Chapter 17
Grayson
“See you soon,” Nix whispers, and slips out the passenger door before Grayson can grab his wrist.
He blows Grayson a kiss—bright, ridiculous, beloved—and then he’s gone into the shrubs like he’s made of sunlight and bad intentions. One second there, the next swallowed by green.
The black SUV pauses at the mouth of the lot, as if waiting for Grayson to do something unexpected.
After a moment, it glides along the bright white lines as if whoever is inside knows the lot as well as they do, its tinted windows swallowing any hint of faces, the vehicle’s body reflecting the mural colors in smeared, ugly patches.
Grayson’s fingers tighten on his knees before he realizes they’re shaking. He reaches for The Plain out of instinct, the vast place where colors swirl and glitter, roiling over each other in every shade.
While he can’t see Nix, he can feel his heart and their bond wide open. His soulmate isn’t worried or anxious. He’s anticipatory.
Jay is still as stone, his breath measured, with his shoulders seemingly broader than usual, as if the car cannot contain him. Leo’s scent is burnt cinnamon, with a simmering anger he reserves for the world’s injustices.
“Stay here,” Jay grunts as he opens his door.
Fuck that.
Grayson is already moving before his brain catches up, body following Jay like the pull of gravity.
He steps out into the late morning heat, the air brighter than it has any right to be, and the first thing he notices is the smell of sun on asphalt and warm paint.
The faint sound of far-off police sirens and local traffic gives it that weird, mundane, everyday feeling when this is anything but.
They’re poised for a moment on the edge of something, where time has slowed to a crawl. Then the SUV’s door opens, and everything picks up speed.
A man gets out first. He’s big and built for intimidation; his black T-shirt and cargo pants do nothing to conceal that he’s combat trained. He moves like he has done this a hundred times, like he expects people to comply because compliance is the easiest option in the room.
He doesn’t look at Jay. His gaze slides past, landing on Grayson with sharp certainty.
“Grayson Pearce,” he says. His voice is calm, practiced, almost polite. “We are here to escort you. You will come with us now. For your own safety.”
Grayson’s stomach turns, not with fear, but with a sudden, vivid rage at being spoken about like a problem to be managed.
For the first time since he’d begun his formal training, wind tears loose in a sudden, violent sweep, dragging grit, leaves, and dust into a spiraling wake that coils around his body.
It whips around his head, snaps through Jay’s longer strands, rising higher and wider with every pulse of his anger.
Sparks, sharp and angry, slip from his fingertips, their snap and crackle raising the hair on Grayson’s arms.
Jay steps forward, placing himself where he’s always felt he belonged—between his pack and anyone who thinks they can harm them.
“My mate doesn’t go anywhere with strangers in unmarked vehicles,” Jay says, mild as a man discussing parking validation. “Especially not men who use the word safety like it’s a leash.”
The henchman’s eyes flick, finally, to Jay. Assessing, his expression stays controlled, but there is a fraction of recalibration there, a tiny shift in the set of his jaw.
“This does not concern you, Were,” he starts.
Jay’s smile appears, but it does not reach his eyes. “Everything that concerns him concerns me,” Jay says. Then his voice lowers, quiet enough that Grayson feels it more than hears it. “Everything.”
Behind the henchman, the back doors open. Two more people step out. Not at all built for intimidation, they don’t need stature to be the real threat. The first is a slender woman, more of a weasel than the Doberman the henchman is.
If Grayson unfocuses for a moment, he can see the faint lime-green light glowing from the center of her chest, under her black T-shirt. Her face is blank, but even from thirty feet away, Grayson can feel the malevolence creeping across the distance like an invisible fog.
The second person is of medium height and balding, the rest of his hair shorn close. He matches Grayson’s snapping sparks and then some. He holds a fireball in one hand while the fingers of his other hand twitch in a familiar rhythm.
The henchman squares up, boots planted wide, chin tipped forward. He is used to being obeyed. “Let’s not make this ugly,” he says. “We’re authorized to remove him. This can be calm, or it can be…inconvenient.”
It’s almost funny, the ridiculous posturing and the “easy way or the hard way” cliché. That Jay doesn’t laugh is why Jay has always been the best man to lead them. It’s self-control, strength of character, pure dominance, and why Grayson would crawl through glass just to follow behind him.
Jay lifts his chin. “You showed up in an unmarked SUV like hired muscle with two magic users,” he says mildly. “If this was ever meant to be calm and convenient, you’d have brought paperwork instead.”
