Chapter Two
C h apter Two
The night air was crisp against Zavian’s skin as he leaned against the cottage wall. The Irish countryside was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant cry of an owl. In the faint light of the moon, he watched the married couple standing in front of their home arguing.
The couple he had destined to be together. The taste of his own failings was a bitterness he felt in his own heart. As much as it gutted him to admit, even to himself, Aldrin had been right when he’d said Fate didn’t always get it right.
He’d come here to think, to try and understand how Hendrix thought they were mates. That was impossible since Zavian hadn’t proclaimed it. Yet, there was no mistaking the look in the man’s eyes. It was a look Zavian had seen too many times in the past.
That spark of finding one’s other half. The kind of certainty that turned the air electric and tightened the space between two people. It wasn’t a loud, showy moment. No thunder or fireworks. It was the quiet, undeniable weight of recognition—of finding the one person who would tilt your world and make it spin just right. Hendrix had looked at him with that unshakable conviction, and for a fleeting second, it had felt like standing too close to a roaring flame.
And then there was the fact Hendrix was a complete blank to him. Zavian didn’t like unknown variables. It made him feel…unstable.
Just like Melric. He snarled to himself, trying to forget the worst mistake of his life.
Zavian glanced at the couple when Conor took a step toward his wife, causing Maeve to cower. Then he raised his hand, as if to strike her.
“I would lower that arm if you intend to keep it,” Zavian said in a low, controlled tone.
While people might acknowledge fate as an abstract concept or a powerful force, no one considered him a flesh-and-blood man, a sentient being with thoughts, feelings, and desires. Even those who were familiar with him never truly saw him for who he was. To them, he was always just the embodiment of his name: Fate.
The man ignored Zavian’s warning, the hand still poised to strike.
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself,” Zavian said, his voice like ice splintering the air. He stepped forward, his form solidifying in Conor’s line of sight. The man jerked back, eyes wide with fear as he stumbled.
“Saints preserve me.”
“Lower your arm.” A cold fury swept through Zavian.
“Y’think you’re gonna stand there and tell me what I will and won’t do?” Conor spat, his words heavy with indignation, but his stance faltered when Zavian’s cold gaze locked on him.
“You’re the one who tempted Fate,” Zavian replied, his voice low and even, laced with quiet authority. “And let me tell you, boy, Fate doesn’t take kindly to being tested.”
Conor stepped back, the color draining from his face as if he could feel the invisible force surrounding him. “What’re ye then? Some kind o’ spirit?” he demanded, though his voice quivered slightly. “What gives you the right to meddle in my affairs?”
Zavian tilted his head. “You don’t get to ask questions. You raised your hand to strike the woman you swore to love. Do you think love can be beaten into submission? It can’t,. Love is earned, Conor. It’s nurtured.” He let the words sink in for a beat, the tension between them hanging thick in the air.
“Ye’ve no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Conor spat.
“I know more than you could comprehend. Maeve’s fate was tied to yours because I believed in you. I saw what you could become. But mark my words, Conor, if you try to harm her again…” He leaned in, the weight of his warning pressing down on the man. “You’ll find out exactly who I am.”
Conor’s legs buckled, and he scrambled back, his defiance dissolving. “Fine. Fine! I’ll leave her be.”
Maeve, trembling but defiant, looked at Conor with something akin to hope and fear tangled together. Zavian turned to her, his tone gentle. “You deserve love that builds you up, not tears you down. I apologize for misjudging him and bringing you pain.”
As he spoke, he couldn’t tell if he was addressing Maeve or trying to convince himself that Hendrix didn’t have the power to upend his own fate.
“And if he tries to strike me again?”
“I’ll erase his existence,” Zavian said loud enough for Conor to hear.
Dissolving into mist, he shot toward the sky, heading to find Hendrix. He didn’t want to see the lion shifter. He wanted to solve the enigma of Hendrix..
Regardless of what the man thought, they weren’t mates. Zavian hadn’t decreed it, so there had to be a plausible explanation to all of this.
When he solidified, he was standing outside of Hendrix’s study window. He felt like a voyeur, but since the shifter could see him, even while invisible, this was the closest he dared to be.
Inside Hendrix’s home, the shifter sat at his desk, laptop open, but he wasn’t working. His broad back was to Zavian, but Zavian saw a picture frame in one hand, the other curled around a tumbler of amber liquid.
Even from this angle, he could tell the man was pensive, studying the photo with complete focus. Hendrix twirled the liquid in the glass then downed the contents.
Nonhumans couldn’t get drunk off of human alcohol, so it had to be either the taste or the action itself that Hendrix was chasing.
Or it could be Red Spanking, an alcohol preternatural could get wasted on.
But Hendrix appeared stone-cold sober.
Zavian leaned in a little closer, trying to get a better look at who was in the photograph, accidentally stepping on a small branch tucked halfway under the bush. The loud crack caused him to wince, but Hendrix didn’t even flinch.
“You’re lurking, Classic Disinterest.” Hendrix set the tumbler down then slipped the frame inside one of the desk drawers. “Use the front door. It’s less noisy.”
