Chapter 19
Ishift in my desk chair, the vinyl sticking to the back of my thighs as I struggle to focus on the document spread before me. The overhead lamp casts a tight circle of yellow light, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
It’s been a few days since I spent the night at Orien’s apartment, another Thursday passing where I didn’t go to the Blue Note Lounge.
Only this time, instead of it being a quiet rebellion to show Orien he couldn’t dictate my movements, it’s because I’m still struggling to remember where my loyalties lie.
Outside my window, the city continues its rhythm, while inside, everything narrows to the single page of family business that will change everything.
I run my finger along the first line of text, the paper cool beneath my touch. “Phase One: Inspection Cycle. Locations: North Ashford warehouse, River Street logistics, Blue Note service entrance.”
Each word burns itself into my memory. I’ve been doing this since I was seventeen, reading, memorizing, and destroying important documents.
My fingertips trace the neat block of text describing the systematic inspection, the specific trucking companies slated for questioning, and the liquor licenses marked for sudden, intensive reviews.
“Phase Two: Supplier Disruption. Timeline: 48 hours.”
I read it twice, committing each name and date to memory.
Russo Distilleries, first to be notified.
Empire Paper, second. Tri-State Glass and Spirits, third.
Three companies supply sixty percent of the Blue Note’s inventory, all with pressure points that can be triggered in sequence, designed to bleed the business from its feet up.
The typeface blurs as I reach the final section. “Phase Three: Enforcement. Coordinate with the local precinct for neighborhood inspection after supplier pressure builds. Target date: 72 hours post-initiation.”
Three days. It’s all my uncle would give them.
The kitchen matches crack as I strike them together, their sulfur scent rising before the flame catches.
I hold the document by its corner, watching the fire crawl up the paper, turning it black.
The heat nips at my fingers before I drop it into the metal wastepaper basket, watching as the flames curl around the words.
Three phases. Three days. One dead business.
The smoke rises, carrying the acrid tang of burnt paper and ink. I should open a window, but I stay seated, watching the evidence turn to ash.
My hands lie flat on the desk when it’s done, fingers splayed across the smooth surface. For the first time since accepting this assignment, I don’t run the plan for efficiency. I run it for impact.
I picture the Blue Note empty, its windows dark, the furniture cleared, and the walls stripped bare.
I picture Kain’s equipment being loaded into a van by strangers.
I picture Petra sitting at the curb, her phone in her hand, trying to find work for everyone who’ll be out of a job when the place closes.
I picture the favor ledger with Ghost’s perfect handwriting, all those careful balances tipping into the red with no way back.
I picture Orien standing in the dim light, his face as it was when he looked at me in his bed, and my heart twists behind my sternum.
If I warn the Blue Note, the Vartanians will know I’m compromised. If I do nothing, Orien and his people will be hurt.
I should have walked away from this mission the first night I locked eyes with Orien across the crowded lounge. Then, this wouldn’t hurt so much.
But it’s too late now.
I stand, the chair scraping across the bare floor. My jacket hangs on the hook by the door, the fabric still cool from the night air. I shrug it on, not bothering to zip it, and check my pocket for my phone and wallet.
I scoop my keys from the bowl on the side table and take them with me as I step into the hall. The elevator takes me down to the lobby, its ancient gears grinding between floors.
I push through the front door and out into the winter air. Snowflakes drift from the sky, melting when they hit the pavement, but enough remain on the sidewalks and parked cars to give the night a hushed quality, as if the world is holding its breath.
A couple passes me, their arms linked, laughing as they lean into each other for warmth. Cold flushes the woman’s cheeks, and the man’s hat sits on his brow. They move as one, in tune with each other, and I turn away before they catch me staring.
The Blue Note is a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment. I keep my pace steady, hands shoved in my pockets, and eyes forward.
What am I planning to do once I reach the lounge?
I still haven’t decided by the time I arrive, half frozen and shivering.
As I push through the crowd, the blues-heavy music slides under my skin, the bass line vibrating through the floorboards. The dim lights cast everything in amber and shadow, faces half-hidden in the crush of bodies.
I scan the room reflexively, noting who’s here and who’s not, which tables are occupied and which sit empty, the rhythm of the place unchanged despite what’s coming.
Halfway to the bar, I spot Devon Aris, a well-known courier for the underworld, valued for his neutral stance and discretion. He stands at the far end of the bar, a whiskey in one hand, his back to the wall.
He speaks to Ghost, sliding a slim envelope across the polished wood. It disappears beneath the counter with a practiced motion.
I don’t slow my steps or acknowledge the transaction happening a few feet away. The Courier is moving information, not weapons or product.
The crowd thins near the corner where Orien stands with his back to the wall as he scans the room.
I stop beside him without a word, one hand settling at the small of his back.
Orien’s hand finds my hip in return, his thumb tracing a slow arc over the fabric of my sweater.
He doesn’t otherwise acknowledge me, but I catch the shift all the same.
The room remains under his scrutiny, and now, so do I.
The band launches into a new song, the singer’s voice carrying over the crowd without effort. A couple moves toward the small dance floor, the woman’s hand linked with her partner’s, their bodies leaning toward each other as they walk.
“Busy tonight,” I say loud enough for his ears alone.
His attention remains on the room. “Always is on Fridays.”
I lick my lips. “I heard an interesting conversation while picking up a coffee this morning.”
Orien’s thumb pauses on my hip. “Oh?”
“They were talking about increased regulatory presence at the west dock district.” I keep my tone level, almost bored, the kind of casual gossip that passes between regulars. “Said they’re going to be checking delivery corridors in the next few days.”
