Chapter 30 Maeve #2
I smile sweetly, refusing to back down, even as my pulse hammers. “Then I’ll think about it.”
Draven’s eyes narrow at my response, and, for a moment, we’re locked in the most ridiculous standoff. Him, all six-foot-something of barely contained concern, and me, a disaster in fuzzy slippers pretending I’m not falling apart.
“Maeve.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Just overtired.”
Draven’s gaze sharpens. “I don’t want to leave you like this. I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like anything,” I tease because teasing is easier than admitting that my pulse suddenly feels uneven. “But if you don’t leave, I’ll kick you out, and that would be even worse.”
“Lock the door behind me.”
“I will.”
He hesitates, his broad shoulders tensing beneath his expensive shirt, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to stay. His jaw works as if chewing through words he won’t say.
Then, he leaves, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood, each one more reluctant than the last. The front door shuts with a soft click that echoes through the flat before settling into silence.
The awful kind that rings in your ears and makes you aware of your own heartbeat. And the second he’s gone, the floor seems to tilt and sway beneath my feet as if the entire building has suddenly forgotten how to stand.
Hadrian was right—Draven is the person who literally holds this building up. Let’s hope the roof doesn’t cave in on me.
My chromius is fully present now. Her suspicious nature is adding to my anxiety.
The feeling across our bond is tremulous, and it’s not good for my already jittery body.
It’s like she’s telling me something is wrong, but I square my shoulders and move to sit down at the coffee table so I can get to work.
I’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine.
Aviolent hammering explodes against the door, the sound crashing through my skull like a thunderclap. My heart goes into overdrive, and the palpitations are making my entire body sway.
I lurch up from the sofa, blood rushing from my head so fast the room spins wildly, and I grab at the back of the armchair to hold myself steady while it passes.
My chromius swishes around in my mind, threatening to take over our body, trying desperately to get me to listen to her. Dark spots appear in my vision, and I swear, I’m going to vomit up an organ or something.
The banging gets louder, more intrusive, and my trembling limbs aren’t going to be able to make it to the door if I don’t get a hold of myself.
I hang onto the chair for dear life, taking calming breaths as I wait for the universe to stop trying to tear itself apart around me.
“Draven!” Torin’s voice slices through the door. “Open up! Now!”
Thank fuck. My body sags with relief before my brain catches up. Torin.
Not someone out to kill me. Not the stalker, or Caspian, or anyone truly dangerous.
I don’t like the pantheral. In fact, I’d rather let my stalker slice him up for some fun, but he’s absolutely the preferable alternative. Torin’s only method of hurting me is through his words, and I’m more than capable of smacking back.
“Coming,” I shout. I don’t care if he can hear me, and I slowly walk towards the door. I stay close to the walls, wanting to make sure I don’t stumble or fall, but by the time I reach it, things are better.
Mostly.
“What the fuck do you want?” I snap, laying my eyes on the prick.
Torin fills the doorway like a storm that hasn’t decided whether to break or burn the house down.
He’s a mess—wrinkled grey T-shirt clinging to carved shoulders, dark tracksuit bottoms hanging low on his hips like he dragged them on without thinking.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Shadows carve deep beneath his green-gold eyes, bruises blooming ugly and purple across his cheekbone and along his jaw.
The kind of bruises that say he didn’t lose the fight—but he didn’t walk away clean either.
“Where the fuck is he?” he snaps, eyes searching the space behind me like someone might just materialise.
His scent is overwhelming. Steel. Cedar. That sharp, electric crackle of an oncoming storm. It rolls off him in metallic waves, tightening the air in my lungs.
He stands just over six feet, broad and solid, built to take impact. Shame his ego is so fragile. His dark hair is cut clean and close, slightly mussed like he’s dragged his fingers through it one too many times. His jaw wears a day’s worth of stubble, dark and rough against his skin.
Panic skitters up my spine like a caffeinated spider. Why is he here? What’s wrong? My chromius is frantically trying to take control.
Weak little creature.
He doesn’t look composed.
He doesn’t look polished.
He looks furious.
“Draven. Where is the bastard?” Torin snarls. His eyes flash amber, and I just scoff. Does he really think I’d betray my boss like that?
Even if I didn’t prefer to inconvenience pricks like him, I still wouldn’t betray Draven like that.
