6. Aisling
Blood never bothers me, not anymore.
I grip the collar of a dead gangster’s jacket, his body heavier than sin as Rook and I drag him across the cracked tiles of the church’s sanctuary. We lay him beside the others, three lives snuffed out in a city that chews up souls for breakfast.
“Feels like sacrilege,” Rook mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Are you religious?” I ask, brow furrowing.
He shrugs. “Was brought up Catholic, just like most kids where I’m from…but not for a while.”
“For what it’s worth, I think God’s left the building,” I mutter.
Luka grunts from behind us, a shadow peeling off from the gloom to stand sentinel by the door. He’s got that look in his eye, the one that says he’s seen too much death for one lifetime—and it shows me just how much he’s changed. When I knew him before New Eden, he was always calm, easy to smile.
Now, though? He’s tense, wound tight.
He doesn’t trust himself…or me.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he says, voice rough like gravel. “I need a damn drink.”
“Thought you were sober,” Rook frowns.
“Tea,” Luka huffs. “The drink is tea.”
Rook claps a hand on my shoulder, and we follow Luka through the narthex and up a narrow staircase hidden behind what used to be a confessional booth. The apartment above the church is the same old familiar space—old, well-loved furniture, a coffee table between two couches now clear of the drug paraphernalia he used to keep there. Luka moves with a purpose, locking each door behind him, a fortress against the chaos outside.
“Didn’t know it was this bad,” Rook comments, collapsing onto one of the ancient couches.
“Gets worse by the day,” Luka replies. “Vance and the Rossis are digging in their heels. It’s younger blood looking to make names for themselves now.”
“Been too wrapped up in finding that antidote to notice,” Rook admits.
“Need to make a call,” I say, escaping the tension for a moment, fishing my phone from my pocket.
“Oberon?” Luka asks without turning around, his tone unreadable.
“Who else?” I shoot back and step away to find a semblance of privacy in the cramped space.
“Hey,” Oberon’s voice comes through the line, edged with concern. “You’ve been gone too long.”
“Got held up,” I tell him. “We’re at Luka’s. It’s safe…ish. Think we’re gonna spend the night so we can make sure the heat is off before we come home.”
“Be careful, Aisling,” he warns.
“I will, I promise we’re safe—“
“That’s not what I meant,” Oberon murmurs. “Be careful with your heart. With his. The things we do on eros…it makes us question who we are.”
I go quiet, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I want to help him, but I don’t think I can,” I whisper.
Oberon laughs softly, gently. “You helped me—so don’t lose hope.”
I hear Rook moving behind me, maybe going to check out the bodies. He doesn’t say anything, but he comes up and squeezes my shoulder before his footsteps thud on the stairs, and I sigh.
Alone with Luka.
The last thing I wanted.
“I love you, Oberon,” I say.
“Love you too, Ais.”
Back in the living room, Rook’s disappeared downstairs, leaving me with Luka, who’s boiling water for tea in the small kitchen. His back is to me, but I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
“Chamomile or mint?” he asks without looking at me.
“Chamomile,” I answer, taking a seat at the small table.
Luka nods, his back to me as he reaches for the teapot. His movements are deliberate, measured, as if he’s afraid any sudden motion might shatter the fragile peace between us. He places the cup on the table and steps back quickly, as if my proximity is a live wire he dares not touch.
I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic, but I’m watching him, not the tea. “How you holding up?” I ask, biting down on my lip to keep it from trembling.
He leans against the counter, arms folded, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “Hanging on,” he admits, and even without looking at me, his voice drags the shadows of that night out into the open. “New Eden was… hell.”
I can hear the self-loathing twisting his words, the memories he wishes he could erase. New Eden—the place where everything spiraled out of our control, where Luka got hit with a dose of eros that turned him into someone we both didn’t recognize.
“Trip I never wanted,” he continues, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “I hate what I did to you, Aisling. And what I did to myself.” He finally looks at me then, and there’s a haunted look in his eyes that makes my heart clench.
“I understand,” I whisper, mouth dry.
“Scary, not remembering,” he adds, his voice dropping to a whisper. It’s a confession, a sliver of vulnerability that slips through the cracks in his armor.
I push back from the table, my hands shaky as I abandon my tea and close the distance between us. Luka’s eyes, hollows of shadowed pain, don’t stray from mine as I approach. His breath catches when my fingers graze his hand resting on the counter, a shudder rippling through him. It’s electric, the spark that flashes from his skin to mine.
“Things are different now,” I whisper, my voice threading through the thick tension. “I can’t find Gunnar.” The admission is a stone sinking in the pit of my stomach.
Luka’s jaw clenches, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond me. “I’m looking too. He’s not in town. My gut says he’s with Nero Rossi.”
“Nero?” Confusion laces my question. Why would Gunnar seek out that unpredictable alpha?
He shakes his head, the line of his mouth tight. “Don’t know why. But if Gunnar’s sniffing around Nero, it’s trouble.”
Luka’s hand turns, his touch a silent plea, and I can’t help but respond. Our fingers entwine, a secret dance of forbidden yearning. The heat between our palms tells stories we can’t voice—of longing, regret, an ache so deep it threatens to consume us.
“I’ve missed you,” I admit, the weight of those words heavy on my tongue.
“Then don’t,” he counters, his voice rough. “Missing me…it’s like picking at a wound that won’t heal.”
“Talking helps sometimes,” I say, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm of our shared torment. “You could always call.”
“Helps you, maybe.” His eyes are a storm about to break. “For me, every time I remember…remember you’re out there, it’s agony.”
Footsteps thud on the stairs, a staccato beat heralding unwanted intrusion. We pull apart as if scorched, the sudden absence of contact leaving a chill.
Rook appears, eyebrow arched in question or accusation—I can’t tell which. “Hope I’m not interrupting something important?”
“Nothing to worry about,” I assure him, my heartbeat still racing from Luka’s nearness.
“Fine, then.” Rook’s gaze lingers a moment too long, reading between lines we thought we’d hidden. He turns away, and with a shared glance holding more than we can say, Luka and I part ways, the echo of our touch lingering like a ghost.