Chapter Thirty-Five Grayson
Chapter Thirty-Five
Grayson
The safe house buzzed like a hive kicked open. Radios hissed with static, voices layered over each other, and boots hammered the floorboards hard enough to rattle the windows.
Every cop held the same brittle edge in their shoulders, their clipped words, their tight grips on weapons. That tension sank into my chest like a stone, heavy but steady. This I knew. This I could control.
Violet sat rigid on the sofa, her bag clutched to her chest like it was armor. Every noise made her flinch—the slam of a door, the bark of an order, or the heavy thud of gear. I could tell each sound cut her open again, another blade dragging across wounds that had never healed.
I crouched down, forcing myself into her line of sight. “Eyes on me,” I told her, low and rough. “Not them. Not the noise. Just me.”
She obeyed, gaze locking to mine like I was her tether. Neither of us spoke, but it didn’t matter. The silence between us was its own language.
“We’re moving you,” an agent barked from across the room, his tone all steel and urgency. “Now.”
Violet’s grip tightened on the bag. Her lips parted like she might protest, but I caught her hands, pried the strap from her fists, and pressed her knuckles to my mouth. A vow without words.
The plan made sense. Another safe house. More walls. More locks. More time bought.
But time wasn’t enough. Another hiding place wasn’t enough. Not with the cult out there, carving sigils into flesh, leaving hearts on porches, and killing in the name of a god that would never stop calling for her.
I knew it—and she did, too. Moving her kept her breathing, but it didn’t stop the hunt.
“Where is Harper?” Violet’s voice broke before she could stop it.
Someone across the room looked up, face gone hard. “We can’t reach her,” a sergeant said. “She didn’t check in like she was supposed to.”
I looked at Violet, seeing the words land like a stone.
“Oh God,” Violet whispered. “W-what if they got her—” Her voice cut off.
Kaufmann walked up to stand beside us. He folded his arms, jaw working. “We have a unit on her home and place of employment, and her phone records and bank accounts are being monitored for activity.” He didn’t say taken. He didn’t have to. The room filled with a kind of stench that spoke volumes.
The truth in my chest was simple and ugly. The chance of Harper being abducted or worse, killed by the cult, was an actual reality. I knew one thing for certain . . . the next house wasn’t safe.
A uniformed officer barked orders. “We’re moving. Protocol says relocation now.”
I swallowed my thoughts. There were two legal moves in front of me, and I had to weigh them thoroughly. We could force the relocation through channels and hope the process was safe enough to keep Violet alive, or we could disappear and trust we could outrun the cult for good.
I didn’t have to think too long or hard.
I chose the one thing that still looked like procedure, even if I was no longer part of it. “Okay, then let’s move,” I said, standing. “I’m going with her.”
Kaufmann’s eyes cut to me, sharp. “You’re off this case, Grayson. Conflict of interest. You’re allowed as her companion, nothing more.”
“I don’t care what you call me,” I shot back, voice flat. “You can keep me off the paperwork, but you’re not keeping me away from her. I won’t leave her side.”
The agents looked at me, maybe seeing a demon burning in my eyes.
Kaufmann’s expression was unreadable, but he didn’t object.
He knew the DA’s office needed Violet alive more than they needed me gone.
He didn’t like it. I saw the tic in his jaw.
He weighed risk against protocol, and in the end, survival won.
“Fine. But you’re not an official escort. You’re not writing a damn thing in the report. You ride because she trusts you, not because I signed off.”
“Doesn’t matter why,” I said, steady. “I stay with her.”
Two unmarked SUVs rolled into place under the porch light.
Uniforms posted at the doors, hands near holsters, eyes scanning the street.
Routes were cross-checked, alternates sketched and nodded through.
Attorney Steinbach signed the custody form with a surgeon’s calm.
Kaufmann barked orders into his phone. Everything looked airtight.
But no operation is flawless.
Impassive officers guided Violet to the car. She kept her chin up, though her knuckles were white around the strap of her bag. She eased into the middle seat of a dark SUV, and I took my place beside her. Two uniformed officers folded into the front.
And then they pulled away from the curb, a cruiser trailing behind. As the safe house slipped behind us, I noted everything. Violet pulled her bag tighter into her center as she stared straight ahead. She met my eyes, and the question was a ghost between us: “Are we safe?”
“The safest place we have,” I said. The words sounded like a promise, but they were a lie.
When we finally rolled into the secondary site, everything was done precisely and methodically.
Doors opened for us with badges and IDs and curt nods.
Custody forms were logged again. Signatures, time stamps, more promises of increased patrols, DA schedules, and other reports furthering the investigation.
Everything moved with the cold efficiency of a system built to look unbreakable.
They shepherded Violet inside, and she walked like somebody learning to be larger than their fear. Her chin was set, her shoulders squared, her face a blank mask where terror wanted to show. I was so fucking proud of her.
The door shut behind her with a final, unforgiving click. The room hummed with the brittle quiet you get after too much movement.
The truth settled on me heavily and clearly. Time and inaction were not on our side. I had no miraculous inside knowledge, no arcane playbook. All I had to go on was my cold assessment of the risks, years on the job, and a refusal to quit. I knew what I had to do.
That would have to be enough.
Better she hate me later than never breathe again.