wolf pace restlessly inside me.
Maxwell cleared his throat. “Anyway, you’ll need to wash that shirt for me,” he added, effectively shattering whatever moment we might have been having. “It probably has your vomit on it.”
“It does not!” I glared at him, but snatched up the shirt anyway, slipping it over the mesh top, trying to ignore how my fingers still tingled. It still smelt like him—that distinctive smell of raindrops on hot pavement. I inhaled deeper than I meant to, causing him to shoot me an odd look.
God, this guy really hated me.
Without another word, I stormed out of his flat, closing the door with just enough force to make a point.
On Maxwell’s street, the borrowed shirt flapped against my thighs in the brisk morning air. He’d been right about the weather—typical London, grey and threatening rain. The hangover wasn’t helping either, each step sending little jolts of pain through my skull.
I found my car next to the building, slipping quickly inside it.
Suddenly I was just… alone. That familiar creeping coldness settled over my skin—the one that always ambushed me in moments of solitude.
The silence pressed in, amplifying the thoughts I’d been trying to outrun.
Dev was in trouble. Real trouble. And here I was, hungover and useless, kicked out of Detective Dickface’s flat to await further instructions from the actually important people.
I plugged my phone into the car. When it burst to life, a picture of Freddy eating a cracker filled the screen. My baby’s glowing yellow eyes stared back at me, bits of cracker falling from his decomposing mouth.
The notification banner at the top of the screen caught my eye. A missed call, from about an hour ago.