Page 13

STACY

B y all rights, I should call Erica. That used to be our ritual—hot gossip, steamier details, no filters. We never held back, not when it came to sharing the best parts of a wild night.

Erica lived for stories like that. Unlike Monica, who'd politely nod and steer the conversation elsewhere, Erica and I leaned into it. Laughed until we cried over dirty confessions. Rated lovers by their tongue skills and the ache they left behind. But this time... I don’t reach for the phone.

Because this isn’t the kind of story you tell. It’s the kind that brands itself into your bones. The kind that sinks deep and refuses to be spoken aloud.

Ray wasn’t just good in bed. He wasn’t only decent. He was a force of nature. Wildfire in human form.

His heat still lingers under my skin. His hands. His mouth. God, the way he moved—like fire given form—burned through me as if I were made of dry kindling and pure want.

I’ve had good lovers before. A few memorable ones. Skilled, attentive. But Ray… Ray is something else entirely. He doesn’t just do sex—he devours it. Devoured me.

I expected him to be good—I mean, look at his brothers.

Sam had Erica calling me at all hours, breathless and giddy with tales of kinky bliss. Monica’s quieter, but one look at her after a night with Raul tells you everything. So yeah, I thought Ray would be impressive. But this?

This was something else entirely.

I sit tucked into a corner booth at Michelle’s Blues and Piano Bar, nursing a glass of something dark and smooth. From here, I’ve got the perfect view of the stage—center spotlight, velvet curtains, smoke curling in the air.

Erica commands it like she owns it.

She’s radiant under the lights, fingers dancing across the keys like they’re a part of her soul.

Voice smoky, seductive, pure blues. No one else performs like her.

I’ve seen her up there more times than I can count, and every time she gives it everything .

No matter what’s going on in her life, she leaves it at the edge of the stage and bleeds into her music.

Tonight, she glows. Not from pain, like in the old days, when every note was an open wound.

This is different. She’s unburdened. Lit from within. Her joy thrums through every note, her voice lush and velvet-smooth. Our eyes meet across the room. She mouths one word.

Outside.

I nod once. No need to talk. After so many shows, I know her rhythm. After she plays, she needs a moment to breathe and decompress. She gives so much it drains her. I get that, so I wait like I always have.

The May air is cool and a little damp from an earlier shower.

The pavement glistens under the soft glare of the streetlight, rain beads on car windows like tiny diamonds.

I stand five yards from the entrance watching the street.

Breathing in the night air and the smell of wet concrete as people spill out, buzzing from the show. Their voices are low and reverent.

“She should be playing Madison Square Garden.”

“Hell, she’d sell it out in an hour.”

A bittersweet pride fills my chest. I know she’s that good, but she stopped chasing that dream.

Settled for less. Not because she couldn’t make it, but because life beat the fight out of her somewhere along the way.

And that... that still hurts to think about.

A voice cuts through my thoughts, smoky and sharp.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it must be very important. You’ve been hypnotized by that streetlight for a solid minute.”

I whip around, grinning at Erica.

“Hey. You crushed it tonight. I mean, wow. You were fire.”

She shrugs, cringing slightly.

“Eh. I’ve had better nights,” she says, but the smirk says otherwise. She nods toward the parking lot. “Come on, I need air—and answers.”

“Lead the way.” I fall into step beside her. “So… you’ll never guess who showed up outside my building on Sunday.”

She doesn’t even blink before responding.

“Ray.”

I stop in my tracks.

“Wait—what?”

She lifts a brow. “Don’t play dumb, Red. Monica told me. He spent the night, didn’t he? My God, it’s been two days! Why haven’t you said anything? I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to call!”

“How does Monica know?”

“Funny story.” She sighs as headlights slice across our path. “He went to the clinic yesterday,” she says, glancing over. “Didn’t tell you, huh?”

I shake my head slowly, a strange hollowness opening up inside me.

“No. He didn’t. I noticed he didn’t want to believe it. He kept pushing me about losing my mom. It was like he thought he could rewrite reality.”

“Shifters don’t deal well with deaths they can’t fight,” she murmurs. “To them, people die in war, by accident, or from heartbreak. Anything else? They just… don’t know what to do with it.”

I nod, tightening my fingers around my keys. The parking lot’s almost empty. Erica’s red BMW and my Jeep are all that are left.

“Looks like we’re the last ones.”

“Red…” Her voice has lost its edge. “We’ve got company.”

Her hand clamps onto my arm, and I follow her gaze. Eyes. Yellow. Glowing in the dark. One set just beyond Erica’s car. Another—low and watching—catches the bumper of my Jeep.

My stomach drops. My breath stutters.

This isn’t the Crawfords. They wouldn’t shift in the open. Especially not in New York. This—whoever this is—it’s not them. My breath catches and I feel my pulse in my throat.

“What do we do?” I whisper.

“You run,” she says, her tone steel. “I’ll keep them busy.”

“How?”

“Go!” She shoves hard between my shoulder blades.

Low, hungry growls fill the air. The sound flips a switch in my head—adrenaline dumps into my body and I bolt. My Cherokee glows like a lifeline in the distance. Twenty yards. A bit more. I don’t count. I run .

Behind me, Erica drops her purse with a thud.

“Bring it on, sons of bitches!” she roars.

I glance back—just once. Two wolves. One gray, the other black with a white patch on his chest. The gray lunges at Erica, jaws wide, saliva flying. She lifts her hand—and it’s glowing.

Not metaphorically. Actually glowing.

Light explodes from her palm in a sweeping arc.

The gray wolf flies like it’s been slammed by something unseen, skidding across the asphalt with a bone-rattling crash.

“Don’t look back!” she screams.

But I do. Of course I do.

The black wolf was chasing me—but at the other’s yelp, it whips around and turns on her. It pivots mid-run, muscles rippling beneath thick fur. It charges straight for my friend.

Oh hell no.

I leap into the driver’s seat and shove the key into the ignition. My hands shake, my whole body wired tight. I’m no witch—but I’ve got something just as deadly.

Two tons of Detroit steel.

The engine roars to life. I slam it into gear and floor it. Tires scream. Smoke floods the air behind me. He’s closing in on Erica, lunging from her left.

“Not today,” I snarl.

The bumper hits him with a sickening crunch. His body launches through the air—limbs flailing, a blur of fur and fury.

I slam the brakes and skid to a stop—panting, hair in my face, heart pounding in my throat. The wolf slams into the ground like a sack of concrete, rolls once, then twitches to a stop—just three feet from Erica.

Her eyes—pale, furious, and faintly glowing in the shadows—lock with mine.

“You’re not going home tonight,” she says quietly. “Neither of us is.”

And she’s right. I want to argue. Laugh it off. Pretend this is something a stiff drink and denial could fix. But we both know better.

We survived an ambush—but we still don’t know who sent them or why. Staying here would make us sitting ducks, waiting for the next hit. There’s only one place left that might be safe.

Dawson.