Chapter 21 Maeve
MAEVE
“You want me to come with you to meet a client in a club… tonight,” I repeat, my legs trembling.
Draven nods once, his jaw clenched. Somehow, it helps to know he hates this almost as much as I do.
“Why?”
His gaze flicks to the door, then back to me like he’s bracing for impact.
“You’re needed.”
I’m… needed?
Panic rises fast and sharp, a tight spiral in my chest. A flurry of thoughts swirling in my mind.
He can’t mean it the way it sounds. Surely not.
So, that means he needs me for the business.
Not because I’m wanted, but because I’m useful. The way tools are. They’re replaceable.
Worthless unless used in the right situation.
But what the fuck use am I? Why would he need me there?
The image hits anyway.
A club packed with strangers. Hands brushing against my bare skin. Bodies crowding my personal space. Breath on my neck. My drink being secretly drugged.
The kind of place where whatever happens somehow becomes your fault for being there.
I force the memory down—the one where I’m pinned between a stranger’s chest and a wall, hands everywhere, nowhere safe to hide.
All the noise. The flashes of light. The heat.
My lungs refuse to cooperate.
Fuck.
A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, the cool air of Draven’s office biting uselessly at my nerves.
“I cannot be touched, Drav,” I whisper, but he’s right there, latching onto whatever I say. “I’d never survive in a club.”
The words come out raw, almost pathetic, but I can’t hide the truth from this man. My head throbs, pressure blooming behind my eyes, and I squeeze them shut for a minute.
“Trust me, little angel,” Draven murmurs, his voice tight with thinly concealed rage. His fists are clenched hard enough for veins to stand out beneath his skin.
“I would kill anyone who dared,” he continues. “And if, for whatever reason, I couldn’t, we both know that Lucifer would finish it.”
The darkness of Draven’s words is a shroud I am all too eager to wrap around myself. Something about the way he says it—the way he would murder over me for the smallest trespass no matter what it might cost him—calls to the part of me that’s starved for protection.
My chromius perks up, stretching awake, purring at the thought of bloodshed.
Vicious bitch.
“You’re so dramatic,” I mutter, but my insides are molten. I can’t tell if the shiver racing up my spine is fear… or something else entirely.
His mouth twitches, amused, and heat floods my cheeks—sharp enough to itch beneath my skin.
He lets the silence stretch as I fidget under the weight of his gaze.
Manipulative prick.
“Okay, fine,” I snap, the words more brittle than I meant. “But if I have to go, I reserve the right to stab anyone who so much as breathes in my direction.”
“I’ll bring the knife,” Draven promises.
I don’t doubt that if I shared Lucifer’s blood kink, Draven would gift me an entire armoury—and hand-deliver the victims.
My chromius thrills at the violent thoughts, and I squeeze my legs together a little tighter as my stomach flutters.
My anxiety isn’t usually like this—tight and breathless, sure, but not warm.
Of course, my body betrays me when I need it most.
“I have my own,” I say, and the dryness of my tone is a sharp contrast to the way my pulse pounds in my ears.
He gives me one of his rare, full-teeth grins that’s somehow savage in a way Lucifer’s sadistic smiles never are, and yet lighter than anything Hades wears.
Stop comparing them, Maeve.
“Good girl,” he says, and this time, the shiver is visible, my whole body clenching around the words.
For a different reason, this time.
His scent deepens—smoke and pine threaded with warm milk—and heat curls low in my belly.
I shove my chromius back, building the wall between us brick by brick. I don’t know when she decided every dangerous man was good enough to be claimed as hers.
She’s a fucking menace.
One who would have me on my back, legs spread, and begging for him if I gave her half a chance.
“I’ve done everything possible to arrange for your boundaries to be kept, but our client is a pathetic recluse,” Draven says with a sigh.
I snort, lifting a brow at him through the haze of my nerves. “And you’re not?”
His eyes narrow, just a little, his left flashing a brighter gold than the right. “I am not a recluse.”
The words are so dry that I almost believe him, but then he continues, “I merely have standards that most people can’t hope to meet.”
“And somehow Torin made the cut?” I gag, shaking my head as he opens his mouth. “Don’t try to defend the prick, Drav. It’s not something my very delicate stomach can handle.”
“If you say so,” Draven murmurs—dismissive but not unkind. He reaches for a file from the centre of the coffee table and hands it to me. “This is the prep work for our next case. Mr Blackroot—”
I grab the file, recoiling just slightly from the chill of the binder, and repeat, “Blackroot?”
