Chapter 5
Blake
Morning comes too early and not early enough.
I didn't sleep. Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined Peyton in my shirt, barefoot in my apartment, looking at me like I was either her salvation or her biggest mistake.
Probably both.
I spent the night on the couch doing what I do best, keeping watch, running scenarios, planning for every possible outcome except the one where I stop wanting her. That one's not possible anymore, especially now that I know she wants me too, or at least she thinks she does.
Around six, I hear her moving in the bedroom.
Shower running. The domestic normalcy of it hits wrong, like we’re playing house in the middle of a war zone.
By the time she emerges, I've made coffee and burned toast I'll pretend is breakfast. It’s all I have. My sister may have watered my plants while I was gone, but she didn’t stock my apartment with any groceries.
Honestly, it’s a miracle that I could get her to check on this place for me at all, so I should be grateful.
Peyton looks nothing like I imagined when she walks out in a navy blue bathrobe I had hanging in my closet. She looks ten times better. With her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail and her face clean of makeup, she looks more beautiful than when I first set eyes on her.
Fuck me.
I’m in real trouble.
"Morning," she says, taking the coffee I offer without meeting my eyes.
"Morning."
“I’m going to need some clothes.”
“Talia already has it handled. You’re getting a delivery in about ten minutes. Something simple. Clean underwear. Jeans and a sweater.”
“She knows my size?”
“She guessed.”
Silence settles between us. It’s awkward, charged, full of everything we didn't say last night.
"About yesterday—" she starts.
"We have an appointment at ten," I cut her off because I can't have this conversation. We need to stay focused. "DNA verification. Talia found someone we can trust. Well, sort of."
"Sort of?"
"He's a forensic specialist who owes me a favor.
Discrete, professional, won't ask questions we don't want to answer.
" I drain my coffee. "But first, we need to stop at the club.
I've got some additional documents regarding Kingsley finances there that Talia pulled. You'll need them so that you know what you’re talking about when you make your claim.”
"Why didn’t you bring them here last night?"
"Because last night I was focused on keeping you alive. This morning, I'm focused on staking your claim.” I grab my jacket and check my gun. "We’ll go as soon as the clothes get here, before Silas realizes where you are. Quick in and out."
“I’m pretty sure Silas already knows I’m here. It’s the obvious place.”
“Allowing a strange woman to spend the night in a place where I lay my head is not the obvious choice for men who know me.”
“You don’t bring women home?”
“This hasn’t been home in a long time.”
“Still, when it was home, you didn’t bring women here?”
“No.”
She sets down her cup, studies me with those eyes that see too much. "You're avoiding talking about what happened."
"Nothing happened."
"Liar."
"Peyton—"
"It's fine." She moves past me toward the door, and I catch a trace of my body wash on her skin. It’s clean, simple, nothing like the expensive perfume from last night, and somehow more devastating. "You made your choice. I'm respecting it. Let me know when the clothes get here.”
She grabs her cup and heads back into my bedroom.
I should be grateful she's dropping it. I should appreciate that she's being professional, practical, and focused on survival rather than whatever this heat between us is.
Instead, I'm irritated that she's giving up so easily.
Women typically throw themselves at me or run from me, but this feels different.
Almost like she can take me or leave me.
We take the back stairs down to the club's private entrance.
At night, the Frost & Flame is full of mystery and shadows.
During the day, it's just a building with good bones and a questionable history.
Marcus is already behind the bar doing inventory.
He glances up when we enter, takes in Peyton with one assessing look, then goes back to counting bottles like beautiful women show up with me every morning.
They don't.
"Boss," he greets. "Didn't expect you this early."
"Need to grab some files from the office. Anyone been asking around?"
"Your cousin stopped by last night. Nico. Said to tell you Silas wants a family meeting." Marcus wipes down the bar with methodical precision. "Also said if you don't show, they'll come find you."
“They can all kick rocks.”
"Blake." Peyton's voice carries a warning. “He’s being persistent. Maybe we should.”
"No." I don't look at her because I can't. If I do, I'll see the worry, the fear she's trying to hide, and I'll start making decisions that will feel more territorial than protective. "Silas doesn't get to summon me like a dog. Not anymore. I’ll talk to him when I’m ready.”
