Chapter 4
Peyton
Blake's apartment is nothing like I expected. I was prepared for the typical bad-boy bachelor aesthetic, which usually includes minimal furniture, an empty fridge, and the kind of impersonal space that says I sleep here, but I don't live here.
What I find instead is exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with everything from philosophy to urban fiction, and a kitchen that actually looks used.
There's a worn leather chair by the window, seemingly positioned to catch morning light. A coffee maker that's clearly seen better days. And there are plants, actual living plants, on the windowsill that someone's been watering. Maybe there’s a woman in his life?
"You read," I say, running my fingers along paperback book spines.
"Surprised?" Blake shrugs out of his jacket, and I try not to notice the way his defined shoulders move under the dress shirt, the holster he's unbuckling like it's as routine as loosening a tie.
"Most men who break wrists at galas don't own first editions of Voltaire and a hardback copy of The Color Of Water.”
"Most men who break wrists at galas can't read.
" He sets the gun on the kitchen counter with the casual precision of someone who knows exactly where his weapons are at all times.
"The apartment's safe. Separate entrance, like I said.
The bathroom is through there. The main bedroom's yours. I use the second as an office, so I’ll take the couch. "
"You don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do." He moves to the kitchen and starts making coffee, even though it's past midnight.
His hands are steady, efficient, the kind of competence that comes from doing something a thousand times.
"You need sleep. Real sleep. The kind you can't get when you're wondering if the guy in the next room is going to try something. "
"I have mace in my clutch."
"I'm aware. You've been gripping it since we left the car." He glances over his shoulder, and there's something almost like amusement in his eyes. “That’s smart on your part, but unnecessary when you’re with me. I meant what I said, Peyton. You're safe here."
"Men say that—"
"A lot. I know." He pours two cups and brings one to me. Our fingers brush again, and there’s that same electric contact that shouldn't mean anything. "But I'm not saying it to get you comfortable. I'm saying it because it's true. You sleep, I watch. That's the deal."
“I like your plants,” I say, filling the pause in our conversation with mindless words.
I take the coffee, inhale steam that smells like dark roast and something else—cinnamon, maybe.
“Talia claims they help purify the air when I’m not…in town.”
Oh, his sister takes care of them.
“So, um, you don't sleep?"
"Not much. Not well." He continues drinking his black coffee and doesn't elaborate.
I should leave it alone. It’s been a long night, and I should just head to the bedroom, lock the door, and use the few hours until dawn to plan my next move. Instead, I stay in the kitchen, hip against the counter, watching Blake Delano exist in his natural habitat.
He's different here. Not softer, I doubt that this man does anything softly, but more real. The walls he keeps up in public are thinner, more transparent. I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders and the weight he carries in the tightness around his eyes. There’s a loneliness in the way he inhabits this space like he's still not sure he belongs anywhere.
"White Ember," I say, changing topics. "You said there were six girls. Did you know their names?"
His jaw tightens. "Why?"
"Because I want to know if you remember them or if they're just numbers in a story you tell to explain why you're not as bad as the rest of them.”
It's a cruel thing to say. I know it's cruel even as the words leave my mouth, but I need to know who I'm trusting. It’s important for me to understand whether the man standing in front of me is actually different from the others, or just better at pretending.
Blake sets down his cup with careful control. When he looks at me, his eyes are dark, dangerous, full of something that looks like rage barely contained.
"Irina," he says quietly. "Sixteen. She wanted to be a doctor.
Elena. Nineteen. Pregnant and terrified.
Yuki. Fifteen. She cried the whole way out but never made a sound because they'd trained her not to.
" He takes a breath. "Ana. Seventeen. She kept asking if I knew where to find her sister, who was already dead.
Mei. Twenty. Fought like hell even though they'd broken her arm.
And Sophia. Fourteen. She held my hand in the ambulance and didn't let go until they sedated her. "
I feel like an ass.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Don't be. You were right to ask." He picks up his coffee, drinks, and sets it down again.
"I remember all of them. Their names. Their faces.
The way they looked at me like I was either salvation or just another kind of monster.
" His voice is rough and affected. "I gave each of them my number and told them to call if they needed anything. Only one ever did."