I know that name. It’s familiar, but I can’t place how.
He nods, raising a brow. “Why?”
I shake my head, a loose strand of hair tickling my ear, causing an uncomfortable sensation to crawl over my skin. I thumb the edge of the folder, desperate for more information.
“It’s nothing important. I just recognise the name.”
Draven regards me for a beat, his gaze trying to peel back the words I don’t say. I break eye contact and flip the file open, expecting the usual summary sheet.
There isn’t one.
Understandable, given the chaos lately—but irritating.
I skim the first pages anyway, the words blurring as my thoughts race. Blackroot nags at me like a half-remembered warning. I’ve seen the name before.
I’ve clearly read something about him—or a family member—while working at the archives, but I’ve got no fucking idea what it pertained to.
“Julian nearly dying really fucked our access to the archives,” I mutter when I spot the name Calder. “Selfish prick.”
My chromius curls around my mind like a serpent tightening around prey—bitch. Her curiosity pulsates through our bond, but I don’t understand why she’s so interested.
“You recognise them from there?” Draven prods gently.
I blink at the use of the plural, my brain tripping over the implication.
“Them?” I ask. “What are they? A family of fucking serial killers?”
He grimaces, and I close the file with a soft thud.
“Why don’t you give me the real story, since you obviously have one ready to go?”
“Calder Blackroot is the eldest of his line,” Draven says. “He’s attempting to reclaim some family assets from the Tribunal.”
“And that’s come over to us, why?” My brows shoot up at the implications of this case.
Surely, the Inheritance Department should be handling this shit? At least the grunt work, anyway.
“This family’s assets are… complicated. Once the Tribunal pushed back, it became less a matter of property law and more a matter of politics. And you know how they get about politics.”
Fucking cunts, the lot of them.
I can practically feel my chromius sharpening her claws as she prepares to battle for this reclusive man. She’s got a particular distaste for Adrian’s goons—especially when they’re trafficking in secrets and lies.
Draven’s gaze sharpens. “They’d sooner raze the archives than admit to a mistake.”
I scoff, looking at the file with intrigue. “Bullshit artists, the lot of them. Robbing a man of his legacy and calling it justice.”
“We know they’ve done worse than that,” Draven snarls. I look up at him, but he’s avoiding my gaze as he wrestles to get himself under control.
His jaw is working overtime, the muscles twitching beneath the skin, as he stares out the window. His eyes flash between amber and gold as he wrestles his bear into submission.
His scent shifts, the usual milky undertones turning harsh and sour. All of it—every tightly leashed instinct—is for me. Like I’m something wounded he’s sworn to protect.
I fucking hate that he thinks he has to help me.
But more than that, I hate how much I want him there to help.
The veins in his forearms stand out as his muscles tense, power shimmering just beneath his skin—violent, restrained, waiting. His ursarix presses close but never breaks free.
He’s a strong shifter—terrifyingly so—and yet controlled in a way bears usually aren’t.
What I’d give to see him lose some of it…
My chromius purrs in agreement, and I don’t bother telling her off for it this time.
This was all me.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, hugging the file to my chest like a shield. “How do we tackle this complication?”
Draven’s gaze finally meets mine, his eyes settling back into their usual warm gold. “We meet Calder at Everburn, and do a standard intake so we can get things moving properly.”
“What kind of shifter is he?”
Draven tilts his head and shrugs. “I’ve got no idea, angel. This was passed over from Inheritance, and they didn’t give us much to go on.”
“Fucking idiots,” I mutter, looking down at the folder. “Okay, I’ll get this read and make a trip over to the Inheritance Department to figure out who is responsible for dropping the ball on this.”
I gather my scattered notes, tucking the file beneath my arm. I make a point of steadying my hands as I shift forward on the couch—proof, mostly to myself, that I’m fine.
I’m halfway to standing when Draven moves.
His posture collapses—shoulders slumping, hands open and braced on his knees like he’s holding something back. He looks… uncertain. Almost hesitant.
It doesn’t suit him.
Or my guilt complex that has started showing up.
“Angel,” Draven murmurs so quietly I think for a moment I’ve imagined it. The word derails me mid-step.
I turn, frozen in place at his tone. My stomach twists into a knot as my heart hammers against my ribs, sending waves of dizziness crashing through me.
What the fuck has happened? Is someone hurt?
Is it… is it Hades? Did something happen last night?
Someone’s hurt. It has to be that.