Chapter 24 Maeve
MAEVE
“Okay,” I say carefully, adjusting my dress so I can sit a little farther back in the booth. “So far, this isn’t so bad.”
We were escorted through the club from the car park, up through the staff area—something Draven insisted upon—and a security team blocked anyone from reaching us as we walked from the door to this section.
The noise is loud, yes, but bearable. There are no flashing lights or strobing beams to set my teeth on edge. Instead, it’s dark in a controlled way. Intentional.
Low amber lighting washes the space in a soft glow, reflecting off dark wood and smoked glass. The air smells faintly of citrus, alcohol, and something warm—vanilla, maybe.
The booth we’re in is big enough for eight—and that’s eight of Draven, not me. There’s plenty of room, with no risk of accidental contact as I write.
Draven sits on the outside of the booth without comment, a quiet wall between me and the rest of the room—close enough to matter, distant enough to breathe.
It’s not possessive, not even showy, he’s just deliberately guarding me from the rest of the club.
Not that anyone really cares about us. The dance floor is on the lower level, and those up here are keeping to themselves, desperate for their own privacy.
If I was going to complain, it would be that some of them are a little too focused on themselves.
The upper level is broken into semi-private booths and low-walled sections, each claiming its own pocket of darkness. Some groups laugh over drinks, heads bent together.
Others have clearly decided discretion is optional—hands roaming, mouths pressed together, bodies tangled in ways that make me look away.
Discreet security lingers near a few tables—not club staff, but private muscle blending in with tailored jackets and bored expressions. Waiters drift between booths with practiced ease, checking orders, refilling glasses, never lingering long enough to intrude.
“I did my best to meet your needs, little angel,” Draven says gently. “But if it’s too much, tell me, and Lucifer will get you out of here.”
I nod, and his smile softens. “What would you like to drink?”
“I don’t really think I can ask for a make-up hot chocolate,” I say dryly.
I mean it as a tease—about me falling asleep before I could drink the one he made me last night—but the moment he shakes his head and starts to stand, my breath catches.
Anxiety spikes sharp and sudden, my chest tightening as my chromius whines, pacing restlessly at the thought of him putting distance between us.
“Where are you going?” I ask, the words coming out sharper than I mean. The urge to grab him and keep him there is almost overwhelming.
Is he really leaving me right now?
“To get you a hot chocolate,” he says like it’s obvious. “I’m not leaving, angel. I’d never leave you.”
Only because he has no choice.
He tips his chin towards a man standing nearby looking utterly bored. “There’s our waiter. I’ll order it for you.”
“Oh, my gosh,” I whisper, the words barely forming.
This man—this huge, beast of a man—is so fucking soft. How can anyone be scared of him?
Sure, there’s a terrifying aura that surrounds him. But only when you’re a dick.
He’s beautiful. Handsome. Rugged, even, with that scar. Magnificent in his strength. And impossibly, devastatingly sweet.
“I was teasing,” I admit, and his golden eyes light up, even in the dark lighting. “I’d love a glass of water. Sparkling, please.”
“Would you like berries in it?” he asks. “Raspberry?”
So fucking doting.
What is wrong with the men in my life today? Draven is always overbearingly sweet with his caretaking needs, but to be this... obvious, it’s weird.
And paired with Lucifer’s compliments, Hadrian’s quiet support…
What have I missed? Have they done something I’d hate, and they’re trying to make up for it?
Kindness has always felt like a warning sign, and now is no different. A prickling under my skin has me anxious and unsettled, as if the very air itself is warning me.
Or is this a sincere… no. I can’t let myself go there. They don’t genuinely care.
They don’t.
“Yes, please,” I murmur, looking down at the dark tabletop.
I don’t let myself breathe while he’s gone. My chest has tightened up like something vital has been unplugged.
I track him with my eyes, heart thudding, as he weaves smoothly around a pair of giggling girls and speaks calmly to the waiter.
It’s ridiculous, I know it is.
But my body doesn’t care.
I don’t even blink until he’s sitting back down in the booth, the heat of his body warming mine from presence alone.
Only then does my body start to function normally again.
Such a fucking drama queen, Maeve.
“Are these tears really needed, baby girl?”
I flinch, shoving that memory back into my box before it can drag me under. The lid slams shut. I don’t look at it.
I won’t.
“So,” I say, curling in on myself just a little, “is Blackroot planning to keep us waiting much longer?”
Draven grimaces. “Hopefully not. I’ve not seen him yet, but—”
He cuts himself off and snarls low. I shiver in my seat, the panting from my chromius both aggravating and entirely expected.
