7. Laina
7
LAINA
“ G od. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“A few hours,” I admit to Izzy, though I keep my eyes on my coffee mug. I should have gotten a triple shot of espresso.
“Laina, why don’t you come and stay with me and the guys? You’ll be safer there.”
“I just had a busy night.”
The café hums with the quiet buzz of morning chatter, clinking mugs, and the low hiss of the espresso machine.
Izzy sits across from me, stirring her iced coffee with a bright pink straw, her nails clicking against the plastic cup. Her golden hair is swept into a loose ponytail, and her oversized sunglasses are pushed up onto her head. With her wide smile and effortless charm, she looks relaxed, and casual—like she belongs in this scene.
“Izzy, I need you to listen to me.” My voice comes out quieter than I intended.
Izzy glances up from her coffee, her bright blue eyes sharp with concern. “I’m listening, babe. You’ve got my full attention.”
“I think Reynolds is alive.”
Izzy freezes mid-stir, her straw stopping its lazy rotation through the ice cubes. For a moment, she just stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she sets the cup down on the table.
“Laina…” she starts carefully, her voice soft, but threaded with doubt.
“I know how it sounds,” I interrupt, my words tumbling out in a rush. “I know everyone thinks he’s dead. The articles, the reports—they all say suicide. But none of it adds up, Izzy. The visitor listed as a Private Legal Counsel, the fact that he was taken off suicide watch—none of it makes sense.”
Izzy exhales sharply and leans back in her chair, her arms crossing over her chest. “Laina, you’ve been through hell, okay? No one blames you for being… on edge. But this? This sounds like paranoia.”
“It’s not paranoia!” A couple at the table next to us glances over, and I lower my voice, leaning closer to Izzy. “You weren’t there, Izzy. You don’t know what he’s capable of. That man doesn’t just give up. And he sure as hell doesn’t kill himself in some prison cell.”
“Laina. I know Reynolds. He was my dad’s best friend and my boss . I know exactly what kind of monster he is, but there’s no way he could’ve escaped.” Izzy shakes her head, her expression taut. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Living in fear of a ghost, of something that might not even be real—it’s eating you alive, Laina. Look at yourself!”
I flinch, her words hitting hard. And she’s not wrong, I know what I look like—a crazed person; tired, pale, with deep circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer can hide. But I also know I’m right.
“I can’t pretend it’s over when every instinct I have is screaming that it’s not. I can’t ignore the signs, Izzy.”
Izzy leans forward, her hands splayed on the table. Her voice softens, but her frustration bleeds through. “You deserve more than this, Laina. You deserve to heal. To move on. But every time you dig deeper into this, every time you lose yourself in those dark thoughts, he’s still winning. Do you understand that? He’s dead and gone but you’re still letting him control you!”
“And what if I’m right? What if he’s not actually dead, Izzy? What if he’s out there, planning something? What happens then?”
She looks away, her jaw tight, her hands clenching into fists before she sighs and pushes back from the table.
“You know I love you, Laina. But I can’t do this with you today.”
The chair scrapes against the floor as she gets to her feet, grabs her coffee, and slings her purse over her shoulder. She looks down at me, her expression a mix of worry, guilt, and something else—something like defeat.
“You need to take a breather. Step back. Please,” she says softly. “Call me when you’re ready to talk about something else. Anything else.”
“Izzy, wait, last night--”
“Look. I’m going to stop by later this week. I think you should come live with me. I’m going to talk to Hawk about it later tonight. No fighting me on this, okay?”
Before I can respond, she turns and walks out of the café, her ponytail swaying with each step. The little bell above the door chimes as it swings shut behind her.
I sit there, frozen, my mug cooling in my hands.
The words Izzy said echo in my mind. You’re still letting him control you.
Was she right?
My eyes drift to the window, watching Izzy cross the street and disappear around the corner.
But as much as I want to believe that Reynolds is gone, I can’t shake the feeling deep in my gut—the one that’s been gnawing at me for days, keeping me awake at night and sending me chasing shadows in abandoned warehouses.
He’s still out there. I can feel it in my bones and I can’t pretend otherwise.
I drop a crumpled five-dollar bill on the table, grab my purse, and head outside.
The door swings shut behind me with a hollow chime, and the morning air hits me like a slap. Crisp, sharp, and far too bright.
I tug my jacket tighter around myself, my head down, lost in thought as I move toward the crosswalk. I barely take two steps before I collide with something—no, someone —solid.
A wall of muscle and leather blocks my path, and I stumble back, my breath catching as I look up… and up… and up .
The man in front of me looks like he was carved from stone—broad shoulders wrapped in a worn leather jacket, his dark T-shirt pulled taut across a chest that could probably stop bullets. His arms, crossed loosely over his chest, are thick with muscle, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his jacket.
