Chapter Four
CRAVE
The Next Night
The bass thrums through the floor of Sins & Spirits, a steady pulse that mimics a heartbeat I no longer possess.
I sit in my usual spot, a corner booth tucked into the shadows where I can watch everything and everyone, without being watched in return.
Old habits. When you’ve been a predator for millennia, you never sit with your back to the door.
Seraphine is on stage, her voice wrapping around the crowd, smooth as silk and sweet as honey.
The siren’s gift is subtle tonight, just enough to keep the humans relaxed, pliant, spending their money without realizing they’re under a spell.
Her song pulls at their desires, makes them think staying for one more drink is their idea.
Even Seraphine’s most potent melodies fail to touch me, slipping away without effect. The Bloodfire burning in my veins, an ancient hunger that once defined every breath, barely flickers now.
Fed but never satisfied.
Alive but not living.
Centuries have carved me hollow, leaving power without passion, strength without feeling, a goddamn void where the fire used to be.
Bored out of my immortal mind.
I take a sip of whiskey, not because I can get drunk, I can’t, but because holding a glass gives me something to do with my hands. Something other than wrapping them around throats, hearts, and the past I keep trying to bury under layers of civility and motorcycle club politics.
Rogue is at the bar, chatting up a human woman who has no idea she’s flirting with a lycan who could tear her apart without breaking a sweat.
Scorch is playing pool with some locals, a cigarette hanging off his lips to make the smoke curling from his nostrils look natural every time he misses a shot, which isn’t often.
The dragon shifter hates losing more than he hates most things, and he hates most things.
It’s Sunday night, and Sins & Spirits is packed.
Humans are mixing with supernaturals, none of them the wiser.
That’s the beauty of the Law of Silence.
We walk among them, live among them, and they never know what’s right beside them.
It’s protection for both sides and keeps the humans from panicking. Keeps us from being hunted.
Mostly, it keeps me from remembering what I used to be.
A monster.
A killer.
A member of the Coven of Crows, who painted villages red just because we could.
I shake off the memory and scan the room again.
Oracle is in the back, his phoenix fire casting strange shadows as he reads tarot cards for a drunk college kid who thinks it’s all a joke.
Hex is behind his laptop at a side table, probably hacking into someone’s bank account.
Hades is conspicuously absent—the necromancer doesn’t do well in crowds. Too many dead voices, he says.
The door opens, letting in a blast of cool fall air.
And everything in me goes still.
Not physically, I don’t breathe anyway, but something deeper stops. The Bloodfire I thought was dormant, that ancient hunger I’ve been suppressing for centuries, it moves.
Stirs.
Wakes up as though it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
What the hell?
I turn to the door, and I see her.
A human.
She’s nothing extraordinary at first glance.
Mid-twenties, dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, wearing scrubs under a worn leather jacket.
Exhaustion clings to her as a second skin I can smell.
It’s bone-deep weariness that comes from seeing too much, feeling too much, carrying too much.
Her eyes sweep the bar, wary but curious, uncertain what drew her here but powerless to stay away.
I know that look.
I’ve worn it for centuries.
She moves to the bar, sliding onto a stool in front of Eden, our banshee bartender. Eden glances at the newcomer, and even from across the room, I see the flicker of recognition in her eyes. Not recognition of the woman, but of something about her.
My fingers tighten around my glass.
The woman orders. Even with my super hearing, I can’t hear what she says amid the crowd of muffled voices surrounding us, but Eden nods and starts mixing.
Seraphine’s song shifts and grows stronger, but the woman doesn’t react.
She doesn’t lean in. She doesn’t relax the way everyone else in the room does.
Interesting.
Then she turns, just slightly, scanning the room as though she feels my eyes on her.
Her gaze finds mine.
And the world tilts.
It’s not dramatic.
Not some fairy-tale moment where everything else fades away.
But something passes between us in that look. Something electric, ancient, and utterly unexpected. Her eyes are hazel, green, brown, and gold all mixed together, and when they lock onto mine, I see something flicker in their depths.
Crimson and Gold.
Just for a second.
Just a flash.
My Bloodfire roars to life, surging through me with an intensity I haven’t felt since my turning. It’s not hunger, not the usual craving for blood, death, and chaos.
This is something else.
Something more.
Desire.
Recognition.