"Which one?"
"Sophia. She called two years ago. She wanted to know if I was proud of her because she'd just finished nursing school.
" Something shifts in his expression, almost like a smile, but sadder. "I told her I was. Then she thanked me for saving her life and hung up. Haven't heard from her since, but that’s a good thing. Means she’s moved on.”
I set down my own cup before I drop it. My hands are shaking.
"That's why you came back," I say. "Not because Silas ordered you to, but because you can't stand the idea of it happening again."
"Can you blame me?"
"No." I move closer without thinking, drawn by something I don't fully understand. "But it's going to get you killed. You know that, right? Men like your uncle don't forgive. They don't forget. And they sure as hell don't let people who burned their profitable operations walk away twice."
"I'm not planning to walk away."
"Then what are you planning?"
"To finish what I started." He looks at me, and his eyes are clear, certain, full of purpose that probably should scare me.
"White Ember was one warehouse. One operation.
But Silas has others. The Hollow Club has others.
This whole town is built on taking from people who can't fight back.
And I'm done pretending I don't see it."
"That's not protection. That's revolution."
"Maybe." He shrugs. "But right now, revolution starts with keeping you alive. Everything else comes after."
I should protest and tell him that I'm not a cause or a crusade or a reason to burn down his family's empire. And I’m not exactly his sole reason to do it, but the truth is, I want to burn it down too.
For my mother. For Irina and Elena and all the others whose names I don't know but whose stories I can guess.
For myself.
"Teach me," I say.
Blake frowns. "Teach you what?"
"How to survive this Godforsaken town and remain human. You said you would. That was one of my conditions. So teach me." I lift my chin to meet his gaze directly. "Starting now."
"Now? It's one in the morning."
"And Silas's men could kick down that door any minute.
Or the Kingsleys could find me. Or the Hollow Club could decide I'm worth more dead than alive.
" I set down my coffee cup with enough force to make noise.
"I'm done being the thing people fight over.
I want to be the thing they're afraid to touch. "
Something dangerous flickers in Blake's eyes. I don’t know him well enough to know exactly what, but if I had to guess, perhaps approval, maybe, or recognition.
"You sure?" he asks.
"Terrified. But yes."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "Okay. But we start simple. Basic defense. How to break a hold, how to create distance, how to survive long enough for help to arrive."
"And if help doesn't arrive?"
"Then we move to advanced lessons." He gestures toward the living room. “Let’s push the furniture back. Give us space."
I slip off my heels finally, thank God, and help him shove the coffee table against the wall, stacking the chairs in the corner. The rug gets rolled up, exposing hardwood that's scarred and dented from what looks like years of exactly this kind of training.
Blake's done this before. Taught people how to survive. How to fight back. The thought makes something warm and dangerous bloom in my chest. This actually may work.
“Should I change my clothes?” I ask him. “I’m sure you have some sweats lying around here somewhere.”
“The Hollow Club isn’t going to snatch you while you’re wearing an overpriced athleisurewear suit. They’ll grab you when you’re completely off guard, like tonight, in heels and silk.”
“Point taken.”
"First rule," Blake continues, moving to the center of the room. "Don't be fair. There's no honor in survival. You scratch, bite, gouge. You go for the eyes, throat, and balls. You do whatever it takes to get away."
"Got it. Be vicious."
"Be effective." He positions himself in front of me, close but not touching. "Someone grabs you from behind. Arms around your waist, pinning yours. What do you do?"
"Scream?"
"Good instinct, but we're past that. They've already got you. Screaming might help, and it might not. Most people in today’s world don’t care about a scream, so you need to act."
"Okay." I think through the scenario. "Stomp on their foot?"
“That could work if you're wearing heels and they're not expecting it. But you're barefoot now, and pain doesn't always stop someone who's determined. Try again."
I consider my options, then drop my weight suddenly, throwing him off balance. Blake adjusts instantly, tightening his grip to compensate. "Better. You're making it harder for them to hold you. But you're still caught. Now what?"
Panic flutters in my chest, not real panic, but muscle memory of every time I've felt trapped, powerless, at someone else's mercy. I force it down.