But it’s his face that stops me cold.
Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw dusted with dark scruff, and full lips set in a line that suggests he doesn’t smile often—or maybe ever. His black hair is cut short on the sides, slightly longer on top, tousled like he just ran his hands through it.
But it’s his eyes that pin me in place.
They’re a piercing shade of gray; stormy and intense, like thunderclouds right before they crack open with lightning. They sweep over me, sharp and assessing, and for a second, I feel seen. Too seen. Like he’s cataloging every inch of me, every secret I’ve ever tried to bury.
“Whoa there,” he drawls, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of sound that seems to vibrate in your chest. “In a hurry to run someone over, or were you hoping to throw yourself at me on purpose?”
I blink, my mouth opening and closing uselessly.
Words. I need words.
But my brain has short-circuited because— seriously —Where are all these men coming from? First Dagger, then Ryder, and now this guy, standing here like he had just walked straight out of a crime thriller’s central casting call.
“S-Sorry,” I stammer, my face heating instantly. “I wasn’t looking.”
He arches a dark brow, his lips twitching like he’s fighting back a smirk. “Clearly.”
I take a step back, trying to regain whatever shred of composure I have left. But it’s hard when he’s right there, towering over me, radiating heat and power and something else—something sharp-edged and dangerous.
I glance down briefly and notice his boots are scuffed and well-worn. There’s a faint smudge of grease on his knuckles like he’s been working on something mechanical. A motorcycle, maybe? Of course, a motorcycle.
This guy was practically screaming biker.
And yet, despite the hard lines creasing his face and the intimidating aura rolling off him, I can’t help but notice the way his jacket hugs his shoulders. Or how sensual his lips look—okay, focus, Laina. Focus.
“Are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.
I clear my throat, nodding a little too quickly. “Yeah. Fine. I’m fine.”
His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long, like he’s trying to decide if he believes me. Then, slowly, he nods.
“Good.”
He steps aside slightly, giving me room to pass, but something about the way he’s looking at me—like he knows something I don’t—makes me hesitate.
“You, uh… you from around here?” I ask, instantly regretting the question. Way to sound casual, Laina. I think to myself.
One corner of his mouth twitches up in something that’s not quite a smile, but not quite a smirk either. “Something like that.”
“Right.” I nod, clutching the strap of my bag like it’s a lifeline. “Well, sorry again for… you know… crashing into you.”
“No harm done, love.”
That word—love—my stomach shouldn’t flip over it, but it does.
His eyes briefly flick over my shoulder, back toward the café, before settling on me again. Something sharp flashes in his gaze, but it’s gone before I can place it.
“You might want to watch your back, though. You never know who you might run into out here.”
I watch him walk away, his words sending a chill down my spine. My pulse is still racing as I turn back toward the crosswalk, my mind spinning.
First Dagger. Then Ryder. Now… him.
What are the odds that three men like that would be circling me like wolves sniffing out a cornered rabbit?
I cross the street with quick steps, my pulse still hammering in my ears as I try to shake off the encounter. But it feels impossible. The weight of those storm-gray eyes cling to me, the gravel in his voice echoing in my head like a song I can’t get out of my mind.
Who was that guy?
The chill of his warning settles somewhere deep in my chest, mixing with the unease I haven’t been able to shake for days. Watch your back. The words slither through me, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
I step into the narrow alleyway between two shops, pausing for a moment to lean against the brick wall and suck in a steadying breath. But before I can fully exhale, a shadow looms at the mouth of the alley.
It’s him .
He’s standing with his hands shoved casually into his pockets, his head tilted slightly, like he’s assessing whether I’m going to bolt or not.
My spine straightens instinctively. “Are you following me?”
His lips quirk up, that same faint, humorless almost-smile. “Not exactly. But it seems like we’re walking the same path, love.”
I cross my arms, trying to look braver than I feel. “Do you always call random women that, or am I just special?”
He takes a step closer. “You’re special, alright. But something tells me you already know that.”
“What do you want?”
He stops just a few feet away, his broad shoulders blocking out the light filtering in from the street behind him. Up close, he smells faintly of smoke, leather, and metal.
“I could ask you the same question,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Because you’re looking for something, aren’t you, Laina?”
I gasp, “How the hell do you know my name?”
“I know more than you think. But that’s not the point.”
“You can’t just follow me into an alley, throw cryptic warnings at me, and expect me to play along. Who the hell are you?”
He takes another step closer, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “I’m someone who knows trouble when he sees it. And love, you’re swimming in it.”
“Stop calling me that,” I snap.