“Who knows? Could be dead for all I care.” I smirk. “What’s wrong? Had your feelings hurt? Need a cuddle from your big, strong, alpha buddy?”
He advances towards me, a low growl building in his chest. My chromius perks up, suddenly alert despite my nausea, and I can feel her pushing against my consciousness, desperate to take over and battle with the cat.
Fucking idiot.
“Very fucking funny,” he growls, side-stepping me to enter the flat. “Why are you even here?”
I follow him through to the living room, trying to keep my balance despite the way my head is swimming. There’s a buzzing in my ears like angry hornets, and I can’t tell if it’s my own body revolting or Torin’s energy filling the space.
“I live here now,” I lie, just to get his reaction. “Don’t worry. I did tell Draven to let you down gently. I know how much it must hurt your delicate little feelings to know he prefers me.”
“You’re a bitch,” he spits at me. “Why do you have to act like this?”
He set the tone the first time we met. I’m not going to back down from an egotistical asshole like him, even when I’m feeling like roadkill in a human suit.
“I don’t act like anything,” I retort, crossing my arms to hide the trembling in my fingers. “This is who I am. Sorry if it doesn’t meet your standards of how a woman should behave.”
He sneers. “Nobody should be such a cold, detached witch. You know, I wanted to talk to you after last night—”
“Last night? Oh, did they tell you all about the missing siren?” I ask, a little curious of his thoughts.
Not that I care for his opinion on much, but I am interested in what the guys shared.
Torin’s expression twists. “I don’t give a fuck about the siren. He’ll get his dues. I’m talking about the twisted fucking initiation your fucking mates thought to dole out to me.”
What the fuck? My brain feels like it’s sloshing around in my skull. Part of me wants to laugh in his face, but another part—a part I hate—believes him. Believes that he’s not lying about something happening.
But is he referring to Julian and Hadrian—the two lying Graves who declared us mates without any proof—or… fuck, surely, not. My stalker couldn’t have gotten to him, could he?
The thought makes my stomach clench with something that might be concern, if I allowed myself to feel it.
I rake my gaze over Torin’s features, hating how my pulse quickens at the proximity. There’s no way this little damage would have been done by that deranged psychopath, but what if I’m wrong? What if he’s hurt worse than he’s showing?
My chromius is as confused as I am—purring one moment, bristling with warning the next, making my skin feel too tight and too loose all at once.
Torin’s face contorts into something ugly, disbelieving. “They didn’t tell you? Of course, they fucking didn’t.”
He laughs, but it’s a harsh, broken sound.
“I was invited over last night, maelstrom, by Draven for a little… initiation. We met in the basement, where your fucking bastard mates took a turn attacking each other and me.”
My legs buckle, and I drop down into the armchair. The pressure behind my eyes is worse now, and I’m convinced I’m going to faint. The room spins in lazy, nauseating circles.
“What basement?” I manage, voice raspy. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Torin stares at me, his eyes narrowing. “Are you... all right?”
“I’m fine. I just don’t understand why you’re coming to cry to me that you lost a fight,” I lie. My mouth tastes like it’s stuffed with cotton. My throat thick and clogged.
“You’re ridiculous. I came to see Draven, or is your memory truly that shit?”
He keeps staring at me, and the intensity of his gaze makes my skin crawl. My vision blurs at the edges, and I have to blink several times to clear it.
“Then leave him a voicemail.” I wave a dismissive hand, but the motion makes the room tilt. “I don’t care about your little basement fight club. Well—unless you won?”
Torin’s snarl is so vicious. “You knew all along, didn’t you? This is part of your game? You’re sadistic, Maeve. Twisted.”
The jabs hit hard, but I don’t let it show. I don’t give a fuck what he’s got to say to me.
What he thinks about my personality.
“I know. It’s such a burden,” I drawl, gripping the arm of the chair tighter as the room pulses around me. “The way men can’t handle me and then have to blame me for all their problems.”
Torin’s face shifts, his anger giving way to confusion. He takes a step towards me, studying my face with such intensity I want to curl into myself. My skin is burning from the inside out like I’m being cooked from within.
“You are the problem. Acting like such a… you know how cat shifters mate, right? Us big cats, that is?”
I shrug, wondering if his rapid personality changes are ever going to settle. Hm, I wonder if I could sue him for emotional whiplash.
“I’ve never cared to find out, honestly.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he mutters under his breath.
“Oh, fuck off. Get to the point, or get out,” I snarl.