Chapter Twelve
Sage
Second night spent in the predator house, and I wake up alive. And rested. That last part throws me more than it should.
The smell hits me as I descend the stairs—rich coffee, something sweet baking. It's oddly domestic. Dangerously comforting.
In the kitchen, I find Asher at the counter, wearing a fitted black T-shirt that might as well be stamped military surplus across the chest and dark sport pants that hang just loose enough to be casual. He's hunched over a waffle maker, focused like it's a tactical operation. But he still hears me.
"Good morning, Sage," he says without turning. "I hope you slept better this time."
I pause, narrowing my eyes at his back. Is that… an innuendo? Does he know about what happened with Kayden the night before?
I keep my tone neutral. "Good morning. I did, actually. Thanks. Are you making… waffles?"
"Observant," he replies, glancing at me. "When I listed the breakfast options last night, you visibly lit up at the mention. So…"
He tilts his head and lifts the lid of the waffle maker like he's revealing gold bars. And honestly, close enough—perfectly golden, crisp-edged waffles, steaming gently in the cool morning air.
"I won't say no to that," I admit, as he places the plate in front of me with the kind of precision that feels oddly intimate. "I haven't exactly been having homemade meals lately."
"I figured," he says, setting down a small spread: maple syrup, freshly whisked whipped cream, and two types of jam. "Didn't know which was your favorite."
It's too thoughtful and too kind. It presses against something sore inside me, so I deflect.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to fatten me up to eat me later."
And then I hear the words out loud.
My eyes flick to his, but it's too late—there's already a smirk ghosting across his face.
"If we're talking blood," he says, "the waffles wouldn't make much difference. And if we're not…"
"I was talking about blood," I respond too quickly.
His expression doesn't change. Still calm and composed. Just the faint curve of amusement tugging at his mouth. He nods, like we've just concluded a perfectly rational breakfast conversation.
I sigh, sit down, and let the waffle distract me. It's warm, sweet, and indulgent. Like something I haven't let myself have in a long time.
Like safety. Or softness. Or the idea that maybe, just maybe, I'm allowed to enjoy this. Even if it won't last.
When I finish the last bite, I move to grab my plate and mug, out of habit more than anything. But Asher stops me with a quiet, firm gesture.
"You're our guest," he says.
"I can't let you do everything for me," I argue, half-standing. But he's already taken them from my hands, his movements precise, unhurried. There's something in the way he moves—measured, like a man used to being obeyed. He doesn't ask for compliance. He expects it.
And I give it without further protest.
He circles the table slowly, coming to stand near me. Not invading, but close enough to make the air shift. I can feel the tension crackling between us like static. His presence pulls at me in ways I don't know how to deal with.
"I know what happened the night before," he says, voice even, unreadable.
The words hit like a slap. Guilt coils in my stomach. My chest tightens.
"Kayden told you," I murmur, bracing myself.
"I noticed a few things out of place. Asked him about it. Didn't take much."
"I—" I start, fumbling. "I really am—"
He takes a single step closer. I shut my mouth.
"I'm not angry with you, Sage," he says, and somehow that's worse. "I understand why you ran. Why you stole. I know you've been surviving on instinct for a long time."
Another pang. It lands deep.
"You're welcome to stay here. As long as you want.
As long as you need," he continues. "And I will keep my word—I will protect you.
But I don't tolerate lies. Especially not under my roof, not when I've shown you hospitality.
If you need anything—food, clothes, cash—you ask. Do we understand each other?"
His tone is calm but commanding.
I swallow hard. There's an instinct rising up to say yes, sir, like I'm in some twisted version of boot camp, and he's the quiet commander who could undo me with a look.
I tamp it down and manage, "Yeah. We understand each other. And… I'm sorry. For all of it."
He nods once, accepting it. No dramatics. No moral high ground. Just a clear line drawn in the sand.
Then, just as he turns away, he adds with that faint, maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "And I think Kayden already made sure you felt some consequences."
I go red. Full-body red. The bastard told him everything.
I open my mouth, floundering for a comeback, but Asher beats me to it. "I can hear that Kayden's finally awake. Get ready. We're heading out to see our friend soon."
The words should land normally, but they don't. Not when I'm still burning.
"...Yes, sir," I mutter before I can stop myself.
He turns, amber gaze flicking over his shoulder. Something flashes in his eyes—something darker, more primal.