I’d be mortified if people could actually hear her.
“Honestly, angel,” he says, quieter now, “I think our delay has been because of your bodyguard.”
“Lucifer?” I ask. It can’t be Hadrian—he’s at home, keeping a sulking Julian company.
My eyes sweep the VIP level, but I don’t spot the familiar head of blonde hair.
Knowing him, he’s fluttered away in his imp form to avoid my glare.
Coward.
“Unfortunately.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think Blackroot will be long, now.”
I nod. “Let’s hope.”
Lucifer’s favourite hobby is keeping me one breath away from committing his homicide.
Often while he’s off committing someone else’s.
As if summoned by the thought, movement catches my eye at the edge of the VIP walkway. Dark shapes part, and a subtle ripple of attention moves through the half-lit booths.
My chromius lifts her head inside my chest like she’s scenting the air.
I doubt she’ll get much—everything is combined in a murky, overpowering way, for me to untangle anything not right in front of me.
The power radiating from this man is unmistakable. So fucking intense.
Heavy.
Ancient.
Deadly.
Every part of me that has learned to survive goes silent in alarm.
“What is he?” I ask under my breath.
Draven’s gaze tracks mine, his posture changing to a shield, accommodating my anxiety. He’s not aggressive—not yet, at least—but he’s wary.
The private security I clocked earlier react, too—one of them stepping closer to a booth across the aisle, another angling his body so he can see the walkway without making it obvious.
It’s embarrassing, really. I doubt they’d survive up against this man.
Draven rises to his feet, but I can’t move. I don’t even try.
He nods once as the man stops at our table, and I flinch when a pair of jade green eyes meet mine instead of Draven’s.
He’s tall. Taller than me, for sure, but Draven still has him beat.
Barely.
His sun-warmed skin indicates he’s spent more time outside than any respectable businessman should, and yet we’ve been dragged here since he’s a recluse.
Make it make sense.
His black hair is thick and wild, the kind that looks like it’s never met a comb and would murder one if it tried.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the dangerous and powerful scent—the mythical energy buried underneath the cedarwood and dark earth—he wouldn’t be all that impressive.
And yet, I’m trembling.
“Blackroot,” Draven says smoothly. “It’s about time you showed up.”
“Westfall, you know I go by Black now,” our client replies just as smoothly. His voice is deep—dark, even.
“Maeve Quinn.”
His voice cuts through the low thrum of music, and my shoulders lock instantly.
I don’t jump—I refuse to give him the satisfaction—but my body goes rigid all the same as I turn towards the sound.
How the fuck does he know my name? Draven wouldn’t have given that—not my surname, at least.
Of course, he’s dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit that screams money without ever raising its voice.
Calder Blackroot—Black.
Up close, the name fits.
His gaze flicks to Draven once more, then back to me. A small, minuscule, really, smile appears on his face, and he nods.
I brace for snark. For the familiar cruelty of powerful men who enjoy reminding others where they stand.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, he’s polite—distant, cold, but professional.
“Thank you for meeting with me this evening. I know this must have been difficult for you.”
His eyes flick around the room before settling on Draven. “I hope the security is… suitable for you.”
“It is,” Draven replies before I can. His voice is calm, cordial, but there’s a warning beneath it.
Territorial without being rude. The business man, not my boss—not the doting bear either.
“How do you know Maeve?”
Calder’s attention flicks to me once again. I feel it like a blade sliding between my ribs.
For a heartbeat, my lungs forget their job. Then his gaze drops—briefly—to the notebook in my hand, the pen tucked between my fingers, and he seems to adjust his stance.
Understanding sparks in his eyes.
“We’ve never met,” he responds, and my heart is thudding.
Why are neither of them sitting? Why are they standing at the edge of the booth like this—posturing—leaving me alone in the centre?
“We haven’t,” I echo. “Although, I do think I know you quite well after my afternoon of research.”
Calder smirks, and it’s dangerous. Just like Lucifer’s promise of violence—of mayhem.
Oh, fuck.
Their meeting just now was not a coincidence. Of course, he knows my fucking name—Lucifer likely made him memorise how to spell it backwards.
“It’s been a while since I’ve met one of your kind, ursarix.”
Draven laughs, but there’s no humour in the sound. “Don’t tease, Black. It’s been a while since I’ve met one of yours.”
I glance at Draven, unease prickling. He told me he didn’t know what kind of shifter Calder was.
Did he lie?