“You were at the warehouse last night,” he continues. “You were sneaking around where you shouldn’t have been, and you lied to my men about why you were there.”
I take a step back, bumping into the cold brick wall behind me. My voice wobbles despite my best effort to sound strong. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He leans in slightly, not enough to touch me, but close enough that the heat of his body rises over my own. His dark eyes lock onto mine, unblinking.
“I have very little patience for liars. What were you doing there?”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I—I was following a lead.”
“A lead?” he repeats, his brow arching. “Who the hell do you think you are, Nancy Drew? Following leads gets people killed. Especially when they don’t know whose toes they’re stepping on.”
I bristle at his condescension, my fear briefly giving way to frustration. “You think this is some kind of game? You think I want to be wrapped up in this mess?”
His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not meddling for fun,” I continue, my voice trembling despite the sharpness of my words. “I’m trying to find out the truth about…about what happened at that warehouse. And if you’re so concerned about me getting in the way, maybe you should start asking yourself why you care so much.”
“You like dancing around the truth, don’t you?”
“That’s not?—”
He moves another inch closer.
“I don’t. So, let’s start talking about good old Detective Reynolds and what you know.”
“I don’t know anything.”
For a brief moment, something flickers in his expression—surprise? Concern? But it’s gone so fast I wonder if I imagined it.
“Reynolds is dead,” he says flatly.
“No,” I snap back, my voice sharp with conviction. “He’s not. I know he’s not. And I know you know it too, or else you wouldn’t be watching warehouses in the middle of the night.”
The flicker returns in his eyes, and this time, it stays. He knows something— he knows.
His silence stretches long and heavy between us, his eyes boring into mine like he’s trying to decide what to do with me.
Then a slow, creeping smile breaks across his cold lips.
“Interesting,” he murmurs.
“I was at that warehouse because I’m looking for answers. And if you know something—if you know anything about him—then you should be helping me. Not threatening me in alleyways.”
His head tilts slightly and he murmurs, “You have no idea what you’re walking into, do you?”
I clench my jaw, my heart pounding against my ribs. "Then tell me. Because I'm not going to stop looking until I find the truth."
He exhales sharply, a mirthless chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Why the hell should I trust you?”
“I don’t know,” I say flatly.
"Because from where I am standing, everything you’re saying could just be lies to throw me off your trail, but the shadows you're chasing? They've got teeth. And they won't hesitate to rip your throat out if you get too close."
"Is that a threat?"
His lips twitch, but there's no humor in his smile; only a chilling kind of warning. "Not a threat, love. Just a fact."
He takes a step back, giving me room to breathe, but the intensity of his gaze never wavers. "You want my advice? Stop digging. Let the dead stay dead. Because if you keep on this path, it's not going to end well for you."
I swallow hard, my heart still racing. Part of me knows he's right, that I'm in way over my head, that I'm poking at shadows that could swallow me whole. But a bigger part of me can't let this go. Can't let Reynolds fade into the past like he never existed, like he never hurt me, like he never destroyed my life.
"You are a part of the Dead Demons right?”
He studies me for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his eyes searching mine like he's trying to see straight through to my soul. Then he nods slowly.
“You worked with the Puppeteer to take out the Hellfire Riders before he was caught. You know what he’s up to, don’t you? Are you working with him again?” I ask, desperate for answers.
He shakes his head, a wry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips.
"You're going to get yourself killed, you know that?” He lets out a sharp breath and runs a hand through his dark hair. “Go home, Laina,” he says, his voice low and firm. “The brick apartment on the first floor at the corner of 12th street.”
My blood runs cold. He knows where I live. A chill runs down my spine as I realize just how much he knows about me. How long has he been watching me? Following me?
"H-how do you know where I live?" I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I know a lot of things.”
For a brief moment, neither of us moves. The sounds of the street drift faintly in from beyond the alley—distant laughter, the low hum of traffic—but it feels like we’re frozen in time, locked in an unspoken standoff.
He takes another step back, turning to leave. But something in me snaps, refusing to let him just walk away without giving me something - anything - to hold onto.
"Wait!" I call out. "At least tell me your name."
He pauses, his broad back still turned to me. For a moment, I think he's going to ignore me completely. But then, slowly, he glances over his shoulder.
"Ash.”
And then he's gone, his heavy footsteps fading as he strides out of the alley, disappearing into the bustle of the street beyond.
I stand there for a long moment, my heart pounding, his name reverberating in my head. Ash.
I let out a shaky breath, pressing my palms against the rough wall behind me, trying to ground myself. But it's no use. My world has tilted on its axis, and I can't seem to find my balance.
Ash knows something. He has to. The way he spoke about Reynolds, the note of warning in his voice, it was obvious they weren’t just empty threats.