Page 14 of Felix (4 Seats #2)

Chapter Fourteen

Aurora Henry

W hen I step out of the car, it hits me like a punch to the gut—I’m not scared.

Not even as my gaze sweeps over the decrepit building in Redfern, its graffiti-tagged walls screaming danger.

It’s the kind of place where bullet holes wouldn’t be out of place, yet here I am, feeling like I’m wrapped in some damn invincible bubble.

“Darling, keep close,” Felix mutters, his voice a low growl that vibrates through the chilly air.

I snort. “What, afraid someone’s gonna take a shot at us?”

“Always,” he replies. That scar at the base of his throat pulls tight as he scans the street. And shit, I believe him.

My mind races back to ten hours ago. I was damn certain I wouldn’t wake up if I closed my eyes near him, but then there was that moment—his arms, inked and strong, encircled me, water from the shower dripping down my body, mingling with the steam.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he’d said, and I’d felt something shift inside me like a tectonic plate moving in a direction I hadn’t authorised.

“Come on,” he says, leading me towards the entrance. His hand doesn’t touch me, but the air between us is charged, heavy with an unspoken promise.

Safe , I think, testing the word. It feels foreign to me, laced with a dangerous hope. Felix glances back at me, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that doesn’t reach his dark eyes. He knows. He knows he’s got me teetering on the edge of trust, and the bastard is pleased.

“Follow my lead, Aurora,” he commands, and I do. Because somewhere between the fear and the fight, I started to believe in the illusion he’s weaving—that as long as he’s by my side, the bullets will never find their mark.

The building looms, a monolith of grime and sin that could crumble with a stiff breeze or a bad deal going sideways. Felix’s hand is a warm brand on my lower back as we step across the threshold, the contact light, tethering me to reality—a reminder that I’m not floating through this world.

“Stay close,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

“Like I have a choice,” I retort, but there’s no bite to it, just an edge of something like wonder at the fact that I’m here, walking into the maw of the beast with him by my side.

We’re deep in the belly now, and the air reeks of cigarettes and desperation. He strides up to the desk, a fortress of splintered wood and faded graffiti, and leans in. “I’m here for Dav,” he states, his voice low and commanding.

“Right away, Mr Greyson.” The kid’s eyes don’t meet mine, skittering away like he’s afraid .

Seconds tick by, slow and thick like blood from a wound until a door slams open and out comes Dav—a slab of meat with arms, hauling a bag that’s seen better days. “Everything’s there.” Dav grunts, pushing the package into Felix’s waiting hands.

“Better be,” Felix replies, his tone ice-cold, a threat wrapped in velvet.

“Always a pleasure, Mr Greyson,” Dav says.

“Let’s move,” Felix commands, and without another word, we’re back into the sepia-toned light of the street, the bag—its contents unknown and ominous—now in his possession, Is placed in the boot.

I slam the car door, the sound echoing off the concrete like a gunshot.

Felix is already in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel with a predator’s focus.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to. The engine roars to life, and we’re peeling out of there, leaving nothing but tyre marks and a cloud of exhaust.

“Next stop,” he says, his voice rough like gravel. It’s not a question but a statement—a command that sends shivers down my spine.

We pull up to another nondescript building, just as grimy and forgotten as the last. My heart’s a jackhammer in my chest. We’re on a loop of shady handoffs, and I can’t shake the thrill of it.

He’s out of the car before I can catch my breath, moving with a purpose that’s all animal grace and lethal intent.

“Stay put,” he orders, and I nod because what else can I do? I watch him disappear inside, the door swallowing him whole. Minutes drag, each one dripping with tension, until he’s back, another bag in his grip—a mirror image of the first.

“Got it?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Like clockwork,” he replies, tossing the bag in the boot with a nonchalance that belies the danger of whatever’s inside.

The city blurs past us as we drive. The buildings paint shadows on his face—shadows that might hide anything. I’m caught in his gravity, pulled along in his orbit.

“Hey, darling, you hungry?” His question slices through the silence. I’m starving, but not just for food. I am also starving for the rush, edge, and precipice we’re dancing on.

“Starving,” I say, and it’s the truth. “Pasta would be perfect.”

“Good.” There’s a hint of something dark and delicious in his voice. “Because we’re heading to the place where this all started.”

And just like that, without a map or plan, we’re back at the beginning. The restaurant looms ahead, the same one where our twisted tango began. My stomach knots with a mix of hunger and anticipation.

The asphalt is still warm from the city heat as Felix pulls up in front. He’s out of the car fast, moving with that predator grace that sets my nerves on edge—in a good way. He pops the boot, and there they are, those bags full of God knows what. No questions asked, no answers given.

“Come on,” he grunts out, nodding for me to follow. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the door. That touch—it’s fire and ice, and I can’t get enough.

We’re inside now, swallowed by the dim lighting and familiar smells of garlic and olive oil. The place hasn’t changed in the years I used to come, even now, ten years later—same chipped paint, same old photos hanging crooked on the walls. But everything else has. Especially me.

Felix hands the bags off to the young kid at the bench, strides over to the darkest corner, and slumps into the booth, all casual menace.

“Sit,” he orders, not unkindly, and I slide into the seat next to him, fitting into his side like I’m meant to be there. His arm comes around my shoulders like he’s claiming me, marking his territory. And hell, if I don’t arch into his touch.

Moments later, an older man shuffles over—no menu in sight—and drops two steaming plates before us. Chilli prawn pasta. My stomach flips with hunger as the scent hits me—rich and spicy.

“Where’s the menu?” I ask, craning my neck, trying to pierce through the shadows for some kind of written choice.

“Never seen it,” Felix says, his fork already twirling pasta like he’s ready to devour the world. “The owner dishes out whatever the hell he feels like cooking. And today, darling…” he smirks, his eyes dark as sin, “… it’s chilli prawns, my favourite.”

“Convenient,” I shoot back, but my voice has no bite. It’s hard to sound tough when you’re salivating over the perfect dish.

“Life’s all about the little things,” he replies, his mouth quirking up at one corner. “You’ll learn.”

I dig in, letting the flavours explode on my tongue—garlic, tomato, and that kick of chilli. It’s a dance of heat and satisfaction, and for a moment, I let myself forget the darkness that brought us together. Forget that this man beside me could snap necks as easily as he snaps his fingers.

“Good?” he asks, and it’s all husky voice with hidden meaning.

“It will do.” And it’s not just the food I’m talking about.