Chapter 3
Blake
Frost & Flame sits on the edge of Wintervale's respectable district like a beautiful mistake.
The kind of place the founding families pretend doesn't exist while their sons spend trust fund money at the bar and their daughters sneak in through the back entrance wearing borrowed IDs and bad decisions.
I won it off a Caldwell heir four years ago in a fight that should have killed me. Three broken ribs, a concussion, and twenty minutes of violence that felt like a baptism. When it was over, he signed the deed with blood still dripping from his nose. It was a good night.
His family tried to take it back. Lawyers, threats, a couple of hired muscle who learned the hard way that I don't scare easily. The deed's in my name. The land's in my name. And every brick of this building is mine in a way nothing else in Wintervale ever has been. I will never give it up.
I pull around to the back entrance and kill the engine. Peyton's been quiet since Talia left. Not scared-quiet. Thinking-quiet. The kind that means she's three steps ahead, calculating angles and odds and exit strategies.
Smart.
Dangerous.
And she smells fucking good.
Exactly the kind of woman I should keep at arm's length if I had any sense of self-preservation left.
I don't.
"Stay close," I tell her as we get out. "The main floor's public, but my office is private. Soundproofed. No cameras. We can talk there."
"Soundproofed," she repeats, and there's something in her voice, not fear exactly, but awareness. The kind women learn early and carry forever. "Should I be concerned about that?"
I stop, turn to face her fully in the dim light of the back alley. Snow's falling again, catching in her dark curly hair, melting on skin that should be cold, given the temperature, but I imagine this woman always runs hot.
"You should always be concerned," I say. "But not about that. Not from me."
"Men say that a lot."
"I'm not any man."
"No." She studies me, head tilted, eyes sharp even in shadow. "You're a Delano. Which, from what I’ve heard, might be worse."
“Your father taught you well because it definitely is."
Her lips curve—not quite a smile, but close enough to make something tighten in my chest. Dangerous territory. She's a job. An obligation. A line I walked away from six years ago that's pulling me back, whether I want it or not.
Except she's also standing in an alley in a dress that costs more than most people's rent, holding a flash drive that could destroy half of Wintervale's power structure, looking at me like I'm a puzzle she's deciding whether to solve or discard.
And I want her to solve it.
I’ve been in her presence for only a few hours, and suddenly I want her to see what's underneath the Delano reputation. I want her to know I’m not someone to fear.
But fuck.
That ain’t smart.
I turn away before she can read too much in my expression. "Come on. It's freezing, and you're going to get hypothermia in that dress."
"Worried about me, Blake?"
"Worried about the paperwork if you die on my watch."
"Liar."
She's right. I am.
Inside, the Frost & Flame is exactly what it looks like.
A club full of dark wood, darker leather, and low lighting that makes everyone look better than they are.
The bar runs the length of the east wall, bottles backlit like a church altar.
The main floor's half-full even on a Wednesday, bodies moving to music that's too loud for conversation but perfect for forgetting.
My reputation in this town has only increased business.
Wintervale regulars and tourists looking for an “experience” hear that this is the place to be, so they come.
A few heads turn when we walk in. Not many.
The kind of people who come to my club have learned not to stare at things that don't concern them. Most of them don’t care anyway.
If I’ve done my job right, most of them are drunk and possibly high.
The bartender—Marcus, sixty, former boxer who took too many hits and now pours drinks with hands that shake just enough to notice—catches my eye and nods toward the stairs.
Someone's waiting.
Of course they are.
I avoid staring at Peyton’s spectacular ass as I guide her through the crowd, one hand at the small of her back. Not possessive but protective. There's a difference, and I need her to know it.
She doesn't pull away.
We climb the back stairs to the second floor, where my office sits overlooking the main room through one-way glass. I can see everything. They can't see me.
Control. The only currency that matters.
I unlock the door, let her in first, then lock it behind us.
The office is sparse. Desk. Chair. A leather couch that’s seen better days. A wall of filing cabinets I haven't opened in months, because who deals with actual paper anymore? No personal photos, no decorations, nothing that says who I am beyond the man who owns the building and signs the paychecks.
Peyton walks to the glass and looks down at the crowd below. “Are you here often?”
