Page 53

H.A.Z.E

I prop my legs onto the desk, leaning back in the chair, but the leather creaks loud in the silence; a jarring sound that cuts through the heavy quiet.

My eyes stay fixed on the skyline, and I can't help but tilt my head.

The Saviour's always looking out there whenever he's lost in thought, or he's relaxing, or fleeting glances during conversations.

What the hell is so special out there? All I see is darkness. At least that hasn’t changed. The world has always looked muted. Faded. Like someone dimmed the world outside, stealing the vibrancy from it.

The silence doesn't help. It clings to me, oppressive and suffocating, amplifying every thought I try to bury. They crawl up from the corners of my mind, angry and relentless, tearing at me from the inside.

"What are you doing?" a low and deep voice drawls. My head falls lazily to the man leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed over his broad chest; his black tee stretched just enough to hint at the muscle's underneath. My gaze falls to his cargo pants, and the large black boots.

But it's his eyes that have always bothered me. Crimson, glowing faintly in the dim light like embers buried deep in the ashes. They're impossible to ignore, cutting through the shadows and boring into mine. But then his eyes shift to the empty jars littered across his desk.

I hold the mason jar in the light, staring at the last bit of liquid. It's not about enjoyment; it's about the sharp bite that cuts through the noise in my head. I swirl the jar slowly, pouting. "I'm trying to get drunk."

I glance at the Saviour, his dark hair shifting as his head falls to the side, a messy curtain falling over his brow and brushing against those unnerving eyes.

For a moment, he doesn't move. And as he's watching me, a sudden nervous energy twists low in my stomach, something I refuse to acknowledge.

He straightens then and strides towards me. His boots thud softly against the floor, each step measured like he's got all the time in the world. I don't break his gaze as he approaches, even though I suddenly have this urge to look away.

When he reaches me, his hand extends, and before I can react, he plucks the glass from my fingers.

His skin brushes mine, warm against the chill of my own.

I clench my jaw, refusing to let him see the way his presence affects me.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't even look at the drink—just turns it over in his hands like he's considering something.

"You can't get drunk," he says, staring at me knowingly—like he knows I need the burn, not the excitement.

"And you're a virgin," I muse, trying to appear relaxed as his hand tightens around the mason jar and his crimson eyes narrow into slits. I feign innocence. "Oops, I thought we were stating the obvious."

Riot grits his teeth. "Who talked?"

"No one." I grin. "It was Kyrian's first thought when I touched him. That man doesn't speak about it enough, but your lack of a sex life truly concerns him."

"How touching," he grumbles and tips the last of my moonshine down his throat before glaring down at me. "Perhaps I should take Kyrian out for a drink to discuss these concerns of his."

"I doubt your sweet virgin mind can handle it." I smile.

The air in the room thickens as Riot sets the jar down with a sharp clink.

He leans down, his broad shoulders filtering my vision.

His hands grip the leather armrests on either side of me, the creak of the leather breaking the sudden silence.

He's in my space, engulfing my vision, but most importantly—perhaps the most disturbing fact—I notice him.

The way his knuckles whiten, the veins on his forearms prominent under the dim light. I feel trapped in a way that feels both suffocating and exhilarating— how is that possible?

My breath hitches, shallow and uneven, as his heat radiates against me. And those glowing crimson eyes, this close, their intensity scorches through me. I feel like I'm standing too close to a fire, and instead of pulling away, I lean into the burn like the masochist I am.

His voice, low and rough, slides through the silence, hitting somewhere low in my stomach. "I know enough."

I try to appear unaffected; I try not to stare at his tongue as it darts out, slow and deliberate, running along the seam of his lips, but I do. I notice everything. He's too close. My voice sounds strange, weak. "How?"

His eyes darken, swirling in that way I find absolutely breathtaking. The way his breath brushes against my skin, warm and teasing, has me completely undone. I'm losing control; I can feel it, and he can, too.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "What do I get in return?"

I narrow my gaze on him, my fingers itching to grab hold of something, but I fight the urge. Trying to appear like his closeness doesn't affect me, like his scent—smoke and wet forests—doesn't drive me insane, and I say, my voice sounding something close to normal, "An answer for an answer?"

I am curious. It's the end of the world; he's had mates falling into his lap, and he hasn't kissed a single one of them—why?

