Chapter 4, Xan
Lucian sits across from me, his usual calm arrogance steadfast in place, but I can feel the pressure behind it—the kind of calmness that is not meant to reassure, but to disarm. His office is as it always was—dimly lit, thick with his authority. He rests his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of his face as he studies me.
“Xan, my boy,” he begins, his voice smooth and deceptively warm. “Didn’t I tell you not to play with your food?”
I take my time, leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms, and stretching my legs.
“You gave me a job, and I’m doing it my way.”
“Are you?”, he tilts his head slightly, his piercing blue eyes narrowing. “Because from what I see, we are still incapable of telling what she knows. You have been watching her for weeks now.” He spreads his hands, his tone almost amused.
I keep my expression neutral.
“You told me to watch, not act. I’m following orders.”
His gaze sharpens, cutting through the space between us.
“For someone who’s meant to stay hands off, you sure take your time toying with her.”
He leans forward, his arms hitting the desk.
“What is it about her, Xan, huh?”
My jaw clenches.
“Nothing. She’s a total nobody.”
Every muscle in my body screams for release. My fingers curl tighter, nails digging into my palms as I fight the urge to snap. I stare at him, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral, but inside, I am a fucking storm.
The worst part? He can probably see it. The Ruler always knows when someone is on the brink. He clearly enjoys every second, thriving on the power he exerts over us all.
Lucian leans back, his eyes twitching into a faint, condescending smile.
“You have always been thorough. That’s why I trust you more than anyone else.”, he pauses. “Still let me remind you, boy—there is a fine line between patience and distraction.”
I hold his gaze, refusing to let him see how deeply his words are cutting. How his voice can instantly ignite that searing anger boiling under my skin, clawing its way up my throat like acid.
I nod once, curtly. “I will keep watching. I will find out what she knows.”
His tone now shifting back to something almost paternal.
“Good, good. That’s what I need from you. Stay close to her. Earn her trust. Exploit her weaknesses. If she has no idea who I am, if the past remains buried, then maybe—maybe—she can still be of use.”
He stands, walking around the desk and resting a firm hand on my shoulder.
“I made a promise to someone dear to me once—to welcome that girl within the great walls of the Order. Although I can’t afford to keep that oath if she becomes a threat. I took you in because I saw potential, Xan. And you have never let me down. Don’t start now, son.”
His grip lingers a second too long before he steps away.
“So, keep her alive—for now. If she starts asking the wrong questions… I hope I won’t have to tell you what to do.”
The heavy oak door of Lucian’s office slams shut behind me, reverberating down the narrow corridor. The hallways of the Obsidian Order’s headquarters are gloomy, intentionally oppressive, their stone walls whispering secrets of those who walked these paths before. Chandeliers hang precariously, their chains creaking faintly with every draft, casting erratic shadows that dance like restless spirits. My boots echo with each step, a steady rhythm that contrasts with the rage in my head.
The exit is right ahead—a towering iron door that groans as I push it open. Outside, the night greets me with a damp chill. The rain has stopped, leaving the cobblestone streets slick and gleaming under the amber glow of distant streetlights, blending with the fog that clings stubbornly to the ground.
I light a cigarette, inhaling deeply as I walk, the atmosphere quieter than it should be for New York, even in Vinegar Hill. The neighborhood has usually its own pulse, a thrum of life beneath the surface. Here—where the Order’s influence stretches—it feels muted, almost lifeless.
Mira’s apartment is not far, and I certainly do not fucking need Lucian to order me to keep an eye on her; I already made her my priority.
I crush the cigarette underfoot as her street comes into view. The gallery’s faint light glimmers through the smog, drawing me in, whether or not I want it to.
Through the side bay window, I watch Mira pull her phone from her left pocket as it softly vibrates. She glances at the screen, her brows knitting in confusion, and starts looking around erratically, searching for something—or someone.
She puts her cellphone back anxiously into the pocket of her blue jeans, which mold perfectly to her ass. I wonder what color her face would turn with my belt tightly circling her neck.
A faint smile creeps onto my face—the girl’s got some balls.
From her expression, I can tell she’s realizing I might actually be innocent, that she might have completely lashed out at the wrong person.
I give her a moment to compose herself, letting her believe it might be over.
But of course, little fox, I’m not going anywhere. I’m the hunter, and you’ll be forever my prey.
Right before closing the gallery’s front door, my phone vibrates again. I freeze, a wave of dread washing over me. I can feel the panic rising deep within, my stomach twisting in knots. I am literally on the verge of throwing up from the anxiety. I take a deep breath and look at the screen.
Oh my God, it’s Zoey. It’s only Zoey.
I cannot help to think that alcohol might actually be the answer right now.
I chuckle softly. Zoey always leaves me torn between rolling my eyes in exasperation or laughing so much my stomach hurts.
The second I step into the Skyline, the city seems to shrink below me. The place is perched high above New York, with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across every wall, framing the glowing cityscape. With the smells of sweetened cocktails and leather upholstery, the kind that tells you everything here is polished, curated and expensive.