Zavian bristled, preferring to stay where he was. You learned more by unknowing observation than conversation. People lied, purposely sane-washing you to twist everything in their favor.
But actions when one thought they were alone told the truth.
“First door on your right once you hit the hallway.” Hendrix leaned back in his chair with a deep, resigned sigh, the leather groaning under his weight.
Just go inside, figure out the mystery, then restore balance, regardless of what you have to do to accomplish it.
Zavian stepped into Hendrix’s living room, where the warm glow of antique lamps lit a leather armchair and shelves filled with dog-eared books. The air carried the faint scent of cedar and coffee, a blend both familiar and intriguingly new.
His eyes lingered on a throw blanket draped haphazardly over the arm of a couch, its rumpled state hinting at recent use. For a fleeting moment, an unfamiliar warmth stirred in his chest. The room breathed with a lived-in comfort that spoke of simple pleasures and quiet evenings.
Zavian’s fingers twitched at his side to touch the blanket—to know what lazy Sundays actually felt like. Instead, he turned his attention to the crackling fireplace, its dancing flames a grounding sight. He stood there, surrounded by the quiet echoes of a life so different from his own.
A life he could never have. He was Fate, his responsibilities too great to indulge in such things.
Keep telling yourself that. You just might believe it one day.
Ignoring his pesky inner voice, Zavian wandered down the hallway, his polished shoes clicking over the floorboards. He stopped right outside the study door, wondering if this was a mistake.
“I don’t bite.” Hendrix’s tone was teasing, wicked, the kind of voice that promised sensual things in the dead of night and left Zavian aching for every one of them.
Stepping into the study, he was met with a rich, earthy scent that not only permeated the air but curled through his lungs.
It was a far cry from the cold expanse of his usual haunts, the kind of space that spoke of evenings spent working late or reading just for the pleasure of it. For the briefest moment, Zavian’s chest tightened as he suppressed the urge to reach for one of the well-loved books as though he could absorb the life they represented.
Hendrix sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with a languid confidence that made the leather groan again under his weight.
“You gonna stand there all night?” Hendrix’s voice cut through the quiet, a smooth rumble that pulled Zavian’s attention back to him. The shifter rested one hand on an armrest, the other still curled loosely around the tumbler.
Zavian straightened, pushing the rogue thought aside. “Your hospitality is overwhelming.” His tone was dry, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than he intended.
Hendrix smirked, his dark eyes catching the light. “Welcome to my sanctuary. Don’t worry. I won’t charge you rent.”
Zavian moved closer, his steps deliberate and soundless. “This isn’t a social call. Your... assertion about our bond is causing issues. I’m here to resolve them.”
That wasn’t what you were supposed to say. You were supposed to talk about your inability to read him.
“Issues?” Hendrix’s brow lifted, his curiosity evident. He leaned forward, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Big words for a big problem. What’s the real story, Fate ?”
Zavian didn’t respond immediately, instead letting his gaze wander over the meticulously organized desk, the way every detail spoke of control, focus, and intention. He finally met Hendrix’s eyes, the weight of his own authority pressing against the room’s easy warmth.
“The real story,” Zavian said slowly, his voice low and even, “is that whatever connection you think exists between us isn’t possible. I haven’t decreed it. I haven’t decreed you. ”
Hendrix’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, the corners of his mouth curled up, and something almost playful danced in his eyes. “Maybe you’re not the only one who gets to make the rules.”
The words landed between them, and, for the first time since… Zavian wasn’t sure if he had ever been without a rebuttal.
Hendrix stood, the movement slow yet fluid. The leather chair groaned in protest as he straightened, his hands remaining loose at his sides, a gesture of calm rather than confrontation.
“You’re here, in my study, talking about our bond. Sounds like concern to me.” Hendrix’s tone was casual, though his dark eyes locked onto Zavian like a predator watching every twitch of its target. He took a step closer, careful to keep a measured distance, enough to make his presence known but not enough to crowd Zavian.
“I’m not concerned.” His voice was sharper than he intended, a slight edge betraying the tension thrumming through him. His gaze flicked briefly to Hendrix’s hands—broad, strong, the kind that could cradle or crush. Damn it, why was he noticing that?
“You’re not?” Hendrix’s mouth curved into that infuriating almost-smile again, playful and maddening all at once.
Zavian bristled, his jaw tightening as he stood his ground. “Concern implies care. What I feel for you, lion, is obligation.”
The air between them heated, not from anger but from the tension that neither would name, and Zavian sure as hell wouldn’t admit.
Hendrix tilted his head, studying Zavian like a puzzle he was determined to solve. “Obligation, huh?” His voice dipped lower, his teasing gone, replaced by something heavier. “Obligation doesn’t make the air thick enough to cut. Obligation doesn’t make you linger.”
Zavian’s breath hitched, but he buried it under a derisive scoff. “You’re delusional.”
Hendrix didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up a pen and a small notepad from the desk. With an air of casual purpose, he scribbled something down then stepped forward just enough to slip the note into Zavian’s shirt pocket before retreating. “I’ve been called worse.”
