Chapter 4
four
ROWAN
I noticed him the second he stepped through the heavy timber door of the bar. He wasn't loud or aggressive. He was just a man in a dark coat with hair that looked like he’d been fighting the wind, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the air in the room didn't just shift.
He sat at the far end of the bar and ordered whiskey and drank it with a focus that looked like erasure, like he was trying to dissolve his own edges until there was nothing left for the world to snag on.
I stayed in my corner, watching him through the veil of my hair for the better part of an hour before I moved.
Up close, he smelled like rain and the faint, cloying scent of expensive cologne that didn't belong to him. It was a dead man’s scent, a ghost’s perfume, clinging to the wool of his coat like a desperate hand.
And when I all but told him we were leaving, I didn't have to look back to know he was following me.
The air in his apartment was stagnant, thick with the smell of old paper and that same sweet, suffocating cologne. As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence felt like it was waiting for us to make a mistake.
He stood in the middle of the small living room, his coat still on, looking like a man standing on a ledge.
I didn't give him time to think, to rationalize, to let the guilt catch up with his heartbeat.
I stepped into his space, my hands finding the lapels of that heavy coat and shoving it off his shoulders until it hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Rowan," he whispered, and it was the first time he'd said my name. It sounded like a prayer and a curse. I grabbed the back of his neck, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw until I forced his head back, making him look at me. He was shaking, a vibration that went right into my palms, his breath hitching in a way that told me he’d been starving for a touch that didn't feel like an anchor.
I kissed him then, with the kind of bruising intent that demanded he stay right here, in this moment, instead of drifting back into whatever grave he’d been digging for himself.
He tasted like cheap whiskey and expensive grief. His hands fumbled with my shirt, his frantic movements uncoordinated, as if he couldn't get close enough fast enough. I stripped him at the same time, my hands leaving heat behind on his pale skin.
He was lean, almost fragile-looking in the dim light of the room, but there was a resilience in the set of his shoulders that I hadn't expected.
I guided him to the bedroom and pushed him back onto the bed, his eyes going wide as he took me in.
He looked at my body like he was seeing a storm front approaching, and for the first time that night, the shadows in the room didn't just pool; they began to crawl.
"Look at me, Oleander," I commanded, pinning his wrists above his head. I needed him present. I needed him to see me, not the memory of whoever had owned this room before. His chest was heaving, his brown eyes dark with a desperation that was almost painful to witness. I slid my hand down, my fingers fisting in his dark curls before moving lower, tracing the line of his ribs down to where he was already hard and leaking, his body betraying his mind’s attempt to stay numb.
He let out a broken sound when I touched him, a sob caught in the back of his throat that he tried to swallow down.
"Don't," I muttered against his neck, my teeth grazing the pulse point there. "Don't hide it. Give it to me." I let go of his wrists, and he immediately wrapped his legs around my waist, pulling me in with a strength that surprised me.
I moved my hand between us, my thumb circling the head of his cock, and he arched off the bed, his back bowing as he gasped my name into the crook of my shoulder.
He was so wet, his cock already slick and aching.
Gathering up the precum there, I dipped my fingers lower to circle around his hole, knowing full well that this was going to be rough and fast.
I paused, waiting for his permission, Oleander pushing back against my barely slicked up fingers. “Please.”
I started by pushing just one finger inside of him, roughly openly him up. By the time I was able to slide two fingers inside him, he came undone, his head thrashing against the pillow.
I watched him as I worked my fingers into him, stretching him slowly.
I wanted him to feel every inch of the intrusion.
I wanted to be the only thing in his head.
He was tight, clenching around me with every shallow breath, his ass pulsing with a need that felt like it was echoing through the floorboards.
I added a third finger, and he cried out, a raw, jagged sound that filled the room.
The shadows on the wall seemed to ripple at the noise, thickening into shapes that weren't quite human, but I couldn’t look away from him.
"I want you inside me," he choked out, his nails raking down my back. "Please, Rowan. Fuck, just... make me forget. Make it stop." There was a frantic edge to his voice, a begging for oblivion that I recognized all too well.
I reached over the side of the bed into my pocket for a condom, before ripping the packet open with my teeth, and sliding it down my cock.
Then I guided my length to his opening. He gave in easily as I pushed in, slowly at first, wanting to feel him give way under me.
He was so fucking tight, his ass stretching to accommodate the thickness of my cock, and I groaned as the heat of him swallowed me whole.
I buried myself in him, inch by agonizing inch, until I was fisted against his pelvis.
A thin groan pulled from him that broke into a moan as I stayed still, letting him adjust to the weight of me.
He was trembling so hard I thought he might shatter, his eyes clamped shut, his hands fisting in the sheets until the fabric groaned.