Marcus raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. I'm halfway to the back hallway when the front door opens. My spidey senses go on high alert. Wrong time. Wrong entrance. Wrong everything.
Three men walk in like they own the place, wearing designer overcoats, suits, expensive watches, the kind of polished menace that comes from having lawyers on speed dial and bodies in their wake.
I recognize the one in front—Vincent Calabrese.
Hollow Club enforcer. Works directly under the council, reports to no single family.
He’s the kind of man who makes problems disappear and doesn't lose sleep over it.
He's also got a reputation for enjoying his work too much.
"Blake Delano." Vincent smiles like we're old friends. We're not. “I heard you were back in town and thought I'd pay my respects."
“The club's closed." I don't move toward them or shift my stance. I just wait. "Come back at eight."
"I'm not here for drinks." His gaze slides past me to Peyton, and something cold moves through his expression. "I'm here for the girl."
Marcus stops wiping the bar. I hear the subtle click of him reaching for the weapon we keep under the counter.
"The girl has a name," Peyton says before I can respond. Her voice is steady, sharp. "And she's not interested in whatever you're selling."
Vincent's smile widens. "I like her. Spirited." He takes a step closer. "The HC has a business proposition for Ms. Quinn. We'd like to discuss her future in Wintervale. Professionally."
"She's not interested,” I reply coolly.
"I wasn't asking you." They take another step. His men flank out, blocking the exit. They do it in a professional, practiced way, the kind of formation that says they've done this before. "Ms. Quinn is a legal adult capable of making her own decisions. We're simply offering her options."
"Options." I let the word hang there, flat and dangerous. "That’s what you call it when you corner women in private clubs?"
"I call it a business meeting." Vincent's still smiling, but his eyes are cold.
Dead. "One she'd be smart to take. There’s no need for us to beat around the bush.
The Kingsley inheritance comes with complications.
Enemies. Threats. The HC can offer her protection and legitimacy.
All she has to do is sign a few papers, attend a few meetings, and vote the way sensible people vote. "
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then she'll learn that Wintervale can be very unforgiving to people who don't understand how things work.
" He looks at Peyton again, and this time there's something darker in his expression.
Assessment. Appetite. "Especially beautiful women who think they can play games with men who've been playing them longer. "
The temperature in the room drops. I feel it in my chest, that cold, focused clarity that comes right before violence. The same feeling I had in the rings, in the warehouse, or every time someone crossed a line I'd drawn in blood.
"Marcus," I say quietly. "Take Peyton upstairs."
"Blake—" Peyton starts.
"Now."
She doesn't move. So fucking stubborn. If she were mine, I’d fuck all of that free will right out of her.
If she was mine.
Fuck, I’m losing it.
Vincent laughs. "She doesn't take orders well, does she? That's going to be a problem. The HC prefers women who know their place."
"And where's that?" Peyton asks, voice dripping acid.
"Quiet. Compliant. Grateful." Vincent's smile turns ugly. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We can teach you."
That's the line.
I move before Vincent finishes the sentence, crossing the space between us in three strides, one hand fisting in his expensive suit, the other going for the pressure point at his throat. His men react, reaching for weapons they won't have time to draw.
"Touch her," I say quietly, my face inches from Vincent's, "and I'll bury you so deep even the HC won't find the pieces."
Vincent's eyes widen with surprise, then calculation, then fear. Good. He should be afraid.
"Blake." Marcus's voice carries a warning. "We've got company."
I glance toward the door. Two more men outside, watching through the window. They’re backup. Vincent came prepared.
That was smart.
But not smart enough.
I release Vincent with enough force to send him stumbling back.
"Here's how this works. You leave. Now. You tell your Club masters that Peyton Quinn is under Delano protection.
And if anyone, and I mean anyone, tries to corner her, threaten her, or touch her without permission, they'll answer to me. "
“I wonder what Silas Delano would have to say about that.”
“Doesn’t matter what he says.”
"You're one man, Delano.”
"I'm the man who burned White Ember." I remind him of who I am, the violence, the rage, the part of me that doesn't negotiate. "Ask around. See how that worked out for the last people who thought I was bluffing."