“When I’m in town.”
“And you spend your time in here watching them?”
“I watch everything."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's survival."
She turns, leans against the glass with her arms crossed. The position does things to the dress that I shouldn't notice and can't ignore. Curves and shadows and danger wrapped in crimson lace and silk.
"So." Her voice is steady, challenging. "Now what? You've got me alone in a soundproofed room. You've told me I'm worth killing for. You've introduced me to your sister and given me my dead mother's research. What's our next move, Blake Delano?"
Good question.
The smart move is distance. Keep this professional. Guard the asset, navigate the politics, deliver her to whatever outcome keeps her breathing and my conscience clean.
The real move, the one my body's voting for despite my brain's objections, is to close the space between us and find out if she tastes as dangerous as she looks.
I do neither.
Instead, I move to the desk, pull out a bottle of scotch I keep for nights when memory gets too loud. Pour two glasses. Offer her one.
She takes it, our fingers brushing. The contact's brief, electric, the kind of touch that shouldn't mean anything and means every fucking thing.
"We wait until we know for sure,” I say. "Talia will dig deeper into the Kingsley documents. I'll make calls, cash in favors, find out who else knows about the clause and what they're planning. You'll stay here where Silas can't get to you easily."
"I'm staying here?" She raises an eyebrow. "In your club?"
"In my apartment. Upstairs. Separate entrance, separate space. You'll be safe."
"Safe." She tastes the word like it's foreign. "I haven't been safe since my mother died. Maybe not even before that."
"Then you'll be safer. That's the best I can offer."
She sips the scotch, doesn't flinch at the burn. "And what do you get out of this arrangement?"
"What do you mean?"
"Men don't protect women for free. Especially not Delano men. So what's your price, Blake? What are you expecting in return for keeping me alive?"
The question's fair. Brutal, but fair.
I could tell her the truth, that I'm doing this because six years ago I burned down a warehouse full of guilt, and it wasn't nearly enough. That every time I close my eyes, I see the girls I saved and the ones I didn't. That protecting her isn't about price, payment, or transaction.
It's about penance.
It’s about saving my dark soul.
But that's too much truth for a woman I met three hours ago. Too raw. Too real.
So I give her something simpler.
"I expect you to survive," I say. "And when this is over, when you're standing on top of the Kingsley empire with all the power the name affords you, I expect you to remember who helped you get there."
"That's it? No specific demands? No favors owed?"
"I don't deal in favors. They're just debts with prettier names."
"Then what do you deal in?"
"Results."
She sets down her glass, moves closer. Not seductive, but more like she’s testing me. The way you test ice before stepping on it is by checking for cracks, for weight tolerance, and for the breaking point. That’s what she’s doing.
"You keep saying that," she murmurs. "Results. Like it means something specific."
"It does."
"Then tell me." Another step. Close enough now that I can smell her perfume more deeply. It’s something expensive with subtle amber notes that probably has a French name I can't pronounce. "What result are you looking for, Blake? What outcome makes all of this worth it?"
The honest answer is complicated, twisted up in family obligation and the particular kind of rage that comes from watching the world take things from people who can't fight back.
The simple answer is standing three feet away, wearing a very tasteful fuck-me-please dress, and looking at me like I'm either her salvation or her ruin.
Maybe both.
"I want you free," I say quietly. "Free from Silas, from the Kingsleys, from every bastard in this town who thinks they own you. I want you to choose your own ending instead of having it chosen for you."
"Why?"
"Because someone should."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She studies my face like she's reading a language she's still learning. Looking for the lie, the angle, the hidden cost. She won't find it. This is the one true thing I've said all night.
"Okay," she finally says. "I'll stay. But I have conditions."
"Of course you do."
"First, I need access to everything Talia finds. No filtering information or protecting me from ugly truths. If I'm fighting for this inheritance, I need to know exactly what I'm fighting for."
"Done."
"Second, I need to learn how to protect myself. Guns, knives, whatever you think I need to survive if something happens to you."
"I'll teach you."
"Third—" She pauses, and something shifts in her expression. "I need you to tell me the truth about my mother. I want to know who killed her and if my father knew any of this.”