The corner of his mouth curves. "Dismissed," he says smoothly and walks away.
And I stand there, heat blooming all the way down.
We pile into Asher's car—him behind the wheel, Kayden in the passenger seat, and me alone in the back. Though alone is a stretch. I can feel both of them acutely, like they're sitting on either side of me. Heat and gravity and tension pressing in.
Why the hell do I have to feel something for a vampire?
Let alone two.
I shift in my seat and slip my hand into my jacket pocket, fingers brushing the paper of my bus ticket. My escape plan. My emergency exit. It's not transferable anymore, but I could always get a new one. A different route. A different direction.
The question is… where to?
I exhale through my nose, slow and steady. Ground myself. Focus on what's right in front of me. First: this so-called book collector friend. If there's even a chance we find something useful, I need to take it. All the bigger decisions—the dangerous, messy ones—I'll deal with after.
But when Asher pulls into the parking lot and I see the bar, my stomach twists itself into a knot.
"Um… is your friend in there?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
Asher nods once. "Winston Cole. He owns the place."
"And keeps a whole secret supernatural library out back," Kayden adds, stretching like he's been sitting too long. "Right where normal bartenders store crates of beer and knockoff vodka."
Great. I guess those messy decisions are crashing in a little sooner than expected.
"Is he… one of us?" I ask as we step out.
"Yes," Asher says plainly. "A coyote shifter. The whole Cole family is, actually."
My heart slides into my stomach with a thud.
Of course he is. Because it's not enough that I pickpocketed some kid playing dress-up in a designer coat—I had to steal from the nephew of a damn shifter clan. One Asher knows.
Just brilliant.
We step inside, the bell above the door giving a friendly jingle that feels almost mocking.
The place is just as I remember—worn booths, wood paneling with stories carved into it by time, and the low hum of a place that's seen more secrets than it ever spilled.
I try not to shrink between the two vampires flanking me.
Then I see him.
Same man. Same warm eyes. Same quiet, powerful presence. The lines on his face settle into a slow smile as his gaze lands on me. It lingers just a beat too long.
"Well now," he says in a voice rich as molasses, "good to see you back, traveler. Coffee?"
He doesn't mention the wallet. Doesn't bring up the fact that I ghosted after the spill. No accusation, no edge. Just… kindness. For now, at least.
Asher steps forward. "We're here for your library, Winston. We're looking for something. For her."
Winston leans back, arms crossing over his chest. "You're always straight to the point, Colonel," he says with a slow smile. "But I'm gonna need more than 'something' to pull the right volumes."
His eyes flick back to me—curious, not judging. Inviting me to speak for myself.
Asher gives me space. Silent support. Kayden doesn't say a word, which is probably a miracle.
So now it's on me.
Before I can speak, Jace strides out from the back like a storm in a dress shirt. The second his eyes land on me, his whole face changes—brows snap together, mouth twists. Rage flares bright and instant.
"You!" he barks, cutting the distance between us in seconds.
In a blur, Asher and Kayden step in front of me, solid as twin walls. Kayden's already growling, ready to pounce.
Asher is more articulate. He doesn't raise his voice. "She's our guest," he says, tone sharp and commanding, "and under my protection."
Jace's jaw clenches so hard I can hear the grind. "She's a thief. She stole my wallet!"
Kayden lets out a low, amused whistle, then chuckles. Asher turns his head just enough to give me a flat look. The kind that says: Seriously? But neither of them moves.
Around us, the bar has gone quiet. The few morning patrons are now fully tuned in, mugs halfway to lips, heads turned like they're watching the opening act of a very local drama.
"Let's all take a breath," Winston says from behind the bar, voice smooth but firm. He nods subtly toward the crowd. "Unless y'all want this to become the morning headline."
"Take a breath?" Jace hisses, lowering his voice but not the heat. "Uncle, she robbed me. At your bar."
I hold up my hands, trying not to look as guilty as I feel. "Look, I'm sorry. I was desperate. I didn't touch your cards. I left your ID. I only took cash. That's all."
"Oh well, that makes it totally fine," Jace snaps, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Relax, puppy dog," Kayden chimes in lazily. "She didn't take your inheritance. I'm sure you'll survive."
"Kayden," I hiss under my breath.
"What? I'm just saying, if it's a hundred bucks, I'll cover it."
"No," I say, more forcefully. "I'll pay him back."