Then, I began to move. I pulled out nearly all the way before slamming back into him, my cock hitting his prostate with a force that made his back bow off the bed
"Yes," he gasped, his legs locking around my back, pulling me deeper. "Right there. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
Every time I bottomed out, I felt the room get colder, a localized, predatory chill that bloomed near the head of the bed, sharp enough that I felt it on my bare skin like the touch of a blade.
The darkness was paying attention now. It was watching the way I was taking him, the way I was reclaiming the space that used to belong to a ghost.
I didn't let the cold stop me. If anything, it made me harder, more determined to drive the shadows back with the sheer force of our bodies.
I fucked him until he was nothing but a series of disjointed gasps and sharp, frantic movements, his hands clawing at my shoulders as he searched for an anchor.
I could feel him nearing the edge, his ass clamping down on my cock with every thrust, the friction making me see stars.
He was so fucking close, his whole body coiled like a spring, and I knew I was right there with him.
I reached down, my thumb finding the tip of his cock and grinding against the slit as I delivered one final, devastating thrust.
He went rigid, his eyes rolling back in his head as a scream tore out of him.
His ass constricted around me violently, milking me with a desperation that broke my last bit of control.
I groaned, my voice a low, animal sound, as I exploded inside him, my orgasm ripping through me with a force that left me lightheaded.
I collapsed against him, our skin slick with sweat and friction, the only sound in the room the frantic, jagged rhythm of our breathing. For a long minute, neither of us moved. We just stayed locked together, two broken things trying to fit their edges into each other.
My attention snagged on the cold spot again, the pressure of it growing slightly.
It was a wonder that Oleander didn’t seem to notice or even be as affected.
I rolled off him, the separation feeling like a physical tear, and I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, my head in my hands.
The silence in the apartment had returned, but it was heavier now, more charged even.
Some part of me wanted to stay but I never did that. It’s a rule I made a long time ago to keep the world from getting its hooks too deep into me, but as I stood up and reached for my clothes, I felt a hesitation.
I walked to the bedroom door and stopped, wanting to say something but there was no way to explain what this town did to people like him.
I looked back one last time, my gaze sweeping over the bed and the man who was already starting to disappear back into the fog of his own grief.
Two thoughts hit me simultaneously: that this man was dangerous and I’d be coming back anyway.
Deciding not to dwell on that, I made my way home, the fog outside a wall of wet grey, swallowing the streetlamps before they could even hit the pavement.
I walked with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, the chill of the town seeping into my bones.
Every footstep felt heavier than the last, dread spreading through my chest. I'd opened a door tonight, one I wasn't sure I could close again.
When I got back to my apartment, the air was warm and smelled like old wood and Julian's tea.
The contrast made my head spin. I moved through the dark living room toward our bedroom, Julian already on our shared bed.
He was propped against the headboard with a book open on his chest, the gold pendant he always wore catching the faint moonlight through the curtains.
He looked up when I came in, his eyes moving over me once, cataloguing everything about me, and the way I was standing in the doorway like I wasn't sure I was allowed back in my own bedroom.
“I was wondering where you were. The bartender said you called off for the night. Is there something wrong?”
Julian tilted his head slightly and then shook it.
“No, I just wasn’t feeling it. My fingers have been a little stiff and the songs I usually play weren’t settling right.
” He held up one of his hands, his elegant fingers curling a little before he straightened them again. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll play again.”
I nodded. The piano used to be the one thing that kept him level. Lately it seemed to be doing the opposite.
"Another one?" Julian asked, no accusation in his voice, changing the subject. We'd been here before. Our rules were simple: don't lie about it, don't bring it home, and don't make it matter more than us.
"Yeah," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I should have left it there. Another warm body in a cold town, another night I didn't want to spend alone with the dark. That’s what I always told myself anyway.
Julian watched me, reading the silence between my words the way he read the space between notes. He closed his book and set it on the nightstand. "But?" he said.
"The shadows moved, Jules. While I was with him. The room got cold, like it does when the town was paying attention."
Julian was quiet for a long time before his hand found my knee, the anchor I always came back to. He'd been looking tired more and more lately, and I didn't want to hand him something else to carry. But we didn't keep secrets. Not the real ones.
"Who is he?" Julian asked.
"I don't know yet," I said. "His name is Oleander. He's in the Ashworth place."
Julian's fingers tightened on my knee. “Dominic’s place?”
I nodded. I never really knew the man. He kept to himself but we all knew of him. Some part of me wanted to dig into Dominic’s connection to Oleander but that would have to wait.
"Get some sleep, Rowan," he said, tilting his head up slightly.
I leaned in and gave him the kiss he was silently asking for, lingering there to drink in the comfort he always provided. “There’s something about him,” I whispered as I shed my clothes for the second time that night.
I crawled into bed, pulling Julian down with me until he curled into my chest. “Something good or bad?”
"Both," I said. "I think he brought something with him. I'm not even sure he knows."