Behind the henchman, the weaselly woman’s magic unfurls in a faint green shimmer, subtle but unmistakable to Grayson’s senses. The man beside her rolls his shoulders, a menacing crocodile smile cracking his lined cheeks.
The henchman’s gaze flicks, once, to his backup. Then back to Grayson. “You don’t understand what he is.”
Jay’s mouth curves. Not into a smile. “Oh,” he says. “I understand exactly who he is.”
He doesn’t say it out loud, but Grayson feels it in his bond. It’s pure possession. Mine.
The henchman shifts, irritation bleeding through his control. “Step aside.”
Jay doesn’t move. “No. What you can do,” Jay continues, conversationally, “is get back in that vehicle and pretend you never thought about him. You can tell whoever sent you that Grayson Pearce is under my protection. You can even tell them I was very polite.” This time. “Leave.”
The woman’s eyes narrow. When she speaks, it’s low, in heavily accented English. “That is not for you to decide.”
Jay’s gaze finally slides to her. “I am his Pack Alpha. I am the only one who gets to decide.” It’s not true, Jay would let Grayson decide, but this isn’t really about that. This is about reminding them that Grayson is Were and, in that regard, his Pack Alpha has final say.
Grayson feels it as a pressure change, a sudden tightening in the atmosphere, like the world itself has leaned forward to listen. Wind, stronger than before, roils through the lot in a sharp, violent gust, tearing loose the debris at their feet.
The henchman’s jaw sets. “Take him,” he says.
The woman moves first. Faster than Grayson could have expected, her magic lashes outward, invisible bands snapping around Grayson’s wrists and ribs.
The pressure is immediate and brutal, compressing his chest, pinning his arms as if the air itself has decided to become iron.
A pressure stronger than he’d ever felt burrows into his mind.
Not in the same way Withers had done, but like a blow to the back of the head.
This strike is a slithering snake, a sharp awl digging at Grayson’s free will, taking him to his knees.
Jay steps forward, claws out and fangs down, his red eyes glowing even in the bright light.
The henchman is either stupid or this is his first run-in with a Were opponent. He charges Jay, head down, intent on taking Jay to the ground.
From his position kneeling on the ground, Grayson watches as Jay meets the charge head-on, standing his ground.
He deflects the first swing with a sharp, efficient block that sends the man’s arm skidding wide.
He steps inside the henchman’s reach and drives a knee into his thigh with bone-jarring precision.
He grunts, off-balance, and Jay follows with an elbow to the jaw that snaps his head sideways. He’s not even using his natural Were weapons or strength as he drives the man back.
They trade blows in tight, brutal proximity. The bigger man seems to be immune to Jay’s strength, rallying with seemingly magical recovery, when the human would normally be unconscious on the asphalt.
Jay’s movements are economical. A slice to the henchman’s forehead causes blood to gush into his eyes.
Every subsequent strike lands where it will do the most damage.
He doesn’t show off. He fights the way Gideon taught him—to end the threat and to win, even when the prize is only to determine who tops.
He twists the henchman’s wrist until it snaps, the enigma’s strength more than the bigger man can bear. There’s a shrill shout as Jay yanks his shoulder out of its socket.
Across the lot, Grayson’s vision tunnels as the woman’s grip of Air tightens, black spots forming in front of Grayson’s eyes. Pain blooms as his ribs crack.
“Gray!” Leo shouts from behind him.
Extra strength pours through his bond with Nix.
And a memory surfaces, clear as glass.
You don’t need your hands to call on your magic, Grayson. It just focuses your flow, but you are The Plain. They’re the words Knox had wanted him to remember this morning in class. You’ll remember what I said, right?
“Gray!” Leo bellows again as he lays on the horn in a long blare right behind him.
Grayson closes his eyes. He stops trying to move.
He opens his soul and pulls, and Nix shouts.
The Plain surges through him in a great wave, not as something he wields, but as something they are together. Every color of the rainbow, on every frequency, fills his every cell.
The wind around him compresses, spirals inward, then explodes outward in a shrieking burst that tears the woman’s weave apart. The invisible bands snap, forcing her to stagger back with a choked cry.
Grayson inhales, and the pain is piercing. Pushing it away, he calls a fireball, sending it across the parking lot without looking or raising a hand. It goes wide, and the woman approaches, her face contorted in a rictus of rage.