Orien’s thumb resumes its slow arc across my hip. “Is that so?”
“Forty-eight hours, he said.” I take the drink cradled in Orien’s free hand and take a small sip of the bourbon. “Something about paperwork at the north junction.”
A beat passes. Two. The music swells, the bass player hitting a note that vibrates through the floorboards and up my legs.
Orien remains quiet for another heartbeat before speaking. “I understand.”
Does he, though? Can he understand the line I’m crossing to give him this information when I’ve lied to him about who I am? My heart hammers, the sound of it louder than the music. I’ve interfered with my own family’s plan, and Orien hasn’t asked me a single question about it.
Orien’s thumb continues its unhurried arc, but the way he turns his head to study me, I realize he knows.
The band shifts to a slower number, the tempo dropping as the guitarist takes a solo. Around us, the crowd shifts, some moving toward the dance floor, others settling into conversation with their companions. No one pays any attention to where we stand on the outskirts.
“I should go,” I say, the words barely audible over the music.
Orien catches my wrist, his fingers wrapping around it with gentle pressure. “Stay.”
The single word shivers through me, and I stay where I am.
He turns to me, his body blocking the view of us from the rest of the room. “Want a whiskey sour?”
“No, I only came to...”
The sentence dies on my lips. Came to what? Warn you? Protect you? Save you?
My reasons don’t matter. Only the outcome does.
Orien gives me time to find the words, and when none come, he says again, “I understand.”
And somehow, I think he does.
Orien’s hand finds mine, fingers linking between us, and he squeezes once. “Come with me.”
My pulse jumps again. I just outed myself to the Blue Notes’ problem solver, the man in charge of ensuring inconveniences disappear. He may not know who I am, but he now knows I’m not just a graphic designer, newly moved to town.
I want to believe he’ll take the information as a show of good faith, but if he doesn’t…
Orien’s hold on me tightens as he repeats, “Come with me, trouble.”
Swallowing hard, I whisper, “Okay."
He releases my hand to guide me through the crowd toward the door. People step aside as we pass, giving us space without being asked.
My pulse hammers in my ears, the sound of it drowning out everything else as we reach the door. Orien punches in the code, the lock clicking open beneath his fingers, and we step through.
The corridor beyond the door is quiet as the music from the lounge turns into a dull throb behind us.
Orien’s hands find my waist again, and he walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. For one cold second, I think this is where he does it. This is where it ends. My pulse spikes, breath growing shallow, and I search for the particular stillness that precedes violence.
What I find instead is him watching me figure it out.
He smirks. “Did you think—”
“Shut up,” I say, and pull him down by the collar.
The kiss is graceless at first, more collision than anything, my hands fisting in his shirt like I’m still deciding whether or not to push him away.
His mouth claims mine, unhurried in a way that speaks of absolute certainty, and when his tongue slides past my lips, I stop deciding.
My hands move from his chest to his hair, tugging him closer, and his fingers flex at my waist.
Orien’s mouth moves to my throat, and his teeth find the skin below my nape guard, and pleasure shoots through me, my knees buckling. His palm on my sternum pins me in place.
I tug at his hair. “I need—”
“Not here,” he murmurs against my pulse point. “Too many people.”
The idea of being seen like this should douse my desire. It doesn’t.
“Please,” I say, and hate how small it sounds. “I need—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll give it to you.” His hand drops to cup me through my jeans, as if I’m already his, and my breath leaves my body entirely. “But not here.”
My hips push forward into his palm, and he lets me for a heartbeat before he takes his hand away.
“Orien—” I whine.
Watching me, he pops the button of my jeans and slides his hand inside. When his fingers close around my hard dick, the noise that escapes me is not one I’ll be able to take back.
He gives me a slow stroke. “Is this what you want?”
His kiss swallows my moan as he grips my hip hard enough to leave a bruise I’ll touch later, alone, just to remember this.
“Stay still,” he orders against my mouth.
I can’t. My hips rock forward, and he allows it for one thrust before he pins me back in place.
His pace is ruthless, designed to take me apart, and it works as my breath comes out in short, desperate pants. When I turn my face into his throat to muffle the noises escaping me, he grabs my jaw and pulls it back.
“Don’t.” His pupils blow wide. “Let me hear you.”
So I do. I stop fighting it, stop trying to hold any of myself back, and the sound that comes out of me is nothing I’d choose to let anyone hear. And Orien’s pleased rumble makes it all worth it.
When I come, it’s in my pants with my fingers twisted in his shirt and my forehead tucked into the curve of his shoulder, shaking. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t ease up, until I shove weakly at his wrist, and my knees shake so hard I’d be a puddle on the floor if not for his hold on me.
He bends to capture my parted lips in a slow kiss, and the gentleness is the worst part. I wasn’t ready for it, and my eyes burn.
When he pulls back, his desire remains, but new tenderness tempers it. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses me again and fixes the front of my jeans. “Come home with me.”
I should say no. Spending another night with Orien will only widen the rift between who I was and who I could be with him.
But I don’t want to leave him yet. “All right.”
Relief flashes before his face smooths back to its usual neutrality. “Let’s go.”
We slip out the side exit, avoiding the crowd, and his hand stays linked with mine as he drives us to his apartment.
Inside, he drops his keys on the small table by the door and turns to pull me back into his arms.
His mouth finds mine, gentler this time, and I melt into it, my arms sliding around his waist to hold him close. His hand cradles the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and a small, hungry sound escapes me.
Knees bending, he lifts me and turns, striding to his bedroom, where he lays me down, and I once again lose myself to my Alpha.