He thinks for a moment, and shrugs. His smirk turning into a grin as he shifts his gaze towards the far wall, the wall covered in lines of books from floor to ceiling. I turn to Riot. "You read?"

"No, I've never opened a book."

Riot leans back, unfolding to his full height with the slow grace of something ancient, something that has long since forgotten what it means to fear.

A flicker of relief stirs in my chest, but it's short-lived, eclipsed by something colder—annoyance.

He's too far away now, out of reach, just when his warmth was nice against me.

Then, he tilts his head, his expression unreadable, and speaks words I never expected to hear.

"You know too much."

His voice is a lazy drawl, but there's nothing idle about the shift in his eyes. Crimson bleeds into gold; a slow, molten transformation that makes my breath catch. I go rigid. Because it suddenly dawns on me.

He isn't just any Nightwalker.

He's First Generation—like me.

Except, he doesn’t know what I am.

Suddenly, the risks he had taken to enslave me suddenly make sense. If I were truly a Second-Generation Nightwalker like he seems to think, of course he would think I’d be no match for him.

Riot's voice drops lower, turning over itself in a slow, deliberate threat. "What do I do with you?"

A Second-Generation Nightwalker is powerful, it's true. But compared to a First Generation? They're insects . If Ricci hadn't died, if he had succeeded in making more of us—more Firsts —there wouldn't be a planet left in this galaxy. There wouldn't be anything left.

I let out a breath, steadying myself, then say what he's already thinking.

"You could kill me."

His golden gaze locks onto mine, unblinking, and I feel it before I see it; the weight of his intent. It slithers over me like a tightening noose, a silent declaration that I'm already dead. His jaw clenches, his fists curling at his sides.

My body reacts.

Muscles coil, my stance shifting instinctively into something more defensive, more predatory . The air thickens, tension winding so tight that my fingers twitch, itching to move—to strike .

For one agonizing second, I see it—how this ends, how the room would be painted in blood, how one of us would fall.

But then—

It's gone.

Like a shadow that never was. Like death itself had changed its mind.

"Nobody knows?" I murmur, my body finally relaxing, though my mind remains primed for battle; perhaps even more than before, now that I know what he truly is.

"Only those I've formed a loyalty too, including..." Riot pauses, clenching his jaw. "Damien."

Damien knows.

I almost admire the fact that he's managed to keep it a secret for so long. But then again, he's smart. He would've known that betraying Riot wouldn't just sever their bond; it wouldn't protect him. Riot would tear him apart.

My fingers brush absently over my wrist, over the lingering warmth of the mark seared into my skin. "The enslavement mark..." I murmur. "Is that your Nightwalker ability?"

It would make sense—almost.

For a Second-Generation Nightwalker, maybe. But not for me.

"A gift from the Gods." Riot shrugs, the words dripping with a casualness that makes my teeth grind. "The reason you can't break through it, the reason it's so powerful... It's because it's their power, not mine. I simply control it."

The Gods.

Those bastards.

My jaw tightens, fury seething beneath my skin. They don't get to have any power over me. They don't deserve to—not when they're so fucking useless.

I shove up from my chair, the force sending it skidding back until it slams into the wall. I move to storm past Riot, but before I can, his hand lashes out, fingers wrapping around my wrist in an iron grip.

The pull is sudden. Unexpected.

I collide with his chest, a startled gasp slipping past my lips.

His crimson eyes burn into mine, peering too deep, seeing too much. "Relax," he murmurs, his thumb ghosting over my cheek. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends something unsteady through me. "They have no power over you. I wouldn't let them."

My hand lands against his chest, over his heart.

It's slow. Too slow. A rhythm that doesn't belong to the living yet feels eerily in sync with mine. A heartbeat against a heartbeat, each one waiting for the other to fall silent.

But it feels... right.

It feels normal.

I glance up at him, unsure why I'm not recoiling from this—this warmth. I should be running. But I'm not.

Riot tilts his head, his thumb still idly tracing my cheekbone. His eyes—usually alive, burning, chaotic like a storm barely contained—are still now, fixed on mine.

Above everything, that was the first thing I noticed about the Saviour; his gaze is always on mine, like there's a story in my eyes I haven't read yet.