The air seemed to press down on Zavian, as if responding to the collision of wills. Even the faint hum of the crackling fireplace faded.
For a moment, silence reigned, the room too small to contain everything unsaid. Zavian’s shoulders were squared, his posture commanding, yet there was an unmistakable crack in his armor. Cracks were dangerous. They undermined control, left openings for attack—things Zavian was all too familiar with.
When Hendrix spoke again, his voice carried that smoky, wicked edge Zavian hated to admit made his stomach tighten. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were afraid.”
“I fear nothing!”
The words left his lips, but even to his own ears, they felt hollow. Hendrix’s chuckle made Zavian’s pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the maddening weight of the lion’s presence. “Your reaction says otherwise, mate .”
The tension between them hung heavy as Zavian fought to keep his composure. He could feel Hendrix’s patience, like the lion could wait an eternity for him to crack.
When Zavian finally spoke, his tone was clipped, cold. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with, lion. Don’t mistake attraction for destiny.”
Hendrix leaned slightly against the edge of the desk, his stance casual, his eyes anything but. “And don’t mistake denial for wisdom, mate .”
Zavian wanted to lash out, to crush the smug assurance radiating from Hendrix, but instead, he straightened his shoulders, his voice honed to an icy blade. “This conversation is over.”
As he turned to leave, Hendrix’s rich, booming laugh filled the study, wrapping around Zavian like a tether he couldn’t shake. “Not even close, beautiful. Not by a long shot.”
The endearment caused Zavian’s step to falter for the briefest moment. His back to Hendrix, he stepped into the hallway, the lion’s laughter still echoing in his ears. It wasn’t mocking, wasn’t cruel. It was warm and inviting, just like the lion himself.
Bastard.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Zavian snarled softly to himself. Dr. Hendrix Baldwin was going to be a problem.
* * * *
The door clicked shut, and Hendrix let out a slow breath, his gaze lingering on the space Zavian had just occupied. The room still hummed with his presence, a subtle buzz in the air that teased along Hendrix’s skin like tiny electrical currents. He smiled to himself, the corners of his mouth tugging up at the thought.
Was it ridiculous to imagine Zavian had left that behind for him? Probably. But Hendrix was the kind of man who didn’t question a good thing. If Zavian’s parting gift was a static charge that made his senses tingle, well, he wasn’t going to complain.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sensations linger. Damn, Zavian was something else. A storm wrapped in calm, power wrapped in precision. And that sharp, biting tongue of his? Hendrix couldn’t decide if it made him want to laugh or kiss the hell out of the man.
But the ache beneath the warmth crept in too soon, unbidden and unwelcome. Hendrix opened his eyes and reached into the desk drawer, pulling out the picture frame he’d tucked away earlier. The silver edges caught the light as he set it gently on the desk in front of him, staring at the familiar face frozen behind the glass.
Michael.
Two years, and the loss still sat in his chest like an old wound. Hendrix traced the curve of Michael’s smile, raw but bearable. He’d learned to carry it, to move forward because wallowing wasn’t in him. But damn, some days it felt so close.
The first time Hendrix had seen Michael, the guy had been slumped over a bar, bleeding and bruised from a fight he had no business picking. Hendrix had stepped in, patched him up, and dragged him back to his place, muttering about stubborn idiots and reckless fools the entire way. Michael had just laughed, even through the pain, and told Hendrix he was lucky to be cute.
Six months later, they were married. A year after that, Hendrix was holding Michael’s hand as the cancer took him. No magic in the world could have saved Michael. It was a human illness, a human death, and Hendrix hadn’t been able to fight it. He’d just been there, helpless, watching the man he loved slip away.
He exhaled shakily and pressed his forehead to the frame, closing his eyes. “I loved you,” he murmured softly, the words slipping out like a confession. “And I always will. But I’ve found my mate, Michael. And he needs me.”
His chest tightened as he spoke, the weight of the past pushing against the pull of the present. He could feel the truth of it settling into place, bittersweet and solid. Zavian needed him—not in the way Michael had, not in a way that was loud or desperate. But in a way that was quieter, deeper. Hendrix could see it in the cracks Zavian tried so hard to hide, in the sharp edges he used to keep the world at bay.
Michael had needed Hendrix to fix the broken pieces. Zavian needed to be seen. Hendrix would stand steady while Zavian figured out how to let him in.
Hendrix pulled back, staring at the photo for a long moment before setting it down. He didn’t kiss it, didn’t need to. This wasn’t goodbye—it was a step forward. A release. Michael would always be a part of him, but Hendrix couldn’t stay stuck in the past. Not when Zavian was out there, flailing and stubborn and goddamn lonely.
“Thank you,” Hendrix whispered, his voice hoarse. “For everything. But I have to keep going. You’d want that, wouldn’t you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Michael was gone, and Hendrix had made peace with that, as much as anyone ever could. He slid the frame back into the drawer and closed it gently, the soft click a quiet punctuation mark.
The tingling sensation along his skin still lingered, faint but there. He smiled again, small and private, and ran a hand over his face. Zavian was a challenge, but Hendrix never backed down from a fight. And damn if Fate wasn’t worth it.