I make my way through the dimly lit space, my cherry red shiny heels clicking against the marble floors. Neon lights in soft pinks and blues buzz from the bar, reflecting off the mirrored surfaces, creating faint halos around everyone.
The crowd is alive, a mix of fancy suits and slinky dresses, each person sipping on glasses filled with colorful concoctions that look too pretty to drink. A soft, bass-heavy track pulses in the background, just loud enough to make my heart sync with it. I peek toward the bar—it is sleek, black granite with gold accents, the bartenders moving like choreographed dancers.
I head toward the far corner where the windows meet. That is where the real magic happens. The entire city sprawls out before me, lights stretching endlessly, their glow fighting off the night’s darkness. It is breathtaking, overwhelming in its enormity.
I try to focus, to lose myself in the rhythm of beauty, but something still feels… eerie. My eyes keep drifting, scanning faces, corners, and shadows as if my body knows something my mind doesn’t. I shake my head, laughing at myself.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter, maybe it is just the strange energy of the night. Too many people, too many flashing lights. Yet, the tension curls low in my abdomen.
Then it happens again. That feeling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a figure—tall, dark, and dominant—just standing there, watching. I whip my head around to look, but there is nothing. Just the crowd, a crush of bodies pressed together, all moving to the hard beat thundering through the room.
I smile nervously, brushing it off.
You are not Ted Bundy’s next victim, Mira. Calm down.
Even as I try to convince myself, I cannot help, but looking over my shoulder again. Before I can shake it off, someone steps into my space, too close for comfort. He smells like cheap cologne and vodka, and his grin is wide, way too wide.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, leaning in, his breath warm against my ear.
I take a step back, forcing a polite smile.
“Thanks, but I’m not interested. I have a boyfriend.”
“Aw, come on,” he presses, his hand brushing my waist. “He’s not here, is he?”
I feel my stomach churn, my pulse quickening.
“Seriously, no. Please.”
But he doesn’t back off. His grip tightens, and I search around for Zoey in panic, for anyone, but the crowd is too thick.
And, like a fairy tale’s cavalier on his black horse, he appears.
One second later, the guy is yanked away from me with a force that leaves me stunned. The next moments blur together. An imposing figure stands over the guy, his appearance obscured by his black hood and the flickering lights.
Without a word, he lands a punch so powerful that he sends the guy stumbling back on the floor. Another follows, and another, and another until I can’t follow the count anymore. The mass parts slightly, gasps rippling through the air, although no one dares to step in.
I stand frozen, a soft tear rolling down my cheek, my chest heaving as I watch the scene unfold. The man is controlled, precise, and terrifyingly calm as he delivers one final blow. The other guy lies on the floor in a pool of his own blood, almost lifeless. His nose is completely broken, and there is a tooth lying next to his disfigured face.
Around him, shattered glass from a fallen drink scatters across the floor, while the bar’s neon lights flash, casting shadows over the damp ground.
People gather around, some watching with curiosity, others indifferent, as if scenes like this are just part of the club’s usual atmosphere. The music still thumps loudly, almost drowning out the murmurs rising.
The badly beaten man slumps to the ground, groaning in total agony, and the stranger straightens, rolling his neck, finally turning toward me.
Our eyes lock for the first time.
His face is hidden behind a black leather mask, the soft light reflecting over its edges. Yet, his presence is absolutely overwhelming. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move—just watches me, his heavy breaths the only sound I can hear.
There is something utterly magnetic about him, something dangerous. My pulse races, a caged bird in my chest. I feel trapped under his gaze, unable to move or look away, mesmerized by the unsettling mystery of the man before me.
And, just like that, he’s gone.
He disappears into the night as quickly as he appeared, leaving me standing there, breathless and trembling.
Who the hell was that?
It is as if he completely vanished, leaving behind only the memory of his presence: sharp, dominating, and absolutely terrifying. I stumble backward, my fingers digging into the corner of the bar for support, struggling to catch my breath. Zoey rushes to my side, her face pale even for her dark skin, her brown eyes wide.
“What the hell was that, Mira?” she whispers, shaking, barely audible over the chaos.
“I… I don’t know,” I stammer, still scanning all around, hoping—or maybe dreading—that I will catch another glimpse of him. “He just… appeared out of nowhere!”
Zoey’s hand wraps around my arm.
“Do you think he knew that guy? Or you? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, ok!” I say loudly as my stress stumbles dangerously close to its breaking point.
Something deep inside me feels like I know. Or at least, like I should. The intensity of his stare, the way he looked at me before disappearing—it was not random.
The room feels suffocating and I am about to scream, agonizing. A panic attack erupts, stripping away my ability to bring air into my lungs. I break down, tears flowing endlessly like a relentless stream on a stormy night.
“Let’s get you out of here, poor thing.”
Zoey pulls me into a warm embrace, pressing my head against her to shield me from the curious stares surrounding us. The warmth of her body offers a fleeting solace in the suffocating strain, and I cling to the familiarity of her scent, my fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. Her steady, but quick heartbeat offers a rhythm to cling to. Even in her arms, I can’t put away the feeling that my mind is slipping out of control.
Unaware of where I am going, I follow Zoey, the oppressive music from the bar fading more and more with each step.