Inevitability.
“Brother.” Rogue’s voice cuts through my thoughts. The lycan slides into the booth across from me, his too-perfect face arranged in an expression of amusement. “Your shadow just moved on its own.”
I glance down. He’s right. The shadows around me, always present, always still, they’re writhing like living things, reaching toward her, with the sense they know something I don’t.
“Shut up, Lucian,” I mutter, using his real name instead of his road name, Rogue.
I force my shadows back under control.
“Who is she?” He follows my gaze to the bar, his eyes lighting with interest. As a lycan, he can scent emotion, desire, fear, hunger, and read it as easily as breath. And right now, the desire rolling off me is sharp enough that he doesn’t need heightened senses to notice.
“No idea.”
“Liar. You know exactly what she is. You just don’t want to admit it.” He leans back, grinning. “Want me to go talk to her? Feel her out?”
“Touch her, and I’ll rip your throat out.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Rogue’s grin widens. “Oh, this is delicious, Prez. When was the last time you gave a damn about anyone?”
Never.
Not in a thousand years.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I stand, downing the rest of my whiskey, and I move.
Vampire speed could get me to the bar in a blink, but I force myself to walk at a human pace, weaving through the crowd, letting her see me coming. Predators don’t sneak up on prey they want to keep—they announce their presence and let the prey choose to run or stay.
And she doesn’t run.
She watches me approach, one hand wrapped around her drink, something amber, whiskey maybe? The other is resting on the bar. Her posture is relaxed but ready, the quiet confidence of someone who knows how to take a hit. I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightens slightly.
She’s nervous.
But she doesn’t look away.
I stop beside her, close enough to smell her. And God, she smells incredible. Not perfume, not anything artificial, just her. Warm skin and something deeper that makes my fangs ache to descend.
“You look like you’ve had a rough night,” I say, my voice coming out lower than intended.
She glances at me, one brow arching. “That your pickup line? ‘You look like hell, can I buy you a drink?’ ”
A smile tugs at my lips. When was the last time someone was sarcastic with me? When was the last time someone didn’t immediately fall over themselves when I spoke?
“It’s not a line, it is an observation. You’re a nurse, right?” I nod toward her scrubs. “Late shift at the hospital?”
“How do you know I’m not a doctor?”
“Doctors don’t have that look. That I-just-spent-twelve-hours-keeping-people-alive-with-my-bare-hands-and-duct-tape look. That’s pure nurse.”
Something shifts in her expression. Not softening, exactly, but acknowledgment. With the sense I’ve seen something in her that most people miss.
“You’re right, I am a nurse. Long shift. Too many codes. Too many people I couldn’t save.” She takes a sip of her drink, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. “So yeah. Rough night.”
“Can I buy you another?” I gesture to her nearly empty glass.
She considers me for a long moment, those hazel eyes studying my face as if she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to buy me a drink? You don’t know me.”
“Maybe I want to know you.”
“Why?”
You woke something in me I thought was gone.
Your blood calls me in a way I can’t explain.
And in your eyes, I saw life staring back at me after a thousand years.
“Because…” I say instead, “… you walked into a biker bar alone at midnight wearing scrubs, looking as if you’re ready to either collapse or set something on fire. That takes guts. Or desperation. Either way, I’m intrigued.”
Another long look. Then, finally, she nods. “One drink. But I’m not some damsel in distress who needs saving.”
“I never said you were.”
I signal Eden, who appears with her usual grace, power radiating from her warm and undeniable.
“Another round,” I tell her. “On me.”
Eden’s eyes flick between us, and I see that knowing smile curve her lips. Banshees see too much. Know too much. She pours the drinks without comment and slides them across the bar.
“What’s your name?” I ask, turning back to the woman beside me.
“Sloane.”
“Crave.”
“Crave?” She almost laughs. “That’s really your name?”
“Road name. Club president.” I gesture to the patch on my leather cut. “Eternal Sins MC.”
“So, what’s your real name?”
“Draven. But no one calls me that anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because names have power. The fewer people who know your real name, the safer you are.”
It’s more truth than I usually share with strangers, but something about Sloane makes me want to be honest. Or at least, as honest as I can be without revealing the monster lurking under my skin.
She picks up her fresh drink, considering my words. “That’s either